Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic: Negotiations Between People and Parliament, c.1900–1930 3030893030, 9783030893033

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Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic Negotiations Between People and Parliament, c.1900−1930 k a r e n l au w e r s

Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic

Karen Lauwers

Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic Negotiations Between People and Parliament, c.1900–1930

Karen Lauwers Department of Cultures University of Helsinki Helsinki, Finland

ISBN 978-3-030-89303-3 ISBN 978-3-030-89304-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

For the period under scrutiny (c.1900–1930s) the database of the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) contains high-quality press photographs of the Palais Bourbon (the French Lower House or “Chamber”), of the députés who were active in it, and of specific moments during their speeches in or outside parliament, at an interwar inauguration or a political campaigning event. However, there is no suitable photographic evidence of the principal actors of my book: the “ordinary” people who interacted with these parliamentarians of the French Third Republic. On pictures of the Chamber, they are usually only visible as a passive audience who had to remain silent in the public gallery of the hemicycle, while press photos of mass events depict them as a crowd that listened or protested as one. Much less visible, though more common, were the informal contacts between individual, politically non-organized citizens and “their” representatives in parliament. The sources these citizens produced are sometimes literally unorganized as well, when they are kept in files labeled as “diverse” in nature, hence having remained mostly unexplored for a long time. Therefore, after I had finished writing my dissertation on which this book is based, I decided to make an illustration of what I thought could contribute to a more diverse depiction of the agency of the “ordinary” French people featuring in my work. At the bottom left of the image (Fig. 1), we see a French soldier, sitting in the trenches, writing a letter in pencil on his lap. Such a letter was sent in 1916 to Laurent Bonnevay, v

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Fig. 1 Drawing made by the author to illustrate the act of writing upwards to députés of the French Third Republic

député du Rhône, pictured in the middle of the illustration between two images of the Marianne. Although the latter was not a real person, she deserved a prominent place on this sketch as well, because, as an allegory of the French Republic, her presence shone through in citizens’ letters to parliamentary representatives, the main sources of my research. Even though such letters most often contained very personal requests for help and support, they also reflected how the letter-writers perceived the Republican regime, their own place in society, and their representation in parliament. The opportunity to contact an individual député out of the

PREFACE

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public eye gave the Republic’s outsiders (i.e., women, who were denied the right to vote, and congregants, who were denied the right to teach) a channel through which they could voice their opinions as well. This research lens of the common practice of writing upwards allowed me to shed light on the (political) views and expectations of even the greatest outsiders to the anti-clerical Republic: nuns.

Helsinki, Finland

Karen Lauwers

Acknowledgments

With their highly valuable suggestions and advice, with their support and encouragements, there are several people who contributed to my fouryear endeavor to bring these invisible actors and their political perceptions to the surface. I owe most gratitude to my Ph.D. supervisor, Marnix Beyen, for his supportive feedback on my dissertation, sponsored by a BOF grant at the University of Antwerp (2014–2018). I would like to thank him for having trusted me with the project initially called “Democratization from below,” and having given me the freedom to make it completely my own. My gratitude is also due to the other members of my doctoral committee, Maarten Van Ginderachter and Henk de Smaele, for their insightful comments during the annual discussions about the progress of my research and as jury members of my viva. To Henk de Smaele, I owe an extra debt of gratitude for the insights he shared concerning the gender component of my Ph.D. project. Furthermore, I would like to thank the other members of Power in History, the University of Antwerp’s Center for Political History, for the fruitful discussions at the afternoon seminars. I am also most grateful to Florent Verfaillie and Karla Vanraepenbusch, who had welcomed me into their oorlogsnetwerk (at CEGESOMA, Brussels), a network of Belgian Ph.D. students investigating aspects of the First World War and its impact. They created an ideal environment in which I could discuss the first steps of my research. On the same note, I am glad to have been part of the Flemish-Dutch Research School for

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Political History (co-ordinated by the Huygens Institute for the History of the Netherlands) and the inspirational research seminars they offered. Additionally, my sincere gratitude is addressed to Jean-Marc Guislin (former chief-editor of the Revue du Nord), as well as the journal’s reviewers, who provided very useful advice during the publication process of a specific part of my early research on Henri-Constant Groussau, député du Nord. I would also like to thank the staff of the Archives Nationales (in Pierrefitte-sur-Seine) and of the Archives Départementales of Seineet-Marne (in Dammarie-lès-Lys), Meurthe-et-Moselle (in Nancy), the North (in Lille) and the Rhône (in Lyon), as well as the personnel of the Musées Gadagne (in Lyon). They helped me determine in the early stages of my trajectory whether the correspondence files in their archives would be relevant for my research, and, as such, they facilitated the planning of my stay in different parts of France for five months. Furthermore, I would like to thank Frédéric Monier (Norbert Elias Center, Avignon) for having organized a Ph.D. day at Avignon University, which gave me the opportunity to present the first results of the archival research I had conducted in Lille, Paris, and Nancy to fellow historians and to experts in studies of political clientelism at the Norbert Elias Center. I would also like to thank him, as well as Maartje Janse and Roschanack Shaery-Yazdi for their thought-provoking questions as jury members of my Ph.D. defense. A great deal of gratitude also goes out to Josephine Hoegaerts, principal investigator of the ERC-funded CALLIOPE-project, for hiring me as a postdoctoral researcher on her team since September 2019, at the University of Helsinki’s Department of Cultures. I am very thankful for the opportunity to finetune and publish the results of my Ph.D.-research during my postdoctoral work on the French-Algerian axis of the project. CALLIOPE’s focus on “Vocal Articulations of Parliamentary Identity and Empire” has proven to be a helpful lens in this process. Finally yet importantly, I would like to thank my friends and family for their encouragements. I am especially and deeply grateful to my parents for their continuous and unconditional support. December 2021

Karen Lauwers

Contents

1

Introduction: Finding Citizens in the Web of Political Concepts Representation, Democratization, and the First World War Lines of Inquiry into Interactions Between French Citizens and Deputies Private Letters Between Clientelism and Politicization

1 2 10 16

Part I Materiality of the Negotiation Process 2

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Citizens in the Chamber and the Deputies in Their Constituency Citizens Attending the Plenary Debates Appointments and Consultation Days Written Communications and Their Material Characteristics Pneumatic Cards and Petitions to the Chamber Epistolary Etiquette in Letters of Request, Thanks, or Congratulations Channels of Communication and Networks of Mediation First World War Correspondence and the Deputies’ Accessibility Information Exchange Between Homefront and Warfront, Paris and Prison Camps

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Deservingness of Solidarity Between Charity and Justice War-Related Requests Between Emotion and Mutual Education

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Conclusion to Part I

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Part II

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Typology of the Deputies’ Roles

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The Impartial Deputy Transcending Party Boundaries Transcending Geographical Boundaries

177 180 209

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The Sacralized Deputy The Deputy-Protector, -Benefactor, and -Friend The Deputy-Cult as Political Religion

233 234 255

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The Deputy-Lawyer From Religious to Regional Defense? “Frenchness” and Naturalization Lawsuits and Conflicts of Interest

287 289 301 305

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Conclusion to Part II

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General Conclusion

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Bibliography

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Index

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Abbreviations

01-12-1916 ADMM, Papiers Marin, 26J ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474 ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J

AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP BnF/Gallica Chamber

Deputy Impressions Chambre/Sénat

1 December 1916: in the endnotes, dates are written as day-month-year. Archives Départementales de Meurthe-et-Moselle (Nancy), Papiers Louis Marin, 26J . Archives Départementales du Nord (Lille), Papiers de Henri-Constant Groussau, J 474. Archives Départementales du Rhône (Lyon), Fonds Laurent Bonnevay, 10J. Archives Départementales de Seine-et-Marne (Dammarie-lès-Lys), Fonds Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, 72J. Archives Nationales (Pierrefitte-sur-Seine) Fonds Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, 130AP. Archives Nationales (Pierrefitte-sur-Seine) Fonds Louis Marin, 317AP. Bibliothèque nationale de France and its digital platform Gallica. The French Lower House, or literally: the Chamber of Deputies (Chambre des Députés, Palais Bourbon). Député à la Chambre; French parliamentary representative. Impressions: projets de lois, propositions, rapports, etc., Chambre des députés / Sénat, i.e., prints of the bills and reports discussed in the Chamber or Senate. xiii

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ABBREVIATIONS

JO Débats Chambre

JO Lois et décrets P.L.M.

P.T.T. Speaker

Journal Officiel de la République française. Débats parlementaires. Chambre des députés, i.e., parliamentary proceedings of the French Chamber debates. Journal Officiel de la République française. Lois et décrets, i.e., French laws and decrees Paris-Lyon-Méditerranée, a railway company linking the capital city to the south of France via Lyon. Postes, Télégraphes et Téléphones. With a capital S, Speaker refers to the chairman of the Assembly.

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1a

Fig. 1.1b Fig. 1.2

Fig. 1.3

Fig. 1.4

Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2

Fig. 2.3

Groussau’s constituency on the map of the department of le Nord. J. Gosselet, Carte géologique du département du Nord (s.l.: s.n., second half of the nineteenth century) Zoom of the selected area Dumesnil’s constituency on the map of the Seine-et-Marne department. Carte murale scolaire de Seine-et-Marne (Paris: Erhard frères, 1904) Marin’s constituency on the map of the Lorraine region. “Les Liaisons de la Lorraine,” part of: Carte industrielle de la Lorraine (Moselle - Meurthe-et-Moselle - Vosges). Planche n°2 (Paris and Strasbourg: Société de documentation industrielle, 1925–1926) Bonnevay’s constituency on the map of the Rhône department. L. Brion de La Tour and J. De la Vallée, “Vue 181. Carte du Rhône,” in Illustrations de Voyage dans les 102 départements de la France (Paris: Brion, 1792–1802) Presentation of the new, moderate government, Alexandre Ribot 4 (Paris: Agence Rol, 12 June 1914) Waiting line outside the Palais Bourbon for the first debating session of Aristide Briand’s government (Paris: Agence Rol, 20 January 1921) Waiting line outside the Palais Bourbon for the session in which Aristide Briand set forth the government’s foreign policy (Paris: Agence Rol, 24 May 1921)

20 21

22

23

26 43

44

45

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LIST OF FIGURES

Fig. 2.4

Fig. 3.1

Fig. 3.2

Fig. 8.1

Part of: Ch. Rivière, Nyon, A. Reichling, Carte itinéraire de Paris à Fontainebleau (Fontainebleau: Denecourt, 1842) Pneumatic card from E. Callot from Paris to H.-C. Groussau, 12-03-1925, Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45 Pneumatic card from P. Voreux from Godewaersvelde to H.-C. Groussau, 07-03-1929, Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45 “Protest against the municipal council of Cours on 27 August 1908.” Photos taken by E. Desmur and sent as postcards to L. Bonnevay on 22 and 27-09-1908, Archives Départementales du Rhône, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Finding Citizens in the Web of Political Concepts

Many historical analyses of citizens’ rights in Western European countries are written from the viewpoint of the political institutions discussing and granting these rights. Furthermore, the emphasis within this topic often lies on the vote, and more specifically on the exclusion of certain groups from the vote. The search for explanations for delayed or partial citizenship in the French case—because French women’s First World War experience was not compensated with female enfranchisement—often features those who counteracted democracy on the formal political level. When reactions to these top-down decisions are studied from below, mainly social movements are central to the investigations. Although such key studies in the field of political culture offer valuable insights into the mechanisms of formal politics and the subsequent response from official organizations in society, they still leave room for questions not only on individual citizens’ perceptions of their rights and roles but also on their informal, interactive ways to co-construct these roles. It is important to acknowledge that citizens were not just subject to the decisions taken from above, but negotiated the meanings of citizenship, political representation and, in the French case, republicanism. While doing so, they did not always represent an official group or movement. Therefore, this book will analyze the interactive negotiation of such socio-political concepts by “ordinary” French people and their representatives in parliament. In this context, “ordinary” refers to politically © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_1

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non-organized or rather informally or religiously organized citizens, irrespective of their social class or voting rights. Central to the investigation are the aspirations, wishes, and demands of French letter-writers as individuals or as spokespersons of an informal community that sprung from family ties, convent life, or that can be seen as a rather ad hoc organization of people with similar interests. The ways in which they formulated personal requests in their letters to French parliamentarians (députés ) between 1900 and the 1930s reveal their expectations regarding political representation, citizenship, and the Republic, in times of laicization, war, and socio-economic crises. These insights contribute to our understanding of why the war was not necessarily a democratizing factor in France, or at least not on the formal, institutional level.

Representation, Democratization, and the First World War Democracy is a complex concept that has remained contested at least until the Second World War, whereas democratization seems to imply a linear evolution that did not exist.1 The complexity of these notions, however, does not make them useless in a study of twentieth-century history of citizenship, because they encompass more than electoral inclusion alone. Both the political-institutional aspects (influence on political decisionmaking) and the sociological ones (accessibility of social mobility and communication circuits) need to be taken into account.2 Susan Pedersen implements both views in her reference to British post-war theorists’ definition of a citizen. The British welfare state was “a community bound by social as well as political ties. The citizen […] not only participates in the political life of the community and holds political rights but also contributes to its social and economic wellbeing, drawing from it social and economic entitlements.”3 Dynamics of inclusion and exclusion in socio-political life, moreover, were not just imposed from above but were influenced and creatively (re)structured from below, from within society. To be able to fully understand how and why democratizing or democracyimpairing measures were discussed and decided upon, and what power relations influenced them, the significance of interactions between formal politics (e.g., parliamentary debates and law-making) and informal politics (e.g., impulses from below) merits further analysis.4 In this book, we shall see that French citizens of the Third Republic, even those who were

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formally excluded, claimed legitimate access to political communication channels, thereby contributing to informal politics. Several influential historical accounts on democratization in Western European societies mainly focus on formal politics, while ascribing a limited role to “the people.” Despite the undeniable importance of the thesis of Dark Continent, in which Mark Mazower shows that the Western world’s choice for liberal democracy had not been a self-evident one, he does not really focus on individual political actors. Instead, Europe is the main category of his research on European policies interacting with changing ideology. Furthermore, he does not elucidate the sense of this liberal democracy.5 In Age of Empire, Eric Hobsbawm highlights the influence of democratization (equating it to parliamentary democracy) and the pressure it put on the liberal bourgeoisie. Still, these concepts are not clarified in his book either. References to democratization in combination with liberalism or parliamentarism are common, whereas the shifting interpretations of the notion remain underexposed. Hobsbawm’s theory is useful, however, because he interprets democratization on a sociological as well as on a political-institutional level. He explains, for example, that democracy posed a threat to capitalism and “the social order” of the nineteenth century, as it went hand in hand with the emergence of a selfconscious working-class gaining social mobility, which in turn led to an identity crisis of the bourgeoisie.6 The value of these historical works lies in their acknowledgment of the complexities and paradoxical effects of democratization. For France specifically, Pierre Rosanvallon contextualizes democracy’s ambiguous nature in terms of its “epistemological problem.” Hereby, he refers to a gap between une démocratie d’intégration and une démocratie gouvernante. The sociological aspect (with the idea of fundamental equality in society) already existed since the French Revolution, whereas politicalinstitutional equality had long been problematic. Democracy in France had soon become a “religion,” as to some it seemed utopian whereas others considered it dangerous. This is why it had been translated very late into a “regime.” French women’s late political enfranchisement (introduced in 1944) can be seen as a concrete reflection of this phenomenon described by Rosanvallon.7 He convincingly shows that universal male suffrage does not necessarily stand for (belief in) democracy. His theory, however, still raises questions about agency and especially about attempts to reduce the gap between both democracies (or to maintain it).

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Especially from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries onwards, many parliamentarians in different European countries struggled with tensions surrounding parliamentary representation for the people (in defense of their general interest) and of the people (its subgroups and their specific interests).8 The turn of the century was marked by so-called professionalization and democratization tendencies of parliamentary representation. Gilles Le Béguec describes this phenomenon for France as the acceleration of the democratization process regarding the recruitment of the elected personnel and explains its consequences, such as a dissociation between the political and personal network of the député. Indeed, parliament had become more socially heterogeneous, although it was still a select and exclusively male gathering. The fact that it was not just accessible to notables anymore did not instantly make parliamentary work more democratic. As Le Béguec indicates further on: one elite was in fact substituted with another. A parliament of notables had become a parliament of experts, often with a degree in law.9 Nevertheless, information about their political decisions and the ways in which these were discussed in the assembly were more democratically accessible, since parliamentary work had become more public through the press. In this context, Jean Garrigues speaks of a society that was marked by a massive diffusion of information and discourse.10 The gap between representatives and the represented had thus become smaller by the turn of the century, which emphasized the (ideological) differences among the representatives themselves. They faced a difficult balancing exercise between, on the one hand, the top-down ideal of representing the general interest in courteous discussions, and on the other hand, the bottom-up demands for defending regional, local or even personal interests, inevitably causing friction in parliament. It is important to note that citizens were no passive subjects to structural processes such as professionalization and democratization of representation, which, moreover, needs to be interpreted in a broader sense than just in the context of parliamentary work. When historians conceptualize the notion of democratization, their research proposes an interactive perspective between mass aspirations, decisions of the political elite, and structural processes.11 Mass aspirations, however, have received less attention than the two other components, and it often remains unclear what the possibilities of individual political engagement and agency seem to have been within these masses. This imbalance appears to be compensated by an evolution toward more

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research on civil society, with its organized social movements and relational networks in the public sphere.12 The integration of family history in this history of civil society has been fruitful to women’s and gender studies, which acknowledge the interplay between the private sphere (of the home) and the public sphere (of politics).13 Citizens’ interactions in and with the public sphere allowed for access to knowledge of their political and civil rights, duties, and the values connecting them. Still, when the interplay between mass aspirations and the decisions of the political elite is under scrutiny, the focus often lies on this latter group and the consequences of its decisions for citizens who started to organize themselves, and who, from then on, left more traceable source material. Because of the availability of the sources, it should not surprise that organized groups have received more attention up until now than politically unorganized or informally organized citizens have. Attempts to visualize how “ordinary” people influenced processes of inclusion can be found within the field of political science. Christian Welzel acknowledges that the influence of liberty aspirations of “the masses” on democratization has been neglected, which is why he promotes human development theories. They highlight the emancipatory nature of mass democratic aspirations, depicting the idea of civil and political freedom as the foundation of democracy and all democratic movements. His theory too, however, brings social movements to the fore, as if “the citizen” only functions in organized relations. Furthermore, democracy is mistaken for a measurable phenomenon that runs in three phases, with liberty aspirations of the masses as a variable catalyst.14 Welzel’s suggestion should be interpreted as a reaction to the structural theories and transition models that have long marked the democratization debate. Structural frameworks link the rise and growth of democracy to other (mostly social-economic) nineteenth-century tendencies, viz., modernization, class struggle, and urbanization. According to this line of thinking, democratization was an effect of modernization, which neglects human agency. Mass attitudes inevitably escape the attention, or they are seen as a reflection of structure, such as the level of economic development, social or ethnic divides, or the position of the country within the world economy.15 Transition theories, in contrast, reject the overriding importance of these factors and bring political regimes into the spotlight. The focus then lies on the transition period these regimes were said to have gone through when integrating more democratic minimum values (such as equality). Dankwart Rustow outlines four phases in which this

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transition process developed itself, with national unity as the first condition. Secondly, he discerns a preparatory conflict phase, followed by a third decision phase with a consensus, and a fourth and final habituation phase. Economic developments could contribute to tensions and conflict, whereas mass education and better access to social welfare are the alleged outcome of democracy, without themselves being able to uphold an explanatory model.16 The divide between structural and transition models is not as blatant anymore as it appears in criticism on both models. Renske Doorenspleet, for example, denounces pure transition theories that explain democratization processes primarily by focusing on strategies of political leaders, while she opposes the merely structural (modernization) theories too. The link between democracy and economic development loses its value in the recent past, she remarks, because it has proven unable to predict a country’s transition to democracy. Therefore, Doorenspleet argues in favor of a happy medium, recognizing the influence of the combination of certain structural elements in transitions to democracy. More specifically, she shows that the peripheral position of a state in the world system, as well as a limited or a negative economic growth, and the proximity to other democratic countries could positively influence a post-Cold War nation’s transition to a democratic regime.17 Furthermore, she considers voting rights (or inclusion) as an indicator of the democratic nature of a country. Despite this link with transition models, Doorenspleet’s theory more closely leans toward structural modernization theories, as she relies on quantitative evidence, in which she discerns fluctuations without relating them explicitly to human initiative.18 Historians are less inclined to work with certain variables or fixed models, but instead prefer to open lines of inquiry exposing the possible influence of different connections and the agency of several actors. This explains why they can relate more easily to models of transition than to structural theories. Transition models do indeed take agency into account, but they draw the attention mainly to political elites, who (in Western Europe) are said to have introduced more democratization at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.19 In Max Weber’s theory, this manifests itself in a linear way of thinking, in which parties of notables had to increasingly move over for the “plebiscitary democracy,” with a “human apparatus” that guided the parties as a powerful machine.20

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The tendency to describe the so-called evolution toward mass politics as such a linear line has long become outdated. Many scholars agree on a wavy or step-by-step pattern of democratization with the possibility of stagnation or setbacks, usually linked to war. Subsequent to the integration and democratization process that had already started in the nineteenth century in many European countries, the First World War is believed to have substantially influenced this process. The war, in other words, seems to have catalyzed the democratic aspirations of Western European masses, which so far have been studied in a more or less indirect way: through their articulation by national and international political elites on the one hand, and by socialist and nationalist movements or parties on the other. The electoral reforms that directly followed the First World War in existing parliamentary regimes in Europe widened the boundaries of democracy. Geoff Eley links this phenomenon to “stronger civil rights, an opening outward of the public sphere, a pushing forward of social services, and clear protections for unions under the law.”21 In this history of the First World War and its aftermath, Rustow’s transition phases could be recognized, especially the “decision phase,” when several parties consciously chose to reach a compromise and adopt democratic rules because these formed the most desirable solution. During the subsequent “habituation phase,” democratic rules became a habit for the different parties involved.22 Still, practice did not necessarily concur with this theory. In his study on British nineteenth- and twentieth-century public meetings in election times, Jon Lawrence shows that British policy had indeed formally democratized in the aftermath of the First World War, with the introduction of limited voting rights for a certain group of well-educated or rich women (aged thirty at least) and the rise of new parties. However, the interactions between politicians and “ordinary” people had become less democratic in practice. After the interlude of the war, British Members of Parliament (conservatives as well as liberal and Labour MPs) seem to have wanted to reverse the political involvement and assertiveness of the people, Lawrence remarks.23 After all, before the Second World War, democracy was not a selfevident outcome. Mark Mazower points out that liberal democracy, fascism, and communism should be interpreted as three reactions to the problems that were posed by the rise of the masses. How could these masses be integrated into the social–political life of that time? How much importance needed to be attached to the metaphorical voice of “the

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people?” Moreover, who were these people? The search for answers to these questions and the subsequent conflict it engendered between the three ideologies—all three of them offering a different answer and legitimizing themselves in their own way—characterized the short twentieth century of Europe (starting from 1914). Right after the First World War, skepticism arose in several European countries about the overall applicability of bourgeois democracy. National unity was needed, which parliamentary democracy could not offer. The many parties fragmented the political landscape, by each representing a different group of people and thus specific interests, instead of protecting the general interest of the nation.24 Consequently, a “crisis of modern democracy” marked the European interwar period.25 More power to the state and even the road to dictatorship appear to have been considerable options at that time and not only in Germany. Mazower clearly states that it is wrong to think that liberal democracy and individualism were destined to win off authoritarian ideologies.26 However, since the First World War had made many victims among “ordinary” citizens, the acceptability of further democratization and the political participation of the workmen’s class increased across Europe.27 The focus on a wavy pattern of (the rise and fall of) democratization is nonetheless still too restricted, as it, again, subordinates human agency to a greater structure that does not leave enough room for the voice of “the people” in interaction with these policies. When interactions between citizens and political elites do become the main subject of research, they are not rarely depicted as corruption relations.28 The strength of these studies lies in their treatment of patronage and clientelism as integral parts of political culture and even as agents of modernization themselves, instead of as pre-modern or pre-political practices.29 The recent research interest in venal practices is somewhat reminiscent of Andreas Kalyvas’ plea for an analysis of “extraordinary democratic politics” instead of “ordinary democratic politics.” During a period of “ordinary politics,” following Kalyvas’ theory, decisions are made top-down by an elite, whereas passivity and de-politicization reign among the people. “Extraordinary politics,” on the contrary, are characterized by a high degree of collective mobilization, support from the people for fundamental change, and the development of movements opposing the existing institutions. The alternation of periods of “ordinary politics” with periods of “extraordinary politics” encompasses radical ruptures, caused by organized groups that attempt(ed) to create (more) democracy this way.30

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However, observable interactions between citizens and politicians not only took place in times of crisis or in response to corruption scandals, and people not only tried to influence political decision-making through radical forms of protest or in mobilized groups.31 Political engagement and democratic aspirations could also surface in direct interactions between citizens and parliamentarians, e.g., during political meetings,32 on walk-in consultation days,33 and via correspondence.34 On such platforms, formal and informal politics are interwoven. Whereas research from below is needed to shed light on ordinary citizens’ (micro) political agency, the formal (macro) institutional context still has to be taken into consideration as well.35 This is the political framework in which MPs were elected, represented “the people,” and interacted with unorganized or informally organized citizens who had or had not voted for them. Precisely the interactive component (the process of negotiating French political culture in particular) is at the center of my own research, which finds common ground with the recent international scholarly interest in writing upwards as “an alternative form of representation.”36 This interest has come to fruition in analyses of petitions to parliament (mainly in the U.S. and the U.K.),37 and letters of request or complaint to executive powers (such as the Australian Prime Minister, the Ottoman Sultan, the Belgian king and queen, or the president of the U.S. or Argentina).38 What all these studies have in common is their attention to political agency from below, or rather from within a specific political framework that co-constructed such interactions. Contributing to this tendency, but without focusing on the forms of protest resonating in official petitions to parliament, it is my aim to investigate individual French letter-writers’ subtle discursive solutions to the Third Republic’s flawed democratization. Only through a careful analysis of such negotiation processes (in this case, in French citizens’ letters to députés ), it will become possible to surpass typically binary contradictions such as formal/informal and micro/macro politics, clientelism/politicization, pre-political/political language, and bottom-up/top-down perspectives.

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Lines of Inquiry into Interactions Between French Citizens and Deputies At the urgent request of a socialist official, I am addressing You. You are aggrieved, he told me. Complain; but complain through a Deputy or a Senator; or even through a lawyer.39

It was 25 September 1929 when abbot Robert Tardivon, a retired priest from Couloutre (Nièvre, Burgundy) wrote this to Henri-Constant Groussau, a French right-wing député who was known for his Catholic engagement and belonged to the Democratic-Republican Union (the republican right wing) at that time. Groussau was elected by the tenth district of le Nord (i.e., Lille 10: the cantons of Tourcoing-Nord, Quesnoy-sur-Deûle, and Armentières). At first sight, the abbot and the député did not seem to have had a lot in common besides their religion. Tardivon nonetheless decided to contact Groussau, because he was under the impression that he could not address his question to a parliamentarian representing his own department. “People vote so badly in Nivernais,” the abbot explained. In his eyes, Groussau was the “Defender of the just causes,” which made him hopeful for the necessary help, after months of hitting a brick wall. Tardivon had already submitted a request for an inflation correction (péréquation) of his retirement pay, but his appeals kept foundering at the bureaus that had to deal with them, which made him suspect foul play. Two years prior, he had already come to the conclusion that his pension was incorrect. Tardivon claimed having been ripped off for 400F a year for four years, and now “the injustice was even greater.” That is why he addressed a letter to Groussau, to ask him explicitly for justice to be done. After his personal complaint, he took his individual appeal to a higher level, by stating that “it should not have been that way.” Tardivon was sure that true democracy, like in America, where he assumed there was no differentiation among citizens, would have made it possible for him to assert his rights without the help of intermediaries. However, he was not an American but a French citizen, which he deplored and which he was even ashamed of, because of the “sad government” (the Cartel of the Left guided by Paul Painlevé) and the “sad democracy” of his country. By justifying his personal request for his retirement pay with references

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to more abstract values (democracy, agency of citizens, and their possibilities to assert their rights), the letter-writer showed signs of heightened political awareness and engagement.40 A letter like Tardivon’s is thus an exclusive source for obtaining more insights into French citizens’ knowledge of and perspectives on their own rights and the ways to assert these rights, on the deputy’s responsibilities in helping them get justice, and on the values that made up the “ideal” Republic. Although every single letter is unique, usually featuring a very individual request, together they reveal broader aspirations, expectations, and perceptions regarding French citizenship and representation of these citizens in the Third Republic. Tardivon himself links the personal experience he had with slow administrations to his more general hopes and expectations for a more just, democratic system. We should keep in mind, however, that his letter was an exceptional example: his explicit reference to democracy, with such a clear explanation of his interpretation of the concept, was not very common. In addition, his comparison to an American interpretation of democracy is remarkable in terms of political knowledge and the ways in which he was able to mobilize it for his personal case. That being said, more general references to (in)justice(s) were not that rare. Comparisons were common too, but rather on a more personal or local level, for example, when a letter-writer compared to neighbors or acquaintances who found themselves in a similar situation. Research that acknowledges the value of each individual letter, while transcending the anecdotal at the same time, benefits the most from a thematic, question-oriented approach. The questions that arise from reading Tardivon’s remarkable letter range from a very concrete, material level of accessible political communication channels (Part I) to the metalevel of citizens’ perceptions of representation and citizenship, or in other words: their discursive construction of the deputy’s various roles and of their own place in society (Part II). In addition, on both levels, a closer look is required into what citizens actually knew, either about political procedures, about parliamentary representation, or about citizens’ rights and duties, and into how this political knowledge was influenced in the course of their interactions with députés. Each chapter taps into the same bulk of sources, viz., letters sent by politically unorganized or informally organized men and women to four French parliamentarians in the course of the turbulent first four decades of the twentieth century. These representatives include députés from left to right, from an industrialized district to the countryside, from

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an anti-clerical freemason to a defender of the Catholic Church in France. Whereas both parts are built in a thematic way, their respective conclusions bring together the findings in a more comparative structure on the level of the deputy, thus shedding light on the similarities and differences between the four case studies and eventually allowing for a broader characterization of political representation and citizenship in the French Third Republic. That way, the book differentiates between discursive elements that were specific to the communications of one particular député on the one hand and the more general characteristics of the time on the other. Such a study is particularly relevant for (early) twentieth-century France, because of how embedded communication between citizens and parliamentarians had become in French Third Republican culture. France’s weak intermediary structure (on the regional level) between the strong state and the individual was probably an important contributing factor to the approachability of the deputy.41 The very personal voting system, moreover, in combination with a remarkable lack of party discipline, could make citizens feel truly connected to the one member of the Chamber who represented their (entire but small) district.42 Third Republican députés themselves cherished this ideal of “proximity politics,” which was not only the case for the Parisian parliamentarians in Marnix Beyen’s ongoing research43 but also for deputies of rural districts. They often combined their representative role in parliament with a longstanding one as their department’s representative of a specific canton, where they created opportunities for in-person interactions via walk-in consultations. (These will be discussed in the second chapter.) Before the Third Republic (thus pre-1870), France was seen as a “laboratory of modern politics” (at least by “the European left”).44 Nevertheless, it kept excluding half of its population from suffrage and thus from full citizenship until after World War II, although, like in other Western countries, there were attempts to introduce women’s suffrage sooner. The First World War and the consequent loss of male citizens led French parliamentary representatives from left to right to regenerate the issue of granting women the vote on the local level. Unlike in Belgium, the French parliament never settled for such an intermediate stage. On 20 May 1919, an impressive majority of députés supported the most far-reaching reform proposal. With 329 against 95 votes, the French Chamber of Deputies granted women the vote for all elections on equal terms with men. In addition, women’s eligibility was approved without

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further debate. During the entire interwar period, however, the Senate kept blocking this alleged premature idea.45 The question whether the deputies’ intentions were genuine or stemmed from their expectation that the Senate would indeed counter such a drastic bill will probably remain unsolved.46 Similarly, it is difficult to pinpoint a tangible effect of the First World War on women’s place in society and politics. Although the French political agenda could no longer ignore such a large group of the population and their socialeconomic contributions, it kept refusing their actual voting rights, unlike in the Netherlands (1917), (partly) in Great Britain (1918) and in Weimar Germany (1919).47 Whereas some historians stress the gender confusion the war created (as it blurred the boundaries between the sexes, due to women’s war-labor),48 others contend that it accentuated the gender division instead (as it pushed women back into the family sphere after the conflict).49 In the case of France, however, women’s social-economic citizenship was already relatively advanced before the war, when it comes to the accessibility of the labor market and the possibilities for organizing and protecting themselves as workers. Françoise Thébaud notes that many French women were already active in the job market at the outbreak of war (7.7 million; 3.5 million of whom worked as farmers). Their demobilization toward the private sphere of their homes, moreover, had been less radical and more pragmatic than in Great Britain and Germany.50 In sharp contrast with their relative freedom on the labor market, French women’s administrative-juridical citizenship was heavily curtailed, with serious restrictions for married women, who had long been considered minors. Because of their “civil incapability,” they had to ask their husbands’ permission for every juridical, administrative, contractual, or notarial step until 1938.51 Their freedom concerning personal decisions and property management was only complete by 1965–1975.52 Regarding women’s political citizenship, most historians agree that the effects of the First World War were “deeply conservative,” revealing a setback for “the suffrage movement” that had not been a single movement, to begin with.53 Overall, France’s late female enfranchisement has mainly been studied from the viewpoint of stubborn policymakers and the incapacity of organizations to stand up against them. Did this mean that there was not enough pressure from below? Did French women not ask for the vote because they could not find a way to do so or because they simply did not recognize its necessity?

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Despite the absence of democratizing effects when it comes to female voting rights in France, the First World War and the subsequent turmoil of the interwar period are considered heralds of a new era for the French Third Republic. In order to justify the chosen delineation of her article on how French parliamentarians saw themselves between 1871 and 1914, Rosemonde Sanson briefly clarifies that the period after 1914 was characterized by new customs (après, autre temps, autres mœurs; literally: “afterwards, other times, other manners”).54 For Jean Garrigues, the Panama Affair marks the end of the nineteenth century. He considers the event to have been a turning point in French politics, because it had discredited some députés and the regime in general. Indeed, the “punishing elections” of 1893, shortly after the culmination of the scandal, led to an exceptional renewal of parliamentarians. Between the Panama Affair and the First World War, almost all former deputies were replaced. Furthermore, a growing number of interest groups was represented in parliament, a rise of socialists and nationalists took place, and increasingly more députés of modest descent obtained a seat. This was made possible by the rise of their remuneration, in the context of the aforementioned professionalization of parliamentary representation.55 In the French case, such trends did not encompass the development of a well-organized party-system that is often linked to democratization. Besides the united socialists of the SFIO (Section française de l’Internationale ouvrière) founded in 1905, there were still no actual mass political parties in France in the early twentieth century.56 Even the SFIO itself was not comparable to what we would consider a mass worker’s party today. Although this parliamentary group can indeed be seen as a parti d’électeurs and a parti populaire, Jean-Marie Mayeur clarifies that it was not a party of militants or workers, as it was not linked to a syndicate. Rooted in republicanism and the left, moreover, it did not equal early twentieth-century French socialism. Rather than subscribing to the SFIO in 1905, some socialist leaders and militants preferred to identify as independent socialistes parlementaires (e.g., Aristide Briand, Alexandre Millerand, and René Viviani). They offered serious competition to the SFIO from 1911 onwards, with their republican-socialist “party” that was, however, not characterized by party discipline. Ideologically, this group can be situated between the radicals (of the center-left) and the SFIO (more to the left). Linked to reformist syndicates, they originally wished to aim primarily at social-democratic reforms, although individual members would move more toward the center or even the right over

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time.57 Nicolas Roussellier points out that the lack of party discipline was part of the political identity of the moderate parliamentarians (of the center-right and center-left) who cherished this “spirit of independence.”58 Even among the so-called “united” socialists of the pre-war SFIO, Jean Garrigues observes indiscipline.59 Whereas the SFIO was organized well enough to exclude its unruly members, the structures were thus much looser elsewhere on the political chessboard, even though these partis de cadre appeared earlier. There were the republican-radicals and radical-socialists of the centerleft (1901), the democratic-republican alliance of the center (1901), the Catholics of the Action libérale populaire rallied behind the Republic (1902), and the Republican Federation of the republican center-right (1903). Such denominations reflect the laxity and complexity of French party ties. These moderate groups were all labeled as republican, but each with different ideological affiliations; “democrats” and “republicans of the left” being situated at the center-right of the spectrum.60 The denomination of a démocrate was in fact a subtle reference to Christian-democracy, which, unlike in Belgium, occurred in pre-war France primarily as a way of thinking rather than as a substantial parliamentary group. Most confusing to the non-French present-day reader would be the liberal republican label that could include deputies who were Catholics “above all,” as well as moderate Catholics who did not want to be associated with clericalism but also more socially oriented Catholics and conservatives who nonetheless adhered the ideology of economic liberalism.61 At least until the 1930s, party formation in France remained less formal and less strict than, for example, in Great Britain, Germany, The Netherlands, and Belgium, which explains the failure of the French experiment with proportional representation. In 1919, a mixed majority and proportionality system was introduced on the departments’ level, instead of on the smaller level of the arrondissements. The candidates who won these elections with an absolute majority were appointed first, whereupon the remaining Chamber seats were distributed in terms of votes accorded to the lists (wherever this was possible in combination with the majority rule).62 This list voting system (scrutin de liste) was less personal than the previous scrutin uninominal majoritaire, or single-member district voting by majority, when men chose a strong political personality, rather than an ideology or a party. Nevertheless, the introduction of list voting did not completely break the connection between the representative and his constituents. Because it was possible to select candidates from different

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lists (called panachage), voters were still able to choose strong individuals regardless of their labels. Party organization thus remained weakly developed, and the personal aspect continued to be important. This explains France’s return in 1927 to the majority system at the smaller arrondissements’ level, reinstituted in practice at the elections of 1928.63 Even though the strengthening of political party organization in other Western countries between the two World Wars is traditionally seen as the pivot of a more democratic parliamentary system,64 we cannot say that interwar France was therefore much less democratic than its neighbors. Political parties were not pre-eminently the platforms for the voice of “the people.” Such a persisting Weberian interpretation of democratic politics overlooks an alternative, negotiated form of democracy. Precisely the French electoral shifts and party independence described above offer an explanation for the abundance of letters Third Republican députés received. An analysis of these correspondence files helps to write “ordinary” French citizens back into their own history.

Private Letters Between Clientelism and Politicization Older analyses of French parliamentary culture of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries already acknowledged that interventions were an important part of a député’ s job.65 Academic attention to the interactive perspective, however, is more recent. In La politique des plaintes, Frédéric Monier analyzes clientelist demands from below via the archival material of French radical-socialist Édouard Daladier (1890–1940). As Monier remarks, nineteenth-century republicans themselves considered a system of favors and dependence to be a heritage from Ancien Régime societies, while in reality, the system remained. Although several contemporaries denounced such practices in the course of the Second and Third Republic, interventions were part of the deputy’s job and became integrated into the regime. With the introduction of radical-socialists in 1901 came the official sponsoring of favors. Députés did not have to pay their “clients” with their own money; there were public means for it, since “the republican project” of equality of opportunities could offer a justification for personal interventions.66 For his ongoing research revolving around requests for such interventions, Marnix Beyen is drawing from the passive correspondence of Parisian socialist députés Paul Painlevé (parliamentary representative from 1910 to 1933) and Marcel Sembat (from 1893 to

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1922).67 Charles Ridel, with his analysis of “the scandal of the war shirkers” (1914–1918), moreover, reveals how citizens voiced their opinions on this phenomenon in letters to independent right-wing député for the Seine, Maurice Barrès.68 My own contribution to the field of history from below stems from, but branches off this paved way toward new understandings of French citizens’ interactions with Third Republican députés and perceptions of their (representative) roles. I will do so via an analysis of the correspondence files of four parliamentary representatives who did not adhere the socialist ideology (as in Beyen’s cases) and who did not represent the Seine-department (as in Beyen’s and Ridel’s cases). Two of them, however, lived in the capital on a permanent basis (Henri-Constant Groussau and Louis Marin), whereas the other two had closer ties to their own rural constituency (Laurent Bonnevay and Jacques-Louis Dumesnil). This different focus creates opportunities for investigating the views and perspectives held by other categories of represented Frenchmen and women concerning parliamentary representation in general and these deputies and their roles in particular. Additionally, it helps to verify the supposed paradox of a highly politicized countryside that nonetheless still heavily relied on feudal patron–client relations.69 Letters from “ordinary” citizens of the French Third Republic are tools for studying political representation as a process of negotiation built on expectations of reciprocity. The implied mutuality of their negotiation processes, however, does not necessarily mean that citizens’ writings to députés were mere proofs of their strong quid pro quo relation that is said to have characterized the French interwar period.70 This relation is interpreted here along the lines of Frédéric Sawicki’s definition of clientelism as a non-commercial practice of exchange of favors, implying that the patron’s help required the client’s direct or future political support in return.71 Thus, as with gift-giving, a returngift is tacitly assumed, which means that a clientelist relation equally requires reciprocity in order to persist. In contrast with the practice of gift-giving, however, the exchanged product is not very tangible, and in its complexity, it could even take contradictory forms.72 Whereas one supplicant may, for instance, not have lived up to his word without anyone noticing (the French vote being secret since 1913), another one may have been prepared to support his deputy-benefactor no matter what, and not just through voting but also through public promotion toward family and neighbors. This supplicant may have truly valued the representative’s

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ideology and genuinely believed that the politician he supported made decisions for the greater good. Even without the député’s personal help, the petitioner of this category would thus have supported him regardless. Both types of letter-writers undermined the guiding principle of patron– client relations (a return-gift/favor for a gift/favor), which is why we cannot consider letters of request from citizens to deputies to have been purely clientelist by nature. Within this gray area, a complex interplay between clientelism and politicization can be observed, which crystallized into (informal) political participation, political knowledge, and political religion.73 Letters written by “ordinary” citizens to French Members of Parliament are the sources par excellence to study these phenomena in depth because such sources are situated in (what Jens Ivo Engels and Volker Köhler would call) the “communicative continuum” between “gift-giving and patronage culture.”74 Varying political and clientelist tendencies or tensions in the deputies’ passive correspondence could be related to the difference between economic activities, between town and countryside, between left- and right-wing adherents, between the occupied and non-occupied territories, mobilized, and non-mobilized men or between men and women. What makes the French case particularly interesting is its partial occupation during the war, which leads us to wonder if députés from either part of the country were approached differently during and after the conflict.75 The paradox of the First World War (with democratic aspirations, as well as subsequent disillusions and anti-parliamentary sentiments) is generally deemed to have been caused by “ordinary” people’s expectations that their extreme sacrifices for the state, as soldiers or as civilians, would be rewarded with a growing participation in the political life of the nation.76 The economic crisis of the 1930s, moreover, triggered bottom-up protest and citizens’ suggestions for self-centered, community-centered, or even broader solutions. Aside from their constituencies’ location, the députés’ combination of mandates and of vertical and horizontal (local) networks were important variables as well.77 A sitting politician of the French Third Republic was allowed to accumulate political mandates, which led his correspondents to choose which one of his roles was the most relevant to their case. A député-Minister, on the one hand, was more than an intermediary between citizens and the state. He was part of the state itself. While being a distant figure, he was also still a spokesperson for specific issues which he could tackle more directly using his governmental authority.

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Députés-local councilors, on the other hand, were well-embedded in their locality. Hence, they often had an undeniable insight in and influence on the smooth course of the distribution of allowances for the deserving unfortunate of their constituency. If preserved, letters from citizens to French parliamentarians can be found in the private archives of the representatives themselves, sometimes made accessible in the National Archives, Departmental Archives, or even in museums. For this book, a selection of French deputies whose archives offer get-at-able, abundant sources for representative cases was necessary. To be selected, the députés needed to have survived the war not only physically but also politically. To allow for a study of a possible impact of the war, they had to be a member of the Chamber of Deputies at least between 1910 and 1925 and preferably further into the 1930s. Furthermore, the selection is also based on how well the sources are preserved: the correspondence of most representatives cannot be traced, but of the selected deputies, the preserved relevant sources are even too abundant to be studied in their entirety, as the source pool contains thousands of letters. Keeping the limitations of this material and the above selection criteria in mind, I chose to analyze the passive correspondence of (from left to right) Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, Laurent Bonnevay, Louis Marin, and Henri-Constant Groussau.78 Right-wing deputy Constant Groussau was labeled as a liberal republican or a republican Catholic of le Nord (Fig. 1.1a, 1.1b). To be clear, only between 1919 and 1928, under the mixed majority and proportionality system, French deputies truly represented the entire department they stood for. Before and after, they were chosen as the only representative of their (often small) district(s) within an arrondissement. However, even in contemporary sources before and after the interlude, these députés were not rarely referred to as deputies of department X, instead of representatives of the specific constituencies that had actually elected them. Hence, letter-writers already referred to Groussau as le député du Nord before he officially represented the department in 1919. After 1928 too, this denomination persisted despite the electoral reversion.79 From 1902 until 1919, Groussau represented the industrialized districts of Tourcoing-Nord and Quesnoy-sur-Deûle (Lille 9). Afterwards he was officially député du Nord, until the elections of 1928 that fell under a majority system again on the smaller district level. Armentières was then added to his constituency (Lille 10, 1928–1936).

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a

Fig. 1.1a Groussau’s constituency on the map of the department of le Nord. J. Gosselet, Carte géologique du département du Nord (s.l.: s.n., second half of the nineteenth century). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/btv1b55011387x

As a professor in administrative law, he had founded the Revue administrative du culte catholique in 1893, and his qualities of jurisconsult were much appreciated. Throughout his entire career in politics (1902– 1936), Groussau did not have any other political functions than that of a people’s representative, whereas the three others combined their mandate in the Chamber with a mandate in the general council of their respective departments.80 Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, a republican-radical-socialist from the Seineet-Marne-department (Fig. 1.2), was a député from 1910 until 1935,

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b

Fig. 1.1b

Zoom of the selected area

representing the arrondissement of Fontainebleau (1910–1919 and 1928–1935). As from 1930, he identified as Independent of the Left. The group of radicals and radical-socialists (to which he used to belong) had excluded him because of his participation in the rather center-rightoriented second Tardieu government.81 Dumesnil’s district was relatively close to Paris, but was at the same time a highly rural area in the Gâtinais français, with agriculture as the main economic activity. Whereas Groussau had rather weak local political ties in his district, Dumesnil was well-embedded in his own constituency. He was able to strengthen his connections through his representation in the general council of Seineet-Marne, where he represented the canton of La Chapelle-la-Reine. He had an address there, in the village of Larchant, aside from his residence in Paris. Dumesnil’s departmental representation, as well as his ministerial mandates for the Navy between June 1924 and April 1925 and again between March and December 1930 undoubtedly had an influence on the mail he received from citizens. The same is true for when he became Minister of the Air force (between January 1931 and February 1932).82 Louis Marin, who lived in Paris since the age of nineteen, started his parliamentary career with a weak local embedding, because he had not been living in his department (Fig. 1.3) for fifteen years when he first presented himself there for the legislative elections. (This was in 1905, for the first district of Nancy, i.e., the cantons of Nancy-Nord, Nomény, and Pont-à-Mousson). Still, he succeeded, and had a very long career as

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Fig. 1.2 Dumesnil’s constituency on the map of the Seine-et-Marne department. Carte murale scolaire de Seine-et-Marne (Paris: Erhard frères, 1904). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b5306 06741

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Fig. 1.3 Marin’s constituency on the map of the Lorraine region. “Les Liaisons de la Lorraine,” part of: Carte industrielle de la Lorraine (Moselle - Meurthe-etMoselle - Vosges). Planche n°2 (Paris and Strasbourg: Société de documentation industrielle, 1925–1926). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/btv1b53213235b/f2.item

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a député, for which he needed and managed to reinforce his local ties. He achieved this, for example, through his mandate as a representative of the rural canton of Nomény (1910–1955), instead of the more urban Nancy-Nord, in the general council of his department of Meurthe-etMoselle, close to the German border. In parliament, he was known as a patriotic democrat of the Republican Federation, situated on the rightto-center-right of the political spectrum. The geographic context of his constituency contributed to his unshakable patriotism, which could be interpreted as far-right conservatism, although the parliamentary expression of his political group was labeled progressive (progressiste) until 1914, and his contemporaries did not see him as aberrant. Most of them actually considered him a model parliamentarian and a good republican, which was reflected by the important ministerial positions he was entrusted with on and off during the interwar period.83 Marin and Dumesnil then had different ministerial mandates, in the alternating respective right and left governments: Marin in the more social-economic functions (Liberated Regions and Pensions), and Dumesnil in army-related functions, as a former lieutenant. In 1924, Marin became the key figure of the republican group, and from 1925 onwards, he took up the republican party’s leading role. More specifically, he became the leader of the Republican democratic union (1924–1932) which was renamed thereafter as the Republican Federation (1932–1940). The heterogeneity of these groups, however, complicated control over their members like Laurent Bonnevay (see further). Not all of them agreed with Marin’s views. Nevertheless, since the latter’s authority was rooted in a network of various connections—which historian Gilles Le Béguec calls le système Marin, consisting of old fellow students in political and social sciences, political friends in the Lorraine region, fellow warveterans, etc.—he was able to remain in control until 1936. By then, his network in- and outside the Chamber seems to have started crumbling down, due to growing differences of opinion within the group and because of adherents leaving the Assembly. (François de Wendel, for example, moved on to the Senate in 1933, and Georges Bonnefous decided not to take part in the 1936-elections anymore.) Consequently, Marin lost an important part of his backing.84 Yet, the social capital he had built up over the years through his parliamentary activity and visibility, did not wear off so quickly, as we can tell from his symbolical election as a Minister of State in 1934, and the continuation of his political career

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for relatively many more years. Louis Marin was a deputy in the Chamber from 1905 until 1942, and again from 1945 until 1951. Like Marin, Laurent Bonnevay began his political career with a centerright label of progressiste, yet he resembled Dumesnil’s profile more closely in terms of representing a rural constituency, in his case in the Rhônedepartment. Regarding his ideological orientation too, Bonnevay was not necessarily close to Marin. Starting out among the republicans of the center, Bonnevay was already more liberal in his way of thinking than patriotic nationalist Louis Marin. As historian Jean-Marie Mayeur remarks, the député du Rhône was profoundly attached to the parliamentary Republic.85 Bonnevay was a member of the French Chamber from 1902 until 1924 (with a ministerial mandate in Justice in 1921), and again from 1928 until 1942, after an interlude as a Senator. From 1928 onwards, after he had given up his seat in the Senate to return to the Palais Bourbon, he no longer adhered to the increasingly rightist Republican Federation. In his capacity as a new republican of the left (thus in fact still in the center of the political spectrum), Bonnevay resumed the thread of his representation of the second constituency of Villefranche-sur-Saône (Fig. 1.4). With economic activities centering on the production of grains, potatoes, wine, cattle, woodwork, tiles, and textile (silk and cotton), the district (comprising the cantons of Amplepuis and Lamure-sur-Azergues in the valley of the Azergues, as well as le Bois-d’Oingt, Tarare, and Thizy), was highly agrarian, but also contained several factories and distilleries. Consisting of small rural villages surrounded by high mountains, Bonnevay’s constituency may seem geographically very isolated.86 Inhabitants of the valley of the Azergues did indeed experience their district as being enclosed, not in the least because of its late electrification in the 1930s, a project that had been encouraged by Bonnevay, just like Dumesnil had pushed through the electrification of the small villages in his arrondissement of Fontainebleau.87 The localities of Bonnevay’s district were, however, interconnected by train, at a distance of 25–75 km, and well-connected to the city of Lyon, where the deputy resided.88 In fact, he had two addresses there: one in Dardilly (in the suburbs) and one in the center of Lyon. Since he was very active in the Palais Bourbon, he also had a part-time residence in the seventh arrondissement of Paris. Furthermore, Bonnevay used to be a municipal councilor of Lyon from

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Fig. 1.4 Bonnevay’s constituency on the map of the Rhône department. L. Brion de La Tour and J. De la Vallée, “Vue 181. Carte du Rhône,” in Illustrations de Voyage dans les 102 départements de la France (Paris: Brion, 1792–1802). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b2000 045f/f181.item

1900 to 1904, but he chose to represent the canton of Lamure-surAzergues on the departmental level, as a general councilor afterward, which he continued to do until his death in 1957. Even though fluctuations in the politicians’ mandates affected the systematic preservation of their correspondence, these cases nonetheless offer diverse perspectives on the characteristics of letters addressed by unorganized men and women to their representatives in the Chamber. The chosen research period includes the build-up to the start of their mandate in parliament and the summit of their career, covering at least some years before and after the First World War. The end-point is situated

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around 1935–1936, because these were the years in which the mandates in the Palais Bourbon of Dumesnil (who went to the Senate and became the mayor of Fontainebleau) and Groussau (who died) ended. The careers of Bonnevay and Marin were longer, but for the sake of comparability, the analysis of their correspondence will also take the year 1936 as its endpoint, so that the selected sources encompass their most active period and show the most overlap with the letters from the other cases, despite the differences in preservation. In sum, this book aims at thematically dissecting the negotiation processes in citizens’ letters to the four aforementioned députés, roughly between 1900 and the 1930s. The investigation ranges from a focus on the material and performative aspects of political participation (Part I) to a study of discursive constructions of representation and citizenship, as well as of the political knowledges and subjectivities to which these practices and language use testified (Part II). As a whole, the book reveals what political representation meant for letter-writing men and women in the early decades of twentieth-century France, and thus throughout a representative part of the Third Republic. First, however, a better understanding is needed of the relations between object (the letter), subject (the individual letter-writer), and space (networks of communication and representation but also the citizens’ place of writing, in relation to the deputies’ place of residence or constituency). Chapter 2 of Part I mainly focuses on this spatial component, and thus on the opportunities citizens had to physically see “their” député or to speak to him in person. The specific research methods for analyzing their correspondence will only be teased out further when the focus moves toward the letter as object in Chapter 3.

Notes 1. Henk te Velde, “Natie en democratie in Nederland rond 1900 in vergelijkend perspectief,” in Natie en democratie, 1890–1921: acta van het interuniversitair colloquium, Brussel 8–9 juni 2006, ed. Els Witte, Ginette Kurgan-van Hentenryk, and Emiel Lamberts (Brussels: KVAB, 2007), 382–83. 2. These two approaches are suggested by Marnix Beyen, “Inleiding: Natievorming en democratie in een West-Europees perspectief,” in Natie en democratie, 373–75; also referred to by Michael Auwers, “The Island and the Storm. A Social-Cultural History of the

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Belgian Diplomatic Corps in Times of Democratization, 1885– 1935” (unpublished PhD-thesis, Antwerp, University of Antwerp, 2014), 30–31. 3. Susan Pedersen, “Gender, Welfare, and Citizenship in Britain During the Great War,” The American Historical Review 95, no. 4 (1990): 983. 4. This has been brought to the fore by Marnix Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization. Direct Interactions Between Deputies and ‘Ordinary Citizens’ in France, ca. 1890-ca. 1940,” Tidsskrift for Historie 4, no. 8 (2014): 18–21. 5. Mark Mazower, Dark Continent. Europe’s Twentieth Century (New York: Vintage Books, 1998). 6. Eric Hobsbawm, The Age of Empire, 1875–1914 (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), 8–12 and 85–96. 7. Pierre Rosanvallon, Le sacre du citoyen. Histoire du suffrage universel en France, Bibliothèque des histoires 2 (Paris: Gallimard, 1992), 445–55. 8. In this context, Frank Ankersmit refers to “aesthetic” and “mimetic” representation, cf. Frank A. Ankersmit, Aesthetic Politics: Political Philosophy Beyond Fact and Value (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996); Idem, Macht door representatie, Exploraties, III: politieke filosofie (Kampen: Kok Agora, 1997); Idem, “Representative Democracy: Rosanvallon on the French Experience,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to the Politics of Democratization in Europe, ed. Kari Palonen, Tuija Pulkkinen, and José Maria Rosales, The Ashgate Research Companions 1 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008), 17–36. Similarly, Marcel Gauchet describes how the interpretation of representation as a “restitution” of society’s diversity gained ground over the “substitution” theory, cf. Marcel Gauchet, “La droite et la gauche,” in Les Lieux de Mémoire. La République, La Nation, Les France, ed. Pierre Nora, vol. 2, Les France: conflits et partages 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 2556–58. See also: Jasper Loots, Voor het volk, van het volk. Van districtenstelsel naar evenredige vertegenwoordiging (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2004). 9. Gilles Le Béguec, “Les réseaux,” in Les Parlementaires de la Troisième République, ed. Jean-Marie Mayeur, Jean-Pierre Chaline, and Alain Corbin, Histoire de la France aux XIXe et XXe siècles 61 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2003), 242–43.

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10. Jean Garrigues, “Les Débuts de La Troisième République 1870– 1914: Un Âge d’or de l’éloquence Parlementaire,” Parliaments, Estates and Representation 31, no. 2 (2011): 178; Jean Garrigues, ed., Histoire du Parlement de 1789 à nos jours, Collection d’histoire parlementaire 1 (Paris: Colin, 2007), 289–314. 11. For example: John Dunn, ed., Democracy. The Unfinished Journey. 508 BC to AD 1993 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994); Kari Palonen, Tuija Pulkkinen, and José Maria Rosales, eds., The Ashgate Research Companion to the Politics of Democratization in Europe, The Ashgate Research Companions 1 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008); Auwers, “The Island and the Storm.” 12. Dirk Berg-Schlosser, Democratization. The State of the Art (Opladen: Budrich, 2007), 16–22. For a definition of “civil society”, see: David Potter, “Explaining Democratization,” in Democratization, ed. David Potter et al. (Cambridge: Polity, 1997), 4. 13. Katherine A. Lynch, “The Family and the History of Public Life,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 24, no. 4 (1994): 665–84. 14. Christian Welzel, “Democratization as an Emancipative Process: The Neglected Role of Mass Motivations,” European Journal of Political Research 45, no. 6 (2006): 875–77. 15. For more detailed criticism on this topic, see: Berg-Schlosser, Democratization, 19–20; Auwers, “The Island and the Storm,” 28; Welzel, “Democratization,” 871–74. David Potter distinguishes between the modernization approach and the structural approach, in Potter, “Explaining Democratization,” 10–22. Just like Welzel, I am combining these two theories in my criticism, because both take a long-term approach, subordinating human initiative to the larger theory or structure. 16. D. A. Rustow, “Transitions to Democracy,” Comparative Politics 2, no. 3 (1970): 350–62, described by Potter, “Explaining Democratization,” 13–18. 17. Renske Doorenspleet, “The Structural Context of Recent Transitions to Democracy,” European Journal of Political Research, no. 43 (2004): 309–29. 18. Doorenspleet, 321–24; Renske Doorenspleet, “Reassessing the Three Waves of Democratization,” World Politics 52, no. 3 (2000): 388.

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19. Welzel, “Democratization,” 873; Auwers, “The Island and the Storm,” 28–30. 20. Max Weber, Politiek als beroep (Kapellen: Pelckmans, 1998), 41–42, 56–57, 66–69; for an explanation and criticism of this Weberian model, see: Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 21. 21. Eric Hobsbawm, Een eeuw van uitersten: de twintigste eeuw, 1914– 1991 (Utrecht: Spectrum, 2000), 68–69; Geoff Eley, Forging Democracy. The History of the Left in Europe, 1850–2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 3–4, 220–22. 22. Rustow, “Transitions,” 350–62; described in: Potter, “Explaining Democratization,” 13–18; Niels Matheve uses and reinterprets this framework for interwar Belgium, in Niels Matheve, Tentakels van de macht. Elite en elitenetwerken in en rond de Belgische tussenoorlogse regeringen 1918–1940 (Heule: INNI publishers, 2016). 23. Jon Lawrence, “The Transformation of British Public Politics After the First World War,” Past & Present, no. 190 (2006): 185–216. 24. Mazower, Dark Continent, 5, 9–10, 13, 17–27. 25. Richard Bessel, “The Crisis of Modern Democracy, 1919–1945,” in Democratization, ed. David Potter et al. (Cambridge: Polity, 1997), 71–94. 26. Mazower, Dark Continent, 5, 17–27. 27. Els Witte, “Natie en democratie, 1890–1921: de probleemstelling,” in Natie en democratie, 16; Eley, Forging Democracy, 222. 28. For example: Jens Ivo Engels and Frédéric Monier, “Pour une histoire comparée des faveurs et de la corruption: France et Allemagne (XIXe–XXe siècles),” in La politique vue d’en bas: pratiques privées, débats publics dans l’Europe contemporaine (XIXe–XXe siècles): actes du colloque d’Avignon, mai 2010, ed. Jens Ivo Engels, Frédéric Monier, and Natalie Petiteau, Les coulisses du politique à l’époque contemporaine 1 (Paris: Colin, 2011), 127–48; Olivier Dard, “La corruption dans la France des années 1930: historiographie et perspectives de recherche,” in Idem, 209–11. 29. As put forward by Jens Ivo Engels and Volker Köhler, “Moderne Patronage – Mikropolitik in der Moderne. Konturen und Herausforderungen eines neuen Forschungsfeldes,” Historische Zeitschrift 309, no. 1 (2019): 37–38.

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30. Andreas Kalyvas, Democracy and the Politics of the Extraordinary: Max Weber, Carl Schmitt, and Hannah Arendt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 6–7, 13 and 292. 31. For similar criticism, see: Marnix Beyen, “Deserters, Draft Evaders and Deputies. Or How Parliamentary History Can Contribute to Subaltern History and Vice-Versa,” Belgisch Tijdschrift Voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis/Journal of Belgian History 46, no. 1 (2016): 41. 32. Lawrence, “The Transformation,” 185–216. 33. Marnix Beyen, “Lieux de politisation, lieux de corruption? Les permanences parlementaires à Paris, 1890–1920,” in Patronage et corruption politiques dans l’Europe contemporaine, ed. Frédéric Monier, Olivier Dard, and Jens Ivo Engels, Les coulisses du politique à l’époque contemporaine 2 (Paris: Colin, 2014), 167–83. 34. Yves Billard, Le métier de la politique sous la IIIe République (Perpignan: Presses Universitaires de Perpignan, 2003), 150. 35. As Thomas Welskopp has put it: “In a certain sense, macroprocesses are microprocesses projected on to a grander scale by means of institutionalization,” cf. Thomas Welskopp, “Crossing the Boundaries? Dynamics of Contention Viewed from the Angle of a Comparative Historian,” International Review of Social History 49, no. 1 (2004): 128. 36. Henry Miller, “Petition! Petition!! Petition!!!: Petitioning and Political Organization in Britain, c. 1800–1850,” in Organizing Democracy. Reflections on the Rise of Political Organizations in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Henk te Velde and Maartje Janse, Palgrave Studies in Political History (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 43. 37. Richard Huzzey and Henry Miller, “Petitions, Parliament and Political Culture: Petitioning the House of Commons, 1780– 1918,” Past & Present 248, no. 1 (2020): 123–64; John D. Griffin and Grace Sager, “Democratic Representation of All ‘the People’: Antislavery Petitions in the U.S. Senate,” Studies in American Political Development 34, no. 2 (2020): 269–91; Zachris Haaparinne, “Voice of the People or Raving of the Rabble? Petitions and Disputes on Political Representation in Britain, 1721– 1776” (unpublished PhD-thesis, Jyväskylä, University of Jyväskylä, 2021); Maggie Blackhawk et al., “Congressional Representation by Petition: Assessing the Voices of the Voteless in a Comprehensive New Database, 1789–1949,” Legislative Studies Quarterly 46,

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no. 3 (2021): 817–49; Daniel Carpenter, Democracy by Petition. Popular Politics in Transformation, 1790–1870 (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2021). 38. Edouardo Elena, “What the People Want: State Planning and Political Participation in Peronist Argentina, 1946–1955,” Journal of Latin American Studies 37, no. 1 (2005): 81–108; Maarten Van Ginderachter, “If Your Majesty Would Only Send Me a Little Money to Help Buy an Elephant: Letters to the Belgian Royal Family (1880–1940),” in Ordinary Writings, Personal Narratives: Writing Practices in 19th and Early 20th-Century Europe, ed. Martyn Lyons (Bern: Peter Lang, 2007), 69–84; Yuval BenBassat, Petitioning the Sultan: Protests and Justice in Late Ottoman Palestine (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013); Sami Suodenjoki, “Whistleblowing from Below: Finnish Rural Inhabitants’ Letters to the Imperial Power at the Turn of the Twentieth Century,” in Vernacular Literacies—Past, Present and Future, ed. Ann-Catrine Edlund, Lars-Erik Edlund, and Susanne Haugen (Umeå: Umeå University and Royal Skyttean Society, 2014), 279–93; Carl Bouchard, Cher Monsieur le Président. Quand les Français écrivaient à Woodrow Wilson (1918–1919), Collection La chose publique (Ceyzérieu: Champ Vallon, 2015); Martyn Lyons, “Writing Upwards: Letters to Robert Menzies, Australian Prime Minister, 1949–1966,” The Journal of Epistolary Studies 2, no. 1 (2020): 34–51. 39. Literally: Sur les instances d’un fonctionnaire socialiste, je m’adresse à Vous. Vous êtes lésé, m’a-t-il dit. Réclamez; mais réclamez par voie de Député ou de Sénateur; voire même par voie d’Avocat, cf. “Letter from Abbot Robert Tardivon from Couloutre to H.-C. Groussau,” 25-09-1929, Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers de HenriConstant Groussau, J 474 (abbreviated to ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474), file 112. 40. Idem. 41. This reflection on the specificities of the French case first appeared in Karen Lauwers, “Negotiating French Social Citizenship in Early Twentieth-Century Letters to a Representative for the Rhône Department,” Redescriptions: Political Thought, Conceptual History and Feminist Theory 24, no. 1 (2021): 43–44. 42. Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 23.

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43. Marnix Beyen, “Informing the Politician: Politics in Parisian Citizens’ Letters to Their Députés, 1900–1914,” Journal of Modern European History 18, no. 3 (2020): 251. 44. Nicolas Roussellier, “Brilliant Failure: Political Parties Under the Republican Era in France (1870–1914),” in Organizing Democracy. Reflections on the Rise of Political Organizations in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Henk te Velde and Maartje Janse, Palgrave Studies in Political History (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 145–46. 45. The Assembly’s vote count was originally recorded as 344 to 97, but was later corrected to 329 to 95, still more than a three-to-one margin, at least if the 104 abstentions are not taken into account, cf. JO Débats Chambre, 20-05-1919, 2358 and 2365; also mentioned by Steven C. Hause and Anne R. Kenney, Women’s Suffrage and Social Politics in the French Third Republic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 225, 333. From 1919 until 1933, deputies from different political orientations submitted 24 proposals to make changes for women, but these were all blocked by the Senate, cf. Jean-Michel Guieu, Gagner la paix, 1914–1929, Histoire de la France contemporaine 5 (Paris: Seuil, 2015), 280. 46. For a detailed account of possible “strategic” motives of the deputies, see: Hause and Kenney, Women’s Suffrage, 225–47, to which Anne-Sarah Bouglé-Moalic opposes a less cynical interpretation. She believes in most deputies’ sincerity, cf. Anne-Sarah Bouglé-Moalic, Le Vote des Françaises. Cent ans de débats. 1848– 1944 (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2012), 221; also referred to by: Guieu, Gagner la paix, 279. 47. Hause and Kenney, Women’s Suffrage, 197–203; Christa Hämmerle, Oswald Überegger, and Birgitta Bader Zaar, “Introduction: Women’s and Gender History of the First World War—Topics, Concepts, Perspectives,” in Gender and the First World War, ed. Christa Hämmerle, Oswald Überegger, and Birgitta Bader Zaar (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 10–11. Anne Bouglé-Moalic gives an overview of the deputies’ justifications of votes for women, clarifying that 6.3% of the arguments used were related to French women’s war efforts, cf. Bouglé-Moalic, Le Vote des Françaises. Cent ans de débats. 1848–1944, 215.

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48. For example: Michelle Zancarini-Fournel, Histoire des femmes en France, XIXe–XXe siècle (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2005), 57–58. 49. For example: Françoise Thébaud and Christine Bard, “Les effets antiféministes de la Grande Guerre,” in Un Siècle d’antiféminisme, ed. Christine Bard (Paris: Fayard, 1999), 149–66; Susan R. Grayzel, “Men and Women at Home,” in Cambridge History of the First World War, ed. Jay Winter, 3: Civil Society 5 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 119–20. 50. Françoise Thébaud, “De Eerste Wereldoorlog: tijdperk van de vrouw of triomf van het seksuele verschil?,” in De twintigste eeuw, ed. Françoise Thébaud, Geschiedenis van de vrouw 5 (Amsterdam: Agon, 1993), 26, 60. In 1911, only 9.8 percent of the unionists were women, even though 36.7 percent of the active population was female. Women’s syndicalism, however, rose faster than their participation in the labor market. In 1911 there were 162 womenonly syndicates, cf. Régine Rodriguez, “Madeleine Guilbert, Les femmes et l’organisation syndicale avant 1914 (Compte rendu),” L’Homme et la société, Éditions du C.N.R.S., 5, no. 1 (1967): 224–25. 51. Michelle Perrot, Les Femmes ou les silences de l’Histoire (Saint-Amand-Montrond: Flammarion, 1998), 267–69; ZancariniFournel, Histoire des femmes en France, XIXe–XXe siècle, 118; Guieu, Gagner la paix, 285. 52. Karen Offen, “Les femmes, la citoyenneté et le droit de vote en France, 1789–1993,” in Féminismes et identités nationales. Les processus d’intégration des femmes au politique, ed. Yolande Cohen and Françoise Thébaud, Les chemins de la recherche 44 (Lyon: Programme Rhône-Alpes de Recherche en Sciences Humaines, Centre Jacques Cartier, 1998), 66. 53. Thébaud, “De Eerste Wereldoorlog,” 21–74, especially 67; Hämmerle, Überegger, and Bader Zaar, “Introduction: Women’s and Gender History of the First World War—Topics, Concepts, Perspectives,” 3–4; Hause and Kenney, Women’s Suffrage, 202. 54. Rosemonde Sanson, “Les parlementaires vus par eux-mêmes,” in Les parlementaires de la Troisième République, ed. Jean-Marie Mayeur, Jean-Pierre Chaline, and Alain Corbin, Histoire de la France aux XIXe et XXe siècles 61 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2003), 348.

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55. Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 289–314. The rise of socialism in France was especially made possible by the punishing elections of 1893, which accorded them almost 50 (of the 581) seats, at least if the 16 radical-socialists are counted together with the socialists instead of the republicans. These 8.6% are, however, not that high when compared to the 18.4% of seats the Belgian socialists gained at their introduction in the Belgian House of Representatives in 1894. An analytical table on the distribution of seats in this hemicycle can be found in Emmanuel Gerard et al., eds., Geschiedenis van de Belgische Kamer van Volksvertegenwoordigers, 1830–2002 (Brussels: Kamer van Volksvertegenwoordigers, 2003), 453. 56. Gauchet, “La droite et la gauche,” 2556. 57. Jean-Marie Mayeur, La vie politique sous la Troisième République, 1870–1940 (Paris: Seuil, 1984), 203–4. 58. Roussellier, “Brilliant Failure,” 155. 59. Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 308–9. 60. Idem, 299–339; Gauchet, “La droite et la gauche,” 2552–55. 61. Jean-Marie Mayeur, Des Partis catholiques à la Démocratie chrétienne, XIXe–XXe siècles (Paris: Colin, 1980), 87–89. 62. Maurice Duverger, L’influence des systèmes électoraux sur la vie politique, Cahiers de la Fondation nationale des sciences politiques 16 (Paris: Colin, 1950), 70–71. 63. Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 338 and 507; Billard, Le métier, 117–45; Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 23. 64. As was remarked by Gerrit Voerman for the Netherlands, cf. Gerrit Voerman, “Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen,” Archos Magazine. Informatiebeheer En -Verwerking, 2002, 14; referred to by Matheve, Tentakels van de macht, 205. Matheve challenges this statement for interwar Belgium. 65. For example: Jean-Thomas Nordmann, La République radicale, Archives (Paris: Julliard-Gallimard, 1977), 179, as referred to by Frédéric Monier, La politique des plaintes. Clientélisme et demandes sociales dans le Vaucluse d’Édouard Daladier (1890–1940) (Paris: La Boutique de l’Histoire, 2007), 20; Pierre Guiral and Guy Thuillier, La vie quotidienne des députés en France de 1871 à 1914 (Paris: Hachette, 1980), 118; Sanson, “Les parlementaires,” 354–58; Billard, Le métier, 149 et seq. 66. Monier, La politique des plaintes, 7–25.

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67. Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 17–32; Idem, “Informing the Politician: Politics in Parisian Citizens’ Letters to Their Députés, 1900–1914,” Journal of Modern European History 18, no. 3 (2020): 249–54. 68. Charles Ridel, Les embusqués (Paris: Armand Colin, 2007), and more specifically: Charles Ridel, “Le scandale des embusqués. Le Parlement français dans la tourmente (1914–1918),” Parlement[s], Revue d’histoire politique 10, no. 2 (2008): 31–45. 69. Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen. The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1976); Maurice Agulhon, La République au village. Les populations du Var de la Révolution à la IIe République (Paris: Seuil, 1979). 70. On clientelism and corruption in the French Third Republic, see: Rainer Hudemann, “Réflexions Comparatives Sur La Structure Du Parlementarisme Français,” in Les Parlementaires de La Troisième République: Actes Du Colloque International Organisé Par Le Centre de Recherches En Histoire Du XIXe Siècle (Universités Paris I et Paris IV, UMR 8072 Du CNRS), Les 18 et 19 Octobre 2001, ed. Jean-Marie Mayeur, Jean-Pierre Chaline, and Alain Corbin, Histoire de La France Aux XIXe et XXe Siècles 61 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2003), 451–59; Dard, “La corruption,” 209–21; Nathalie Dompnier, “Corruption ou système d’échange local? Des normes en concurrence pour la définition de la légitimité électorale en France sous la IIIe République,” in Patronage et corruption politiques dans l’Europe contemporaine, ed. Frédéric Monier, Olivier Dard, and Jens Ivo Engels, Les coulisses du politique à l’époque contemporaine 2 (Paris: Colin, 2014), 127–40. 71. Frédéric Sawicki, “La Faiblesse Du Clientélisme Partisan En France,” in Le Clientélisme Politique Dans Les Sociétés Contemporaines, ed. Louis Briquet and Frédéric Sawicki, Politique d’aujourd’hui 1 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1998), 217. 72. See also: Engels and Köhler, “Moderne Patronage,” 43. 73. Marnix Beyen draws our attention to this complex interplay between clientelism and politicization, whereas Joost Augusteijn, Patrick Dassen, and Maartje Janse set the tone for studies of political religion outside totalitarian regimes, cf. Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 27–28; Joost Augusteijn, Patrick Dassen, and Maartje Janse, eds., Political Religion beyond Totalitarianism. The

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Sacralization of Politics in the Age of Democracy (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 74. Engels and Köhler, “Moderne Patronage,” 66–67. 75. The following departments in the North and North-East of France were (partially) occupied during the First World War and were therefore later referred to as the “liberated regions:” Aisne, Ardennes, Marne, Meurthe-et-Moselle, Meuse, Moselle, Nord, Pas-de-Calais, Bas-Rhin, Haut-Rhin, Somme, Vosges and Territoire de Belfort, cf. Alexandre Niess, “Les Régions libérées à la Chambre: des textes et des hommes (1916–1925),” Parlement[s], Revue d’histoire politique 2, no. 10 (2008): 46. 76. Bessel, “The Crisis”; Mazower, Dark Continent. 77. Case studies of these phenomena can be found in François Dubasque and Eric Kocher-Marboeuf, eds., Terres d’élections: Les dynamiques de l’ancrage politique (1750–2009) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2014), as referred to by Roussellier, “Brilliant Failure,” 158. 78. Biographical pages about the selected deputies can be found in the French National Assembly’s database: Assemblée Nationale, “Henri Groussau,” “Jacques-Louis Dumesnil,” “Louis Marin,” and “Laurent, Marie, Benoît Bonnevay,” in Base de données des députés français depuis 1789 (Paris: Assemblée Nationale, Updated in 2019), https://www2.assemblee-nationale.fr/sycomore/fiche/ (num_dept)/3605; 2699; 5001; and 955. 79. This goes for the entirety of his correspondence archives: ADN , Papiers Groussau, J 474, files 7–132. 80. I investigated Groussau’s image and ideology at greater length in Karen Lauwers, “‘J’ai l’honneur d’attirer votre attention à mon sujet’. Image et action d’Henri-Constant Groussau (député du Nord, 1902–1936) au prisme de sa correspondance passive,” Revue du Nord 2, no. 420 (2017): 379–412. 81. Assemblée Nationale, “Dumesnil. Base de données des députés” and “Discipline d’abord! Le groupe parlementaire du parti vient d’exclure MM. J.-L. Dumesnil et Falcoz,” Le Radical (Paris, 0903-1930), 2. 82. Dumesnil became a Senator-mayor of Fontainebleau in 1935. After the Second World War, he went back to his legal profession, while also devoting himself to charitable work for veterans and war orphans, cf. Assemblée Nationale, “Base de données.”

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83. Paul Smith, Feminism and the Third Republic. Women’s Political and Civil Rights in France 1918–1945 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 90. 84. Le Béguec, “Les réseaux,” 254–55, 259. 85. Mayeur, La vie politique, 299–300. 86. Literally: Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues est construit sur un petit mamelon très pittoresque entouré de hautes montagnes, cf. E. de Rolland and Denys Clouzet, Dictionnaire illustré des communes du département du Rhône, vol. 2 (Lyon: C. Dizain/A. Storck & Cie., 1902), 493. 87. Examples can be found in both archives, cf. “Lettres de remerciements de particuliers” (for instance from the municipality of Pontcharra in 1934), Archives Départementales du Rhône, Fonds Laurent Bonnevay (abbreviated to ADR, Fonds Bonnevay), 10J , file 25/I; “Invitation to the inauguration of the electricity in Chenou, from the mayor of Chenou (in Dumesnil’s voting district, Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 25-10-1927, Archives Départementales de Seine-et-Marne, Fonds Jacques-Louis Dumesnil (abbreviated to ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil), 72J , file 22. The mayor of Ancy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) attached a great deal of importance to Bonnevay’s passage in May 1905 through their village, which was “so isolated,” cf. “Letter from the mayor of Ancy to L. Bonnevay, 07-05-1905,” ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. 88. E. de Rolland and Denys Clouzet, Dictionnaire illustré des communes du département du Rhône, vol. 1 (Lyon: C. Dizain/A. Storck & Cie., 1901).

PART I

Materiality of the Negotiation Process

Because the sources are text and thing, object and practice at the same time, Part I focuses on their “thingness” first and the channels they fitted in, before turning to their textual aspect. Taking Frank Trentmann’s reflections on material history into account, objects as historical sources should be considered “as woven into people’s bodies, identities, and actions.” Citizens were indeed not merely subject to the available communication options and the ways in which these were structured from above, but also made use of them and inspired their creation. “Things … recruit us into politics as much as we recruit them,” is how Trentmann summarizes Martin Heidegger and Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s perspective on the material world.1 When dealing with objects and spaces for political communication, citizens had to abide by the formal rules imposed on them. To give an example: attending debates at the Palais Bourbon had to be done in complete silence. Such rules were, however, only created because of the citizens’ interest in taking part. Furthermore, citizens were at the same time subject to informal rules concerning epistolary etiquette and able to apply and reshape them in a creative way. Therefore, citizens’ letters to parliamentary representatives will not only be scrutinized as communicative objects that were part of a larger communicational network connecting private and public worlds, but also as a practice that was part of negotiated habits and rules. The first section of this book studies the concrete communication tools (from citizens’ physical presence in the Chamber, over standardized forms to subterranean postal tube systems), as well as less tangible networks and practices. What kind of channels for

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political communication and participation were available and accessible to unorganized citizens, aside from the vote? What possibilities did the Palais Bourbon offer to facilitate the contact between citizens and députés ? Could this contact be maintained during the First World War, and if so, how? What stages did the requests go through and who intervened on the road to a possible solution? How did citizens know whom to turn to and how did they learn what they could rightfully ask?

Note 1. Frank Trentmann, “Materiality in the Future of History: Things, Practices, and Politics,” Journal of British Studies 48 (April 2009): 300–301.

CHAPTER 2

Citizens in the Chamber and the Deputies in Their Constituency

The French parliament’s plenary debates of both the Chambre des Députés and the Senate were public, which not only meant that citizens had access to prints of what the parliamentarians had said, either through the Journal des Débats or through the press who based themselves on this verbatim report of proceedings. It also implied that both Chambers opened their doors to the public, enabling outsiders to physically attend the debates. Only Members of either the Chamber or the Senate (including the Speaker) and the parliamentary Secretariat were allowed on the debating floor of their respective Palais: the Palais Bourbon for deputies and the Palais de Luxembourg for Senators. Principal secretaries of Ministers had access to the corridors of the debating room too, but only at the invitation of the Speaker, which was useful for instance when they had contributed to a bill that would be discussed. In addition, to execute the ideal of publicité de séances and thus more broadly of public representation, different galleries were open for those whom contemporary constitutionalist and parliamentary secretary Eugène Pierre called des étrangers (strangers). In his treatise on the rules for parliamentary debates and legislative elections, Pierre explained that a special gallery was reserved for (among others) diplomats, parliamentary personnel, and former deputies, while there were separate galleries for journalists and for individual “ordinary,” non-organized citizens. Journalists could ask

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_2

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their syndicate for an admission ticket for the press gallery, whereas “ordinary” citizens had two options. One public gallery of the Chamber was freely accessible on a first-come, first-serve basis, whereas the other places were attributed to people who had requested and received an admission ticket from a député. The Questure (the parliamentary office for practical matters) was responsible for providing the cards for the press syndicates (to distribute them among their journalists) and for the deputies (to distribute them among their applicants). Each sitting day, an alphabetical rotation system determined who among the deputies would received tickets, which they could hand out or send to their supporters.1 What type of citizens wished to attend the debates? How did they ask for admission tickets? And could citizens arrange to meet an individual député in private?

Citizens Attending the Plenary Debates In the French Third Republic, the days when yet another government presented itself, rendered account of its policy and plans, and asked for a vote of confidence, seem to have been the most popular ones. This was the case among the députés themselves (unsurprisingly) but also among “ordinary” citizens. Not only the hemicycle itself but the public gallery too could become very crowded during these sittings (Fig. 2.1). On such politically decisive days, when expectations of large groups of citizens ran high, “ordinary” men and women even formed a waiting line outside the Palais Bourbon, to make sure they could be allowed in and get the best spot. This is what happened at least in the first half of 1921, at the first session of the new Briand government (Fig. 2.2) and a few months later, when he set forth the government’s new foreign policy (Fig. 2.3). Socialist Aristide Briand had become Prime Minister and Minister for Foreign Affairs again, positions he had lost during the First World War (in March 1917). Given the possibility to reserve a seat through a député, it should not surprise that the archives of French deputies contain some examples of letters written by individuals who simply requested admission tickets for the Chamber’s public gallery. If the representative in question still had tickets left, he always responded favorably to such an application. He was expected to contribute this way to the ideal of publicity of the debates, but at the same time, it was common sense to do so indeed, because the applicants were probably his adherents who expected to see him in action. In the correspondence files analyzed for this book, applications or

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Fig. 2.1 Presentation of the new, moderate government, Alexandre Ribot 4 (Paris: Agence Rol, 12 June 1914). The government was overturned that same day and replaced the next by René Viviani’s republican-socialist government. Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b5311 51037

expressions of gratitude for such admission tickets only make up a small minority of the letters of request. Still, they can help provide more insights into the political culture of the era. Historiographical interest in parliamentary oratory in the early-to-mid nineteenth century and eloquence in the French Third Republic, together with the recent enrichment of parliamentary history by the spatial and material turns, highlight the theatrical nature of the debates that took place in the hemicycle of the Palais Bourbon.2 At first sight, this seems to have been the experience of contemporaries as well. The aforementioned secretary of the Chamber of Deputies, Eugène Pierre, accused visitors to the Chamber of being sensation-seekers. While stressing the importance of the printed parliamentary proceedings, he explained why publicity of

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Fig. 2.2 Waiting line outside the Palais Bourbon for the first debating session of Aristide Briand’s government (Paris: Agence Rol, 20 January 1921). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b53053527n

a debate would be illusory if it was only aimed for by opening the doors to the public. According to Pierre, the audience merely consisted of “some idlers from Paris and some tourists from the provinces” who were there to enjoy the free spectacle, but usually got disappointed, because scandals were rarer than beautiful discourses were. Real publicity of the debates was only possible when the citizens could read the discourses and reflect thoroughly (in their homes) on the direction the “guardians of sovereignty” gave to politics. In sum, Pierre valued the impact of printed proceedings over the volatile experience in the public gallery of the Chamber.3 Coming from a general secretary of this institution, those words should not surprise, but how did “ordinary” citizens experience (or what did they expect from) their visit to the Palais Bourbon? Whereas citizens’ letters to députés do not dismiss the theatrical and ritualized aspects that

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Fig. 2.3 Waiting line outside the Palais Bourbon for the session in which Aristide Briand set forth the government’s foreign policy (Paris: Agence Rol, 24 May 1921). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/ btv1b530676463

have already been addressed in historiography, they also reveal a second interpretation of public access to the debates, one that was more strongly related to the representative task of parliament. First, the alleged tourist experience was indeed part of the expectations of some applicants who asked for admission to the public gallery. Especially when a letter-writer requested not one but two tickets, for themselves and a family member or their partner, a comparison to a couple’s trip to the theater surely seems valid. For example, Raymond Daniel from Champagne-sur-Seine asked Jacques-Louis Dumesnil (in a letter from 12 December 1932) for two admission tickets to the Chamber, one for himself and one for a family member who would accompany him on his trip to Paris. The letter-writer made no reference to a specific debating topic that caused him to want to go to the Palais Bourbon at a certain date. Since they would be in the

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capital on Saturday 17th anyway, they simply wished to take the opportunity to attend a debate. A scribble on top of the letter indicates that Dumesnil replied on the 15th, probably in a positive way, although we do not know his exact answer.4 Louis Marin’s private archives contain correspondence related to his position at the Anthropology School, rue des Fossés Saint-Jacques in Paris.5 Between 1895 and 1923, he taught evening classes there to female Parisian primary school teachers who wished to train for their Brevet supérieur (to pass their finals at a higher level).6 Aside from letters from aspiring holders of the Brevet (referring to their exam date and number, in the hopes, perhaps, that Marin would influence their chance of success7 ), the files also show proof of his continued contact with former students. A group of Anciennes élèves stayed in touch with each other at a reunion to which they invited their former tutor, or at least they did so in 1924.8 Whereas their letters of congratulation for Marin’s reelections and nominations to the government show their ongoing gratitude and admiration toward their mentor, they also testify to their knowledge of and interest in updates regarding government and policy.9 Some of these former students (then teachers) asked Marin for tickets to the public gallery of the Chamber, either for themselves, for friends, or for family members visiting them in Paris. Hence, they formed a category in between the aforementioned touristic or theatrical type and the second, more political category of applicants for such tickets. Although Marin’s former students did not refer to a specific debate they or their relatives or friends wished to attend, it is probably safe to say that they not merely sought entertainment but also the informative value of the discussions.10 Similarly, Mr. Mentré’s request for an admission ticket on 24 July 1926, right after Marin’s nomination as the Minister of Pensions, could have had a double motive too. Mentré showed his joy over Marin’s nomination into the fourth Poincaré-government by starting his letter with the expressions: Vive Monsieur Marin, Vive Monsieur le Ministre, and vive la Lorraine, the region where Prime Minister Poincaré also came from. This geographical link was clearly important to him, because, although he wrote his letter from Paris where he seems to have been an insurance associate, he presented himself as “an old Lorrain aged 80 from Jeandelaincourt, not far from Faulx,” which was Marin’s village of birth. From his viewpoint as a supporter and because of his interest in the new government, he asked for an admission ticket to attend the presentation of this grand Ministère. He thus chose a critical moment on which

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debates could be expected to contain a lot of drama, especially after the previous governments that had been very short-lived. Nevertheless, his political interest was probably sincere. Now that Marin was part of it, the letter-writer seemed hopeful for the plans of what he called “the great government.” In sum, with this letter, he leaned more toward the second type of applicants for admission tickets.11 Letter-writers from this second category expressed their gratitude toward the deputy for having enabled them to attend a debate on a very specific topic that they were genuinely interested in because it applied to their own situation. A publicist from Paris, J. Péradon, for example, thanked Minister Dumesnil on 10 February 1931 for having given him— through the intermediary of Monsieur Poisson (the sculptor Pierre-Marie Poisson?)—an admission ticket for the session of the 6th. He used the same letter to request two new tickets for the debate on l’école laïque qui doit venir prochainement devant la Chambre. This suggests that he was a citizen with a high political awareness and interest, although his justification also revealed highly clientelist expectations. Péradon saw it fit to stress his geographical-electoral link to the deputy—as did most of Dumesnil’s correspondents who wrote to him from Paris (or elsewhere outside of the deputy’s constituency)—by describing himself as Dumesnil’s voter in Fontainebleau, the son of builder–contractor Péradon in Fontainebleau, and the friend of Messieurs Poisson and Voyez. The letterwriter’s political interest and his clientelist phrasing were, however, not mutually exclusive, as will be discussed in the next part. As a publicist, Péradon was of course not an entirely “ordinary” citizen. Therefore, his political awareness should not surprise. Still, he was probably not an important journalist either, because that would have allowed him to obtain admission through a press syndicate. On the 23rd, the deputy replied that he would gladly send him two admission tickets to a session in the Chamber for a debate on the Ecole laïque, but he suggested Péradon to send him a reminder of his wish, once he noticed that the date on the subject was set.12 In another example, a female teacher from Saint-Bonnet-le-Troncy (in Bonnevay’s arrondissement of Villefranche-sur-Saône in the Rhônedepartment), stressed that it was with pleasure that she had witnessed Bonnevay’s defense of the Health Services’ cause (la cause des mutualistes ). However, she could not hide her lack of faith in the new law on laborers’ retirement pensions, discussed during the plenary session of 26 March 1910 that she had attended. She thus had witnessed a very specific

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Chamber debate, on which she gave her personal feedback. On the one hand, it can be argued that the letter-writer in this case too was not exactly an “ordinary,” unorganized citizen, since her specific interest suggests that she was probably a leading figure in a Health Care Service. On the other hand, she signed her letter in her own name, as an individual, who was, as a woman, not even officially recognized as a political citizen.13 Therefore, her remarkable message should still be taken into account to nuance the image of visitors to the parliament, who were not all sensation-seekers. Written evidence of such direct feedback from an individual citizen who had attended a parliamentary debate is quite exceptional, but questions or remarks on a specific topic discussed in the plenary sessions or references to a deputy’s stance toward a certain policy were not that rare. Henri-Constant Groussau was known among his correspondents for defending congregations’ rights, whereas Louis Marin’s criticism on the Treaty of Versailles was praised by people from his constituency.14 Laurent Bonnevay’s efforts for health care (as mentioned above) and social housing were highly appreciated, while Jacques-Louis Dumesnil’s defense of the interests of his district or region was recognized by his constituents.15 In response to a report he received from Bonnevay in 1912, J. Perrondon from Amplepuis expressed his and his fellowconstituents’ happiness “for having a deputy who worked!”16 The citizens’ knowledge of the efforts of their representative, and the importance they attached to it, co-constructed the image and roles of the député they contacted (and of the other députés they did not want to or could not turn to), which will be the focus of Part II. First, however, the channels of information and of the citizens’ reactions need to be mapped. A correspondent’s mere mention of debating topics did not always reveal his/her source of knowledge. It seems that citizens had learned about a political decision more often through a newspaper or by word-of-mouth, than in a direct way, by having attended a debate or having read the original proceedings. Nevertheless, in response to their interest in a certain topic of debate, a deputy sometimes sent them a copy of a bill discussed in parliament, to which he had contributed (Dumesnil),17 or some pages from the Journal des débats, containing his own speech (Groussau).18 These documents not only situated the citizens’ question on a national scale and provided detailed information about the most recent developments of the issue they had raised but also showed the deputy’s efforts in obtaining a broader solution to their personal problems. In Bonnevay’s archives from 1912, letter-writers from

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within and outside his district thanked him for having sent them his report on social housing.19 More than being a mere update on the situation, to them the report also offered proof of Bonnevay’s dedication to the poor, among which a large part of his supplicants appears to have counted themselves. In Marin’s archives, moreover, there is evidence of him having sent newspapers or journals to his politically interested correspondents.20 This combination of practices largely explains why the vast majority of letter-writers did not bother asking for a ticket to the public gallery of the Chamber. Instead, they usually requested information or applied for the deputy’s help in a very personal problematic situation. Not rarely triggered by a certain loss, they decided to contact the representative via private correspondence. This loss could be a financial one (loss of a breadwinner, of a job, or loss of money through taxes or fines) or a religious one (loss of a congregation’s property to the state and of their right to teach). Along the same lines and sometimes in relation to these losses, many letters contained expectations for specific gains, again, most often individual and financial ones, such as allowances, a job or a promotion, a decoration, and its financial reward, or help to win a lawsuit. Indeed, many supplicants had few financial resources, which was especially the case for the majority of Dumesnil’s and Bonnevay’s interwar correspondents, and which was usually the reason why they contacted a deputy. Consequently, these letter-writers had other, more urgent worries than attending a plenary debate. Moreover, the députés selected for this book did not represent a district in the Seine-department, where their constituents would have been close to the Palais Bourbon. This means that the travel costs between the supplicants’ residence and Paris should also be taken into account as a possible explanation. Nevertheless, Dumesnil’s voting district in Seine-et-Marne can be considered relatively close to Paris (Fig. 2.4). It was connected to the capital city by train from Avon, which passed through Bois-le-Roi, for instance. Both villages in Fontainebleau are located at about 59 and 51 kilometres (respectively) from Paris-Gare-de-Lyon. This enabled Dumesnil to commute easily between the Chamber and his canton of Fontainebleau, where he held so-called permanences. Those were consultation opportunities allowing citizens to walk-in and visit the député at a given address on a set day and within a certain time-frame (made public through local newspapers) to discuss their issues and requests in person.

Fig. 2.4 Part of: Ch. Rivière, Nyon, A. Reichling, Carte itinéraire de Paris à Fontainebleau (Fontainebleau: Denecourt, 1842). Public domain via BnF/Gallica: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b53087519f

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Appointments and Consultation Days As the only one out of the four selected deputies to have actually had a second address in his own voting district (his parental home in Larchant21 ), Dumesnil seems to have often held consultation days in this rural area. Either at the town hall of Fontainebleau or in Larchant, citizens came to make pleas for support for their personal cases, such as applications for jobs, allowances, and recognitions as war-veterans.22 Unsurprisingly, the latter request was most common in (but not restricted to) 1930 when Dumesnil was a Minister of the Navy, and thus when he combined his role as an intermediary between citizens and the government with being part of this government himself. Additionally, especially given his extra mandate as a general councilor, a député like Dumesnil was also an intermediary between citizens and more local administrations. Certain applications for allowances, like unemployment fees and free medical assistance, had to pass through the municipal administrations, where they could founder and thus remain without result for months or even years. In these circumstances, the deputy was not the citizens’ first aid line, but rather a last resort who was considered to be able to put pressure on the relevant powers to speed up the process. Of course, in future contacts, citizens who had already received the député’s help, later turned to him again more quickly. This was characteristic of the correspondence archives of all four of the representatives put under scrutiny. The examples of recurring applicants asking for a new favor are ample. Moreover, the applicants’ belief in the deputy often remained strong, even when his previous recommendation had failed.23 Dumesnil’s files testify the most to the regularity of face-to-face interactions and the significance attributed to them by his constituents. Attaching great importance to personal interactions himself, Dumesnil kept brief notes (scribbled down during consultations as well as telephone calls), usually as a first document in a follow-up file of the applicant. Not all of his notes have been preserved, however, but the ones that only consist of one or two sentences describing the citizen’s main question. Although they do not offer much information when isolated, in a broader context—as part of Dumesnil’s well-preserved intervention cases of the thirties—those scribbles can add to our insights into the first steps taken by unorganized citizens to make their voices heard.24 Dumesnil’s preservation of such notes is quite exceptional in comparison to the correspondence files of the other three deputies, but it is

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nonetheless safe to say that he was definitely not the only one to hold consultation days on a regular basis. Marnix Beyen has already highlighted the importance of the permanences of socialist Parisian deputies Paul Painlevé and Marcel Sembat as lieux de politisation for “ordinary” citizens.25 Additionally, my own archival research shows citizens’ appreciation of Laurent Bonnevay’s efforts to hold consultations at his address in Dardilly (in the suburbs of Lyon) and to meet his constituents during his temporary stays in Villefranche-sur-Saône, at his tours for his electoral campaigns and at local festivities. (Instead of using the word permanences, however, citizens requested audiences or réceptions.)26 Moreover, some letter-writers referred to their failed attempts at finding the deputy at his home in Lyon (48, rue Victor Hugo before the war; 6, Place Carnot since), when passing by unannounced. Failures like these show how selfevident it was for citizens to visit Bonnevay in Lyon.27 However, the deputy for Villefranche-sur-Saône seems to have preferred to organize his permanences in Dardilly, at least in the pre-war period, whereas after the war, he appears to have been in Paris (82, rue de Varenne) more often.28 In Louis Marin’s case, there is similar proof of his efforts to stay in touch with his electorate throughout his long mandate, although his physical presence in his constituency can be situated especially around election times. He then rented a room at the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Nancy, of which the files preserved by the National Archives contain examples from 1919, as well as from 1932 and 1936.29 Marin’s constituents were aware that he was in Paris most often, and knew the address. Insofar as we can tell from the limited preservation of envelops and the few mentions of the recipient’s address on top of the letters themselves, it appears that correspondents sent their messages either to his home address in Paris or to the Chamber. Moreover, it was not uncommon for citizens who happened to be in the neighborhood (because they lived in Paris or its suburbs or were visiting the city) to present themselves at his home on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. When Mrs. Crépet from Pont-à-Mousson (in his district in Meurthe-et-Moselle) and her daughter were on their way through Paris, they made a stopover at the Boulevard Saint-Michel to congratulate Marin for his “magnificent success of last Sunday” (referring to his reelection in April 1928). As they had been unable to find him there, they sent him a card in anticipation of meeting him in Pont-à-Mousson to congratulate him in person.30 In a later example, congratulating Marin for his reelection as a député in Nancy in 1936, Miss Jeanne Delage from Maison-du-Val (Meuse)

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made clear that she had hoped to see him in Paris when she was there for her Easter holidays. However, she understood why Marin was in Lorraine for the elections: above all, he had to serve the interests of the country.31 This remark shows the complexity of citizens’ expectations of political representation: while acknowledging Marin’s duty to represent the entire country, Delage linked it to his stay in Lorraine instead of Paris, where the debates on France’s interests were held. It was not uncommon for representatives to receive comments from citizens complaining that they had not been able to find “their” député in “his” department, where they expected him to be, but Louis Marin and his correspondents appear to have struggled the most with this duality between the capital and his constituency. Groussau’s disconnection from his locality, in contrast, was rather exceptional, especially in comparison to other députés of his generation on the more leftist side of the political spectrum and representing a rural district. This disconnection even manifested itself in a physical way, Groussau holding consultations in the Palais Bourbon or at his place in Versailles where he was close to the Chamber, instead of Tourcoing, where he would have been close to his voters. Ludovic Legrand, a lawyer at the bar in the city of Lille (in le Nord), originating from Tourcoing, knew already in 1906 that he needed to look for his representative outside his department. He had hoped to meet him on his way through Paris, but because this plan had failed, Legrand explained his question on the liquidation of congregations in his letter, addressed to “Député du Nord, Le Chesnay, Versailles.”32 Several clergymen and mostly women who wished to explain their difficult situation and ask him for advice in person, seem to have known that his home in Versailles and his office in the Chamber were the two possible meeting places.33 Among religious workers, who formed a significant part of Groussau’s correspondents, some were hesitant to meet him in the Chamber. Their reluctance can be explained by the notion of “two Frances,” which had become embedded into the regime of the Third Republic with its laws on the Separation of Church and State and the liquidation of teaching congregations, voted in 1901, 1904, and 1905. These laws stipulated that the Republic did not recognize and therefore did not sponsor any cult. The buildings of religious congregations became state property, put at the congregations’ disposal according to their missions, which they had to clarify in their official statutes. It was up to the State’s Council or the department’s prefect to decide upon the

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degree to which the congregants really needed the premises for charity, infirmary work, or contemplation. Education was not included in this range of duties, because of their prohibition to teach, following the law of 7 July 1904, which, in the country’s political interest, made an exception for the overseas territories.34 Thus, the notion of “two Frances” consisted of an anti-clerical republican country and a Catholic country. Already at the beginning of the Third Republic, secularist republicans predicted such an unavoidable divide within France, fearing for the nation’s unity if cleric teachers would continue to be allowed to give Catholic schooling.35 The education and laicization laws that marked the early twentieth century were meant to avert this threat, but seem to have reinforced the duality instead, in the eyes, at least, of the Catholic clergy who felt punished and expelled. The idea of different “peoples” making up “the French,” the fear for such a pluralistic France, and the search for a “true” France and Frenchness were not new, nor do they sound unfamiliar to present-day readers.36 However, it was from the late nineteenth century onwards, that the concept of multiple Frances had gained its republican sense (along the interpretational line of the clerical versus the anti-clerical) and received international attention.37 This duality not only occurred on a theoretical or perceptional level, but it was in fact real. It was institutionalized in schools and visible in the public space, where either republican or religious statues and architecture were created to literally oppose each other, for example, in the form of statues of the Virgin Mary versus the Marianne (an allegory of the Republic), or the Eiffel Tower versus the Sacré-Cœur.38 It is not clear, however, to what extent these manifestations in the public/political sphere penetrated the private lives and influenced the perceptions of “ordinary” citizens. How did citizens actually work with either one or both value systems, perhaps also in combination with others, to give meaning to the vague notion of citizenship, and to legitimize what they expected from (lay or clerical) authorities? This question is all the more pertinent given the single-member constituencies resulting from what is called the scrutin uninominal à deux tours. According to this principle, the député who won the elections in his district with an absolute majority became the one and only representative of all members of the constituency, including those who had not voted for them. (If not, a second round decided by relative majority who was elected.) Seeing this was the case, not everyone felt represented by “their own” deputy. Especially representation by a parliamentarian from the “secular France”

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might have prevented members of the “religious France” from contacting him with their problems. Indeed, as a freemason republican, Dumesnil mainly received letters from citizens from his own constituency who either adhered to his view or remained silent on their beliefs. Contrarily, different religious workers from all over France preferred to contact Groussau (who represented the “religious France”) instead of their own constituency’s député who represented the “other France.” Congratulations for the success of Louis Marin—who was a Catholic himself, though not in the sense of being a political Catholic leader—at times alluded to both frameworks. Both the Marianne39 and Sainte Jeanne d’Arc 40 show up in his passive correspondence. Through a focus on the typology of the deputy’s roles, co-constructed with his correspondents, Part II will further elaborate on such metaphors and the ways in which they contributed to the image creation of the representative. Because of the duality of the nation’s identity, the corridors of the Palais Bourbon (bastion of the secular France) seem to have intimidated some religious workers who, as symbols of the religious France, made clear that they preferred to talk in a quieter environment.41 This explains the hesitation and feeling of shame of the Fidèles Compagnes de Jésus , nuns from Paris who wanted to speak to Groussau on 7 December 1923 in the Palais Bourbon, but did not dare to proceed. The nuns had an appointment with the deputy there at four o’clock in the afternoon, to discuss the possibility of organizing what they called their œuvre d’étudiantes without breaking the law. The nuns were clearly aware of the illegal nature of their teaching activities. As they attracted attention in their religious attire, they did not feel at ease and chose to leave the crowded corridors of the Chamber before even seeing Groussau. Instead, they decided upon using the parliament’s internal pneumatic post system (elaborated on in Chapter 3) to make a new appointment, this time at the deputy’s home in Versailles. The representative went along with their proposal and suggested two possible dates for this meeting.42 To other congregants residing in Paris who wished to make an appointment with Groussau, the deputy sometimes suggested that they could meet at their institution.43 On the other side of the spectrum, Dumesnil seemed very approachable to his constituents. He offered multiple meeting opportunities in his own district. Interestingly, the records of the departmental council (Conseil Général ) of Seine-et-Marne consistently referred to Dumesnil as the député, avocat à la Cour d’appel de Paris, à Larchant.44 Citizens’

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letters, however, most frequently called him a Député de Seine-et-Marne, sometimes specifying the place where they expected to find him (in either Paris, Fontainebleau, or Larchant). Especially in 1932 (and thus after his ministerial mandates), the address that was at times mentioned on top of the letter itself indicates that Dumesnil was most often in Paris. Even the letters coming from Seine-et-Marne were sent to Paris, 25, avenue George V that year.45 For board members of official associations, it was not uncommon to meet in the Chamber if they could easily commute to Paris.46 Likewise, for more “ordinary” people who lived and/or worked in Paris and for whom the Chamber was therefore close enough, this was an option too. Evidence of personal meetings with unorganized citizens from Seine-et-Marne, however, is more prominently pointing at Fontainebleau or Larchant, especially in very individual cases. Politically non-organized citizens seemed remarkably well-aware of these possibilities. Ernest Daubigny, for example, cook and pastry chef from Saint-Mammès (in Dumesnil’s district) requested an appointment in either one of the villages, hinting at the personal content of his request. Especially in such circumstances, a face-to-face conversation was highly valued. Dumesnil’s constituents attached great importance to knowing their representative personally. Daubigny claimed to have met the député at the Fête des Reines where he had worked for his baker.47 As in Bonnevay and Marin’s cases too, people showed up at Dumesnil’s door unannounced, hoping that he would be home and able to receive them. Others asked him for his consultation options in a short letter. When he had not scheduled any permanences yet, Dumesnil advised applicants from his district who expressed their wish to talk in person, to keep an eye on the local newspapers.48 Furthermore, intermediaries who belonged to the social–political circles of the deputy and who recommended him as the go-to representative were able to give more accurate information about the deputy’s accessibility. This was particularly interesting for citizens who were new to the area. As a new resident of Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins, Seine-et-Marne), Mrs. Dautricourt wished to make an appointment with Dumesnil in June 1932 to explain her case, which she remained vague about in her letter. Until then, she had always applied for the help of André Maginot (deputy for the Meuse, more to the center-right), whom she claimed was a friend of the family, even before his mandate as a representative. Now that Maginot had died, and Dautricourt had moved to a different department, she needed a new intermediary. “Prominent people,” whom she did not specify, had advised

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her to reach out to Dumesnil. The latter agreed to meet in Fontainebleau. In Dautricourt’s situation, the deputy’s political affiliation thus did not matter as much as his accessibility and willingness to provide a service.49 The value attributed to face-to-face communications was obviously a two-way street: Dumesnil tried to meet citizens’ expectations regarding personal meetings, and these expectations were, in turn, fueled by his availability. Times when such interactions became less self-evident highlight the importance of his permanences even more. At least in the 1930s, where the bulk of Dumesnil’s sources comes from, the demand for meetings was higher than the offer. Therefore, he sometimes felt the need to suggest qu’il écrive to a citizen who wished to discuss their problem in person.50 Especially during his ministerial years (1930–1931), it was more difficult for the deputy to be in Fontainebleau on a regular basis. On 3 March 1931, Alfred Bourgoin wrote a brief letter to ask whether Dumesnil still held consultations in the town hall of Fontainebleau, because he needed some information about drainage works that were going on in Héricy (in the same district), on the pasture land that he had traded with the organization for Pupilles de la Nation. The deputyMinister’s secretary informed Bourgoin that Dumesnil would not be able to receive people in Fontainebleau for a long time. If Bourgoin could come to Paris, however, Dumesnil would receive him there in his Minister’s office at 35, rue Saint-Didier. This is remarkable, because the question had nothing to do with his function as Minister of the Air force, but with his stimulation of the improvement of local infrastructure, and more specifically with his impetus to the development of drainage syndicates.51 When Dumesnil was in London to represent France at the naval conference during the first months of his mandate as Minister of the Navy (in March–April 1930), his Ministry’s civil cabinet was open for consultation days twice a week. On 20 February 1930, Mrs. Blanc from Nemours in the arrondissement of Fontainebleau requested to arrange an urgent meeting with Dumesnil in person at his address (which she called votre hotel [sic]) in rue George V in Paris. She had probably been informed about this address by Louis Brun, vice-mayor of Nemours, who attached a visiting card with his recommendation to Blanc’s letter.52 This phenomenon was not uncommon for Dumesnil’s passive correspondence. Since the representative for Fontainebleau himself attached great importance to knowing his supplicants personally, or at least to knowing how

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deserving they were, an “ordinary” citizen’s letter of request was sometimes co-signed by a (vice-)mayor who befriended Dumesnil and who could vouch for the authenticity of the supplicant’s explanations.53 A copy of the response sent to Mrs. Blanc by Dumesnil’s private secretary, Mrs. Renée Gérard, on 21 March indicates that the Minister had found a replacement. His envoy, Maurice Fragnaud (who was also the honorary-prefect), would receive people at the town hall of Fontainebleau on his behalf, on Monday 24th from ten to twelve o’clock and every Tuesday and Thursday at the Ministry from three in the afternoon to six in the evening. Surprisingly, just like in the aforementioned case of Bourgoin, Mrs. Blanc’s question had nothing to do with the governmental mandate of Dumesnil. Blanc’s expectation that a Minister like Dumesnil or his secretary would help with her divorce case—an expectation that was met!—contributes to the construction of the role of the deputy as a lawyer or at least a legal advisor, which will be discussed more in-depth in Chapter 8.54 When Dumesnil was (back) in France but not accessible in his constituency, people from Fontainebleau could also call in the intervention of his right-hand man, Georges Sédack, premier adjoint au maire de Fontainebleau, in very personal situations that were not necessarily related to Dumesnil’s (previous) work in the government. Unsurprisingly, the monthly journal of the leftist Front populaire of Seine-et-Marne and Seine-et-Oise described Sédack in September 1934 as un radical dumesniliste.55 Sédack not only shared Dumesnil’s political ideology but also appears to have worked (unofficially) for the député as his delegate in Fontainebleau. Dumesnil’s archives contain notes that were probably written by Sédack, informing the deputy about citizens who had been looking for him, as was the case for Madame Bonnefoy from Avon in March 1934. She had explained her very individual problem (requiring personal advice) to Sédack who passed it on to the député. The information on the note said that her son Albert had been forced to help with the payment of his mother-in-law’s hospital bill, leading up to a medical debt of 305F. The man expected his brother-in-law (the son of the hospitalized woman) to contribute. The prefect, whom Dumesnil asked for clarifications, informed the deputy that Bonnefoy’s brother-in-law was exempted from contributing to the costs since he had five children. However, there were ongoing inquiries into the possibility of allowing Albert Bonnefoy postponement of payment.56

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The case of Mr. Lacassagne from Fontainebleau further testifies to Sédack’s habit of receiving citizens at the town hall of Fontainebleau, at least since 1930, which was not that strange in his capacity as a representative of the mayor, except for the fact that he did so explicitly on behalf of Dumesnil instead of the mayor. Lacassagne explained his money problems to Sédack and told him that he was searching for a job as a typographer and for a place to stay. In a letter written on 25 August 1930, Dumesnil replied that he was not aware of any vacancies in the sector. He promised to support Lacassagne once the latter had done a concrete job application.57 This seems to have been Dumesnil’s standard reply to requests for job recommendations in sectors he was not sufficiently updated on. Nevertheless, multiple constituents asked him for a job in the 1930s, without actually having a concrete vacancy in mind. Did this mean that they were hesitant to constitute the necessary documents themselves? Did they not feel literate enough to formulate such applications, the same way they did not always seem confident enough to write to the deputy without having seen him first? What were the stylistic characteristics of their letters and how did their correspondence fit into the network of the deputy’s communication channels?

Notes 1. Eugène Pierre, Traité de droit politique électoral et parlementaire, 2nd ed. (Paris: Librairies-imprimeries réunies, 1902), 947–49; the same in the 5th edition, published in 1924. 2. Nicolas Roussellier, Le Parlement de l’éloquence. La souveraineté de la délibération au lendemain de la Grande Guerre (Paris: Presses de Sciences Po, 1997); Idem, “La diffusion de l’éloquence en France sous la IIIe République,” in Éloquence politique en France et en Italie de 1870 à nos jours, ed. Fabrice D’Almeida (Rome: École française de Rome, 2001), 41–46; Jean-Marc Guislin, “Techniques rhéthoriques des parlamentaires français au début de la IIIe République,” in Idem, 24–40; Jean-Marc Guislin, “L’éloquence parlementaire aux débuts de la IIIe République,” Parlement[s], Revue d’histoire politique 3, no. 1 (2005): 39–60; Jean Garrigues, Les grands discours parlementaires de la Troisième République. De Victor Hugo à Clemenceau. 1870–1914 (Paris: Colin, 2004); Idem, “Les Débuts,” 165–79; Delphine Gardey, Le linge du Palais-Bourbon. Corps, matérialité et genre du politique à l’ère

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démocratique (Lormont: Le Bord de l’eau, 2015); Henk te Velde, “Between National Character and an International Model: Parliaments in the Nineteenth Century,” in The Ideal of Parliament in Europe Since 1800, ed. Remieg Aerts et al. (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019), 33. 3. Eugène Pierre, Traité de droit politique électoral et parlementaire, 3rd ed. (Paris: Librairies-imprimeries réunies, 1914), XI. 4. “Letter from R. Daniel from Champagne-sur-Seine (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 12-12-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 5. “Papiers personnels dont correspondance,” Archives Départementales de Meurthe-et-Moselle, Papiers Louis Marin (abbreviated to ADMM, Papiers Marin), 26J, file 490. 6. Herman Lebovics, True France. The Wars over Cultural Identity, 1900–1945 (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1994), 24. 7. For example: “Letter from J. Jacquinot from Paris to L. Marin,” 22-10-1915, ADMM, Papiers Marin, 26J , file 490; “Undated letter from E. Garrez from Paris to L. Marin,” (1917), Idem. 8. For example: “Letter from G. Evremond-Lucas from Paris (also on behalf of his wife) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, Archives Nationales, Fonds Louis Marin (abbreviated to AN, Fonds Marin), 317AP, file 236; “Letter from M. Forni from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, Idem. 9. See more examples in: “Vœux et félicitations adressés à Louis Marin. Anciennes élèves,” (1924–1936), Idem, files 234–42. 10. For example: “Letter from J. Grélois from Paris who thanked Marin for having enabled her to attend a Chamber debate, which she described as particularly interesting,” 18-05-1913, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 490; “Letters from M. Gié (mother of Lucie Gié, former student of Marin’s) from Paris, requesting (and thanking him for) two admission tickets to the Chamber debates,” 19 and 23-11-1913, Idem. 11. “Letter from Mentré(?) from Paris (but originally from Jeandelaincourt, Nancy) to L. Marin,” 24-07-1926, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 234. 12. “Letter from J. Péradon from Paris (but originally from Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 10-02-1931, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 28.

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13. “Letter written in Paris by E. Schuelsmacher from Saint-Bonnetle-Troncy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 27-03-1910, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. 14. Groussau’s passive correspondence in “II. Les Congrégations,” ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, files 35-46; “Letter from P. Créange, a couturier from Nancy, to L. Marin,” 30-11-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239; “Visiting card from P. Luc from the Chamber of Commerce in Nancy to L. Marin,” 19-05-1924, Idem; “Letter from Jean…(?), a war-veteran from Nancy, to L. Marin,” 02-05-1936, Idem, file 242. 15. For example: “Letter from A. Bollanel from Mardore par PontTrambouze (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 19-031912, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J, file 23; “Letter from F. Brou de Cuissart from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 17-05-1933 ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 26. 16. “Letter from J. Perrondon from Amplepuis (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-07-1912, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 23. 17. For example: “Letter from F. Brou de Cuissart (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 17-05-1933, and “Letter from Bonneau from Villeneuve-sur-Bellot (Provins, Seine-et-Marne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 30-05-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. 18. “Letter from M. Fisener from Roubaix (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 11-02-1925, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 108. 19. “Letter from J. Mazodier, manager of the mining company of Grand’Combe in the Gard to L. Bonnevay,” 22-06-1912, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J, file 23; “Letter from J. Perrondon from Amplepuis (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-07-1912, Idem; “Letter from A. Leynard from Épinal (Vosges) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-08-1912, Idem. 20. “Letter from M. Gichon from Paris to L. Marin,” 10-02-1934, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. Gichon thanked Marin for having sent “the newspaper” to him. He promised he would subscribe to it. (It is unclear if Marin had sent the newspaper— perhaps l’Eclair de l’Est which he controlled—at Gichon’s own request.) In addition, the man showed his gratitude for “the steps” Marin had taken to help him obtain the rehabilitation he claimed to deserve at work.

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In another example, Mrs. Barreaud thanked Marin for having sent a few editions of La Nation, in which she had allegedly been able to read “about the scandals that had contaminated, robbed, and ruined France,” cf. “Letter from Mrs. Barreaud from Mazièresen-Gâtine (Deux-Sèvres) to L. Marin,” 18-12-1930, Idem, file 235. From an undated prewar card from Madame Gemähling, teacher and colleague of Marin’s at the Rue des Fossés Saint-Jacques in Paris, we can tell that he had tried to encourage feminist feelings among his co-workers, by distributing copies of l’Action féministe among them. Gemähling thanked Marin for having sent several copies to her, suggesting he could do the same for other colleagues who would definitely be interested in them too, cf. “Undated card from Mrs. Gemähling from Paris to L. Marin,” ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 490. 21. Dumesnil’s widowed mother died in October 1920 and left him the parental home in Larchant. The deputy continued to reside in Paris (at his official home address in the avenue George V), but seems to have used his second home in Larchant for meeting his constituents, cf. “Le Monde & la Ville. Deuil,” Figaro: journal non politique (Paris, 26-10-1920): 2; Gaston Griolet and Charles Vergé, eds., Dalloz. Jurisprudence générale (Paris: Librairie Dalloz, 1926), 56. 22. That is how Dartigolles from Fontainebleau managed to receive his “war-veteran’s card” (and thus recognition, as well as its financial advantages). He had attended one of Dumesnil’s consultation days in Fontainebleau, to explain why he deserved it. Subsequently, Dumesnil requested the card for Dartigolles in a letter to the Minister of War, cf. “Notes Made During a Conversation Between Dartigolles and Dumesnil at a Consultation in Fontainebleau,” 11-08-1930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 23. An exemplary case in this respect is the one of H. Bon from Paris, who had difficulties finding a job (in 1933) and did not receive an unemployment fee either. He suspected discrimination because of his political ideas, and was hoping that Dumesnil could help him (via an intervention towards the prefect of the Seine) obtain his fee, as well as a subsidy for the medical costs for his daughter who had epilepsy. Because his demand had been successful, he continued to turn to Dumesnil with requests for support. Aspiring for a job,

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first at the Ecole Aéronautique, and later at the Parisian metro, he asked for Dumesnil’s recommendation. Given Bon’s age, his chances on the job market were low, but because Dumesnil had previously obtained successes for him, the man remained hopeful, cf. “Correspondence Between Bon from Paris to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 09-04-1933 to 19-07-1934, Idem, file 20. 24. For example, in March 1929, Dumesnil scribbled down that Fernand Billard from Bougligny (Fontainebleau) wished to be hospitalized or find his own small place to live, because he felt like a burden to his poor parents. (Was this an application for social housing?) Billard had undergone a leg amputation after an illness and was living with his parents. Dumesnil contacted the prefect, who, after having informed himself about the situation, explained to Dumesnil that Billard made a living, cf. “Dumesnil’s notes about the case of F. Billard,” 03-1929, Idem, file 20. In another example, from May 1933, Dumesnil wrote that Miss Damaille was looking for a job. Albert Loué from Fontainebleau had requested Dumesnil’s recommendation on her behalf, at a permanence where he had given the deputy his visiting card. This way, Dumesnil could contact the man with the results of his intervention. On 22 May, Dumesnil let Mr. Loué know that he had searched for a job in vain, but that he would gladly support a concrete application of Miss Damaille’s. (The file contains copies of recommendation letters from her former employers), cf. “Notes and letters from J.-L. Dumesnil for Miss Damaille, with an intervention from A. Loué from Fontainebleau,” 05-1933, Idem, file 22. 25. Beyen, “Lieux de politisation,” 167–83. 26. For example: “Letter from a man called Artignes from Amplepuis (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-11-1904, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22; “Letter from J. Dory from Chiroubles (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 06-03-1932, Idem, file 24/II. 27. For example: “Letter from a certain Andrillon from le Bois-d’Oingt (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 20-02-1906, Idem, file 22; “Undated letter from E. de Magneval from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” (1908), Idem. “Letter from Félix Buffat from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 28-09-1912, Idem, file 23. Buffat wrote that he would be very pleased to visit Bonnevay at his home in Lyon, on

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an evening around 7PM before the deputy would leave for Paris, so that he could show his respect and gratitude in person. Bonnevay arranged to meet on 1 October. Making such appointments was still possible (and expected by citizens) during the war, cf. “Letter from C. Brun from Cours (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1915, Idem, file 66. Brun wanted advice on and help with his application for an extension of his military leave. On 6 January, he had to go back to his barrack (Caserne Bissuel ), which happened to be situated on the same square as Bonnevay’s home (Place Carnot ), hence the convenience of a visit to the deputy, which the latter scheduled on 8 January. 28. For proof of his consultations in Dardilly, cf. “L. Bonnevay’s notes, added to a letter from Vernozy, a farmer from Létra (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 02-02-1904, Idem, file 22; “Letter from liquor trader F. Aujogue from Lamure-surAzergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-11-1912, Idem, file 23. Many letters from the interwar period (from the sample year 1932, for instance) are sent to his address in Paris: Idem, file 24/II. 29. “Félicitations élections législatives 1919,” AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239, containing a “letter from Jules Durand from Dommartin-sous-Amance (Nancy) to Louis Marin Député de Meurthe et Moselle hôtel d’Angleterre à Nancy,” 04-12-1919. Later examples can be found in “Papiers à classer (élections 1932),” Idem, file 169, which, in addition, contains hotel bills from 1936. 30. “Undated visiting card from Mrs. Crépet from Pont-à-Mousson (Nancy) to L. Marin, also on behalf of her daughter,” 04-1928, Idem, file 240. For a similar example, cf. “Letter from Mrs. Mignot-Maleviele from Cachan (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin, also on behalf of her husband and parents,” 23-04-1928, Idem. 31. Literally: Ces élections ont dû vous retenir en Lorraine et vous n’avez pu rester à Paris. Cela se comprend. Il vous a fallu servir avant tout les intérêts du pays, cf. “Undated letter from J. Delage from Maison-du-Val (Meuse) to L. Marin,” (probably from April 1936), Idem, file 242. 32. “Letter from L. Legrand from Tourcoing (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 05-07-1906, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 35.

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33. “Letter from Countess G. de Thieulloy from Saint-Germain-enLaye (near Paris) to H.-C. Groussau,” 24-12-1911, Idem, file 42; “Undated letter from Sœur Marie Lydie of the Petites Filles Pauvres from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” (1919), Idem, file 45; “Letter from Sœur Louise de Saint-Agnes from Saint-Pern (Bretagne) to H.-C. Groussau,” 19-06-1923, Idem. “Letter from Couges from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 28-05-1926, Idem. 34. JO Lois et décrets 36, no. 184 (08-07-1904): 4129–30; Jean Baubérot, Histoire de la laïcité française, Que sais-je? 3571 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2000), 81–92. 35. Lucien Brun, “Les prétendus droits de l’État en matière d’enseignement, confrontés avec la pratique des peuples libres et les principes du droit moderne,” Revue catholique des institutions et du droit 7, no. 8 (09-1879): 154–57; E. d’Avesne, La France chrétienne en 1870 (extrait des Deux Frances) (Paris: Jules Gervais, 1880). 36. Lebovics, True France; Krzysztof Pomian, “Francs et Gaulois,” in Les Lieux de Mémoire. La République, La Nation, Les France, ed. Pierre Nora, vol. 2, Les France: conflits et partages 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 2245–300; Gauchet, “La droite et la gauche,” 2559. 37. Paul Seippel, Les Deux Frances et leurs Origines Historiques (Lausanne and Paris: Payot & Cie. (Lausanne)/Félix Alcan (Paris), 1905). 38. Claude Langlois, “Catholiques et laïcs,” in Les Lieux de Mémoire. La République, La Nation, Les France, ed. Pierre Nora, vol. 2, Les France: conflits et partages 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 2340–41. 39. For example: “Letter from Mrs. M. Barassin from Courbevoie (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 01-04-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 236. She called the new Ministers the sauveurs de Marianne. 40. For example: “Letter from J. Hoffmann from Phlin (in Marin’s constituency in Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 02-05-1932, Idem, file 241, analyzed in greater detail in Chapter 7. 41. For example: “Letter from E. Villette from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 04-11-1903, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 38; “Letter from Sœur Agnès de Jésus, Mother Superior of the Ursulines of Pau, to H.-C. Groussau,” 08-08-1924, Idem, file 45;

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“Letter from G. Bernoville from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 04-071922, Idem, file 81. (As a journalist and founder of Les Lettres, this Catholic writer cannot exactly be seen as an “ordinary” citizen. He should be situated between the political and non-political realms instead.) 42. “Letter from N. Audrain, Mother Superior of the Fidèles Compagnes de Jésus from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 07-12-1923, Idem, file 45. 43. “Letter from Cognat, procurator of the Dames de Nazareth, written in Lyon to H.-C. Groussau,” 23-09-1923, Idem. In a postscript, Cognat explained that Madame Nicolier, Mother Superior of the Dames, would soon be in Neuilly-sur-Seine (in the suburbs of Paris), and added that she wished to meet Groussau to thank him in person. Groussau suggested he would come to their convent in Neuilly on 10 October. 44. When applicable, Ministre de la Marine, Ministre de l’Air or ancien-ministre were added to this description, cf. Rapports du préfet et de la commission départementale et procès-verbaux des délibérations (Melun: Imprimerie E. Legrand, 09-1910–05-1934). 45. (This is what the avenue de l’Alma was called after 1918.) “Letter from A. Boucher from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-091932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 12. In the letter heading, Boucher addressed himself to Monsieur J. L. Dumesnil, Député, ancien Ministre, 25 av e Georges [sic] V, Paris. 46. For example: “Letter from E. Provencher, a miller from Moretsur-Loing (Fontainebleau) representing the Association Nationale de la Meunerie Française towards J.-L. Dumesnil,” 10-09-1932, AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 769F , file 61. 47. “Letter from pastry chef E. Daubigny from Saint-Mammès (Fontainebleau) asking for an appointment either in Larchant or Fontainebleau,” 27-02-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 48. For example, “Response from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Dagneaux from Bois-le-Roi (Fontainebleau),” 01-03-1930, Idem. 49. “Letters from Mrs. Dautricourt from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 21 and 28-06-1932, Idem. 50. H. Bon from Paris hoped to meet up in the Chamber in April 1933, whereas A. Paillard from Tousson (Loiret), son of the mayor of Garentreville (Fontainebleau) wished to speak to Dumesnil in

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Larchant in July 1934, cf. “Letter from H. Bon from Paris to J.L. Dumesnil,” 09-04-1933, Idem; “Letter from A. Paillard from Tousson to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 18-07 and 03-08-1934, Idem, file 28. 51. “Letter from A. Bourgoin from Héricy (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 03-03-1931, Idem, file 20, followed by a copy of the response from Dumesnil’s secretary on 23-03-1931. 52. “Letter from Mrs. Blanc from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 20-02-1930, Idem. 53. See also: “Letter from widow C. Dabin from Saint-Mammès (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 08-02-1931, Idem, file 22. This letter was transmitted to the deputy-Minister by his friend Léon Daunay, general councilor and mayor of Nemours, who added a clarification of her situation below her signature. 54. “Correspondence between Mrs. Blanc from Nemours and J.-L. Dumesnil from London or his pirvate secretary, R. Gérard from Paris,” 21 to 27-03-1930, Idem, file 20. 55. “Chronique Départementale de S.-et-M. Les élections cantonales à Fontainebleau,” La Démocratie de Seine-et-Marne: organe mensuel d’action politique et sociale 4, no. 34 (Samoreau, 09-1934): 3. 56. “Note (probably) written by G. Sédack, the first representative of the mayor’s office of Fontainebleau, on the case of A. Bonnefoy,” 03-1934, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. 57. “Note (probably) written by G. Sédack on the case of Mr. Lacassagne from Fontainebleau,” 08-1930, Idem, file 26.

CHAPTER 3

Written Communications and Their Material Characteristics

Aside from offering evidence of citizens’ wishes and attempts to talk to “their” parliamentary representative in person, the previous chapter also testified to the deputies’ efforts to make these face-to-face conversations possible. Their private archives reflect at large what happened when such attempts failed, or when a personal conversation needed a follow-up in writing. Therefore, this chapter analyzes the material characteristics of the many letters of request, thanks or congratulation, received and kept by the four selected deputies. In addition, these letters will be situated within the deputies’ networks of mediation between request and solution. Indeed, a député was usually not the final recipient of an application but rather a go-between. In such networks, the services of the Palais Bourbon played a particular role in enabling citizens’ requests to reach the right person or institution.

Pneumatic Cards and Petitions to the Chamber The parliamentary services offered logistic support to facilitate access to the deputies. To the subterranean pneumatic tube system in Paris, which had been put into use since 1866, an extra link was added in 1890 between the Palais Bourbon and the printing service of the Journal Officiel, which included (and still includes) the verbatim proceedings of the debates. The pneumatic post system offered a quick way to send © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_3

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stenographic notes of the Chamber debates to the printing service.1 In addition, the pneumatic tubes of parliament were put at the disposal of “ordinary” citizens too. This system enabled them to make a short notice appointment, by means of a pre-printed note on which they had to write the deputy’s name, as well as the chosen date and time for the appointment. A blank space allowed the visitor to briefly motivate his or her request. The pre-printed formulation (pour lui demander …) had to encourage them to write down a specific question. However, the applicants’ phrasings usually remained very vague. As it was not a strictly personal document, most of the time, visitors only expressed their wish to ask for advice or to provide information. Thereupon, the note was sent to the debating room of the Palais Bourbon, where doorkeepers (huissiers ) guaranteed order and safety in the Chamber but also acted as messengers, who received the citizens’ filled-in application notes.2 If the deputy whose name featured on top of the card was present in the debating room, the doorkeeper could give him the document. Otherwise, it would be returned to the applicant, who had to leave his home address on the note (Figs. 3.1 and 3.2). Groussau seems to have been the only député out of the four to have kept traces of this type of communication, but he was surely not the only one to have received them. Aside from these appointment notes, the French parliament also offered the opportunity to petition to the Chamber and Senate. The “right to petition” was, however, not included in the Third Republic’s constitution of 1875; hence, it was not forbidden either. Petitioning to parliament was still considered a “natural law” that applied to everyone (which it already did during the Revolution). It gave all victims of abuse of power the opportunity to report this. Civil or political rights were not required for an individual to claim the right to petition. Signatures of women and minors on petitions in their personal as well as more general interests were of equal value as men’s. Furthermore, letters from prisoners, exiles, and non-French people living in France or abroad could not be dismissed on grounds of their roots or place of living. The acceptability of the requests coming from the latter group, however, depended on the topic. The issue needed to be “of serious and justifiable interest” in the light of French legislation or international rights. The “right to petition” was organized by the law of 22 July 1879 within the framework of parliament’s internal rules and regulations, stipulating that handwritten or printed petitions of which the signature(s) was/were certified could be sent, without a stamp, to the Chamber, or

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Fig. 3.1 Pneumatic card from E. Callot from Paris, requesting an appointment with H.-C. Groussau “to make an announcement,” 12-03-1925, Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45; (public domain)

more specifically to the Bureau of the Speaker’s General Secretary. The petitioner’s mayor could confirm the signature’s authenticity, after having witnessed the signing himself or by counting on two trustworthy eyewitnesses of the voluntary signing. In theory, each signature on the petition thus had to be verified and certified in order to be counted in. It was at the mayor’s own discretion to validate signatures in globo without prior verification, which probably did indeed happen in practice. Furthermore, petitioners could ask a member of either one of the Assemblies to deliver their petition to the General Secretariat. If a parliamentarian submitted the document with his signature in the margin, it was automatically considered certified. Despite article 6 of the law of 22 July 1879 stipulating that the practice of petitioning could only be carried out in writing, a loose interpretation allowed citizens to submit their petitions in person regardless. They would

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Fig. 3.2 Pneumatic card from P. Voreux from Godewaersvelde, requesting an appointment with H.-C. Groussau, “to ask him for information,” 07-03-1929, Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45; (public domain)

be guided toward the General Secretariat where the letters were registered, as long as the group of people presenting themselves was not larger than five or six. This limitation can be explained by the fear of an angry mob. Any petitioning action that could possibly lead to an uprising was forbidden. In the same vein, hawking for signatures in public spaces was prohibited as well. Petitions containing more than one certified signature were admissible, but those claiming to speak on behalf of a “collectivity” of people who had not all individually signed the letter were not acceptable. Likewise, it was forbidden for authorities, such as courts and general and municipal councils, to petition to the Chamber. However, individual members of these authorities could rightfully do so in their own name. If the petition met the requirements, it was registered, tagged with a serial number, and sent to the Committee of Petitions, which changed

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composition every month. Its members investigated the case themselves or they sent it to the appropriate specific parliamentary committee to do so. If such a committee was already investigating the issue at stake, the Speaker could decide to send the petition directly to it. Whether the committees chose to present the issue to the assembly or send it to the relevant Minister without consulting the Chamber first, the Members of Parliament could always ask the committee’s chair for information. In addition, parliamentarians were allowed to demand clarifications of the reports’ results in a plenary session.3 Although the petitions were usually not read out loud in their entirety during the plenary debates, their results were always public. A summary of the path that such petitions followed (from the committee’s decision to send it to the Minister of X) and the Minister’s response were published in the Annexe au Feuilleton. This Feuilleton was distributed weekly in the Chamber and monthly in the Senate. About one or two months later, the same information appeared in the proceedings and hence became more public. These documents show that petitions to the Chamber could vary from a personal request for financial relief (a so-called secours ) to a demand for justice, which, when studied more closely, often came down to a personal request too, for example, for dropping a lawsuit or granting a pension. Aside from petitions from organizations (and thus along the same lines as the députés’ passive correspondence), we can find proof of very individual single-authored “petitions” from women requesting a revision of their widow pension, asking for poor relief, or expecting a raise of their military allowance, which replaced the drafted breadwinner’s wages.4 The right to petition to parliament has been addressed in studies of nineteenth-century French cultural history (of epistolary traditions in particular5 ) and in French legal studies. This latter category, however, mainly focuses on the Revolutionary period and on the palmy days of the practice during the subsequent constitutional monarchies: the Bourbon Restoration (1814–1830) and the July Monarchy (1830–1848). As Perrine Preuvot and Marie de Cazals explain, petitioning to the legislative was initially used as a “democratic instrument,” as a corrective to the limited representative system. Therefore, it was especially useful for politically “inactive” citizens, who could use it as a tool to make themselves heard, hence why the practice lost its appeal under the republican regimes. Those regimes increased the number of “active” citizens by creating other opportunities to defend their rights (through universal suffrage for men since 1848 and for men and women since 1944) and their private interests

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(through letter-writing to an individual deputy). Such personal exchanges had gained popularity since députés became more closely connected to the people they represented.6 Indeed, even though petitioning to the Chamber would seem a logical path to take, because the applicants or supplicants could then be sure that their request reached the right authority, many letter-writers from the Third Republic appear to have preferred a more individual approach, through an intervention of one specific député whom they knew and trusted. An important factor at play here, was the personal nature of the voting system with its single-member constituencies, making Dumesnil, for instance, the representative of Fontainbleau. Other possible explanations for the popularity of private letters was people’s skepticism about their political leaders (in the light of the scandals of the thirties) and their doubts about the capability and willingness of other deputies to actually do something, which will be addressed more in-depth in the next part, scrutinizing the representatives’ multifaceted role. Moreover, a député could instantly determine whether it would be advisable to address the issue behind the scenes (in his private correspondence to the relevant Minister, for example) or if it was necessary to deal with the issue more publicly (under the guise of a parliamentary question to a Minister or by sending the request over to the appropriate committee). In addition, a député was expected to be capable of exerting his influence on the local level too and offer a quick solution there. In sum, the official way of petitioning to the Chamber was not suitable in every situation. At first glance, it appears to have been proportionally often used by inhabitants of the Algerian departments (settlers and natives). This would corroborate the reasoning that citizens with close connections to a deputy preferred to send their requests to him, instead of addressing the Chamber as a whole. It is, however, not unlikely that the result is somewhat distorted by the specific interwar samples picked as a reference.7 A clearer view of the typology of the petitions, their reflection in the Annexes au Feuilleton, and the profile of the people who sent them to the Chamber requires a more thorough analysis of the practice in the socalled “period of decline” of petitioning. It would go beyond the scope of this book, but as a future line of inquiry, such research can add a comparative perspective to the more private interactions between citizens and political authorities discussed here.

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Epistolary Etiquette in Letters of Request, Thanks, or Congratulations At the roots of Third Republican epistolary practices lay the law of March 1882 on compulsory primary education (from the age of six to eleven), which considered civic instruction and literacy as important for girls as for boys. A school law voted earlier, in June 1881, had made their education already free of charge.8 Homeschooling was possible, but school attendance was highly recommended. The child’s father or tutor could choose freely between a public or private school, but had to inform the mayor in time of the institution of choice. Charged with a supervising role, the mayor was a central point of contact regarding the execution of these regulations on a local level. Children who were homeschooled needed to partake in the exams at the end of each grade (starting from their second year) at the local public school. The program and form of examination were determined by ministerial decree. If a homeschooled pupil failed the exam without proof of mitigating circumstances, they had to be enrolled in a public or private school within a week after the results. Children who had not obtained their certificate by the age of eleven were compelled to continue primary education, either until they succeeded or until their fourteenth birthday. The first article of the new law established the mandatory focal points of primary education, among which “moral and civic education; reading and writing; language and elements of French literature” were the first three, and thus possibly considered as the most important. In addition, “some notions of justice and political economy” were to be taught to boys as well as girls. The only difference between both sexes embedded in this law, consisted of compulsory military exercise for boys, whereas girls had to learn needlework.9 Consequently, probably almost all men and women in France were literate to a certain degree for the period central to this book (c.1900–1930s).10 For other age categories as well as for more diverse social situations, there were manuals on decent republican attitude regarding speaking, writing, and behaving in the private and public spheres. The French book and education culture of the nineteenth century, especially from the 1840s until the 1880s, was characterized by a proliferation of so-called handbooks for politeness and savoir-vivre, often focusing on savoir-écrire. They shed light on the dos and don’ts of letter-writing in all sorts of situations, from children’s New Year’s wishes to adults’ intimate correspondence (love letters) and more official communication (commercial

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correspondence and petitions to all kinds of authorities).11 Although the diffusion of these traditional manuals already diminished at the end of the nineteenth century, school books addressing the matter still knew two boosts during the school wars (of primary education, in 1882–1883 and 1908–1910), following the laicization of public education (1882) and the so-called law on the Separation of Church and State (1905).12 French citizens from the interbellum were probably those who had grown up with the handbooks for civic instruction and epistolary style of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Nonetheless, the question remains whether they actually consulted these manuals in the process of writing their letters to députés. Cultural historians Martha Hanna and Cécile Dauphin, both specialized in family correspondence in modern France, have already pointed out the tension between practice and theory when it comes to epistolary tradition. It is clear that Frenchmen and women from the Second Republic (1848–1852), the Second Empire (1852–1870), and the Third Republic (1870–1940) grew up with a large variety of so-called Secrétaires or handbooks on epistolary style for informal and formal correspondence. However, it remains uncertain to what extent these books were really used in interactions with family, work connections or authorities. Too expensive for poor farmers and the working class, but redundant for the social elite, they would have been most interesting for the petite bourgeoisie, Dauphin remarks. The many versions and editions—Dauphin counts 616 editions of 195 different titles between 1830 and 1899, with a peak in the 1850s and 1860s—at least reveal an ample diffusion of the books.13 Whereas the manuals written for school children most likely did have an influence on their writing skills and style later on in their lives, we still cannot be sure that other handbooks were more than a symbolical must-have for the middle-class. Nevertheless, Roger Chartier does believe in the practical nature of the early nineteenth-century Secrétaires. They offered (or at least tried to offer) useful and diverse model letters, in which they promoted simple phrasings that could be drawn from everyday spoken language, as if the addressee was physically there.14 Later “handbooks of politeness” testified to the continued belief that correspondence should indeed seem effortless, and should flow like a good conversation.15 In fact, it was a conversation, yet, between two people who were absent.16 The Manuel de politesse of 1908 considered clarity, ease, and elegance to be the three main characteristics of good correspondence. This relatively “new”

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trend mocked and broke the habit of the high-end “beautiful” language suggested in similar books published during the Ancien Régime. Whereas handbooks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries completely missed their goal, the nineteenth- and twentieth-century ones seem to have successfully aimed at children and adolescents on the one hand, and adults who lacked the education to familiarize themselves with the recommended epistolary style elements on the other.17 In addition, as these handbooks focused only on letters from individuals, they were especially meant for “ordinary” people who appear to have lacked any kind of organized public support system and who could therefore not join in collective petitioning.18 It is probably safe to say that the letter-writers appearing in my research would have indeed been familiar with at least the general trends, some established expressions and the more or less standardized forms of address and close. The consensus on such general dos and don’ts makes it difficult to determine the correspondence’s intertextuality with very specific handbooks of the time, especially since most letter-writers probably combined what they had learned in school with what they might have picked up later on in life. Moreover, even though model letters seem to have been quite accessible, petitioners were of course not mere slaves to them. In her study of French family correspondence during the First World War, Martha Hanna comes to the conclusion that, in their intimate letters, men at the front and women at home creatively worked with the epistolary traditions and expectations, while trying to steer clear from wartime censorship. The French term bricolage, which she uses to describe this process, appropriately implies the letter-writers’ agency.19 The Secrétaires themselves indicated how difficult it was to standardize phrasings, and discouraged their readers to copy large parts of the model letters, given the great variety of possible situations to write about.20 For the beginning and close of a letter, the manuals presented some formally standardized options to choose from, but everything in between could only be guided by a few vague principles that were quite generally applicable and at the same time multi-interpretative: Keep it simple and concise. Do not use “fantasy ink” or colored paper. Be respectful, but avoid bowing and scraping. Just be yourself. Make sure to put your heart in it, rather than your sophistication.

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Get to know your addressee well enough, so that you know what to convince him with. However, do not make promises you cannot keep. Instead, focus on the addressee’s praiseworthy capacities. You could commend his well-known benevolence and the ease with which he will be able to grant the favor. In addition, it is generally advisable to express how grateful you and your family will be and shall remain.21

Most letter-writers appear to have been aware of such general suggestions on which the contemporary handbooks on savoir-écrire agreed; their letters were mostly in line with these prescriptions. It is nonetheless difficult to evaluate whether the correspondents did indeed let their hearts speak instead of their minds, as recommended. Likewise, it is hard to draw the line between showing sincere gratitude and being too servile. To a present-day reader, the endings of the studied letters may appear too subservient in the way they stressed the letter-writer’s relation of debt toward the deputy. Promises of servitude, obedience, and devotion were very common, much more than explicit promises to vote, and the last three guidelines of the compilation above were very frequently adopted. Despite the gift-giving principle being less obvious in these vague promises, they too stressed how indebted the supplicant was to his/her “benefactor” or “protector,” especially in expressions of “endless gratitude.” The manuals’ instructions show that these expressions do not necessarily indicate true clientelism or a stubborn persistence of ancient patron– client relations, but that they were rather customary, even to the extent of becoming over-used and thus hollow. The handbooks’ suggested phrasings were indeed prone to fashion trends, which becomes even clearer when we take a closer look at the Secrétaire pratique from 1884. It suggested that the titles of the addressee (“Monsieur le …”) were not only to be mentioned at the beginning but also had to be repeated throughout the text. However, this was “not to be abused as one used to do in the days of Louis Philippe” (King of France between 1830 and 1848). The Republican style had to be more simple and easy to read and thus had to do away with too many formal embellishments.22 In addition, the Secrétaire denounced what for a long time was supposed to have been the most popular close of a petition, with which

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the writer identified himself as the addressee’s très humble et très obéissant serviteur. Variations of this wording were nevertheless still frequently used by the letter-writers from my case studies. “Your very humble and obedient servant” could be used almost invariably to any authority, but because of routine use over centuries, it appeared to have become meaningless, and at the same time degrading to the writer’s dignity. A possible alternative (Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, l’assurance de ma haute considération / de ma considération distinguée) was only considered suitable for letters to inferiors or equals, because a superior did not need to know if his subordinate really valued him. An expression of obedience had to be included instead when an employee wrote to his boss. However, to better safeguard the writer’s dignity, expressing profound respect was more generally recommended, as in: Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, l’hommage de mon plus profond respect. / Daignez agréer, Monsieur, l’hommage de mon respectueux / entier dévouement. As stated by the Secrétaire pratique, obedience was certainly not needed in petitions, as these were not a type of correspondence between a subordinate and a higher-up (as in an employee-employer relation). If the writer owed something to the addressee, though, he was supposed to add his respectueuse / affectueuse reconnaissance (i.e., his respectful or cordial recognition, depending on the closeness of their relation). The latter phrasing was indeed very common in letters from citizens to deputies. Sentences containing references to Votre tout dévoué, mon respectueux attachement, or mes salutations empressées / respectueuses were seen as more familiar, according to the handbook. Even more intimate was the expression to shake the addressee’s hand (Je vous serre la main). J’ai l’honneur de vous saluer or the plain Je vous salue too were to be avoided in formal requests, because they could offend the recipient.23 Benoît Agnès remarks that the Manuel du pétitionnaire of 1814 as well as other handbooks of the time made a clear break with the revolutionary past and its newer style by suggesting the letter-writers shake off their “humility” and instead take their relation to the addressee into account.24 We see that many twentieth-century letter-writers did indeed avoid the plain salute or handshake, whereas sincères salutations / salutations distinguées or expressions of respect and devotion were quite common, especially in letters of thanks for the deputy’s interventions. Many citizens chose to throw in references to their profound respect for the deputy or even devotion to him. However, these phrasings were not rarely combined with the mention of their subservient position as

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the député’s “servant” and/or one of the more familiar expressions mentioned above, identifying themselves as the deputy’s dévoué(e) or otherwise stressing their attachment to him. Most letter-writers seem to have known the expressions that had general currency, but combined different wordings to justify their expectations of the deputy, probably because the latter’s relation to the citizen was not one hundred percent clear. As advised by the handbooks, addressing a protector allowed for a rather direct approach, tapping into the writer’s emotions (as became clear from Manillier’s model letter with New Year’s wishes to a protector) but a letter to a Minister required more distance and formal wordings.25 It seems that the député should be identified as somewhere in between, or as a combination of both. Therefore, even though a mere expression of respect and gratitude would have been in place in petitions to a parliamentary representative, many letter-writers also stressed their devotion, just to be sure to get their relation and identification right, and thus to maximize their chances of success. Those who used the least formal phrasings in their letters to a deputy did not seem very familiar with the epistolary etiquette, which correlates with their bad spelling and, at times, grammatical errors. Such clumsy letters are most typical of Dumesnil’s case. The majority of his correspondents belonged to a completely different social layer than the majority of Groussau’s letter-writers. Whereas the latter group consisted mainly of Catholic clerics and people with a degree in law, Dumesnil’s correspondents usually belonged to his rural constituency consisting of farmers, traders, and laborers. Poor factory worker Louis Boilot, for instance, implicitly requested some financial support in the first letter he addressed to Monsieur Dumesnil in September 1933, which he signed off with a familiar Je vous Salue Bien. The different forms of address and close of his next letter, written in response to Dumesnil’s reply, suggest that he had learned from his former writing experience. Although still filled with spelling errors, Boilot’s second letter was already more formal. He addressed the deputy as Monsieur le Ministre (although Dumesnil was no longer a Minister) and signed off with the less familiar (yet incorrectly spelled) Mes Salutations Distinguee [sic].26 Similarly, Odile Bonté from Amponville (also in the Fontainebleau district) was neither very familiar with the rules for correct spelling either nor with the epistolary etiquette, which was probably the reason why, in his letters written on 28 December 1932 and 6 January 1933, he requested a face-to-face conversation to

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explain his delicate situation and ask for advice in person. The aforementioned phrasing qu’il écrive, which Dumesnil scribbled in pencil on top of the letter, and Bonté’s reference to the secretary’s response, show that the député could not make such an appointment. Following this negative response, Bonté tried to rephrase his request in a second letter. Whereas he had signed off the first one as un de vos jeunes électeurs, who gave Dumesnil une cordiale poignée de mains, he sent more formal regards in his new letter, with the following phrasing: Recevez monsieur mes salutations distinguées. The message itself, however, for which the rules were less precise, did not match up, because it clearly showed how annoyed Bonté was with the whole situation.27 Letter-writers who used such informal phrasings might have genuinely believed that they had a closer relation to the deputy, since the latter had personally invested his time and efforts in helping them out of their miserable situation. Perhaps they had already seen him in person, without therefore necessarily being friends in real life. Along the same lines, a combination of the letter-writers’ limited epistolary knowledge with the very personal and financial nature of the favor they asked, may explain why some of Bonnevay’s correspondents too closed their letters in quite a familiar way. For example, Claude Rivoir from Saint-Pierre-la-Palud (which then belonged to the arrondissement of Lyon) wrote to Bonnevay (Mon cher député) in January 1920 to show his gratitude for the deputy’s intervention, thanks to which he received a subsidy for large families. After having formulated his best wishes for the New Year, Rivoir ended his letter with the informal Je vous salue.28 Similarly, Claudius Rivier from Létra (in Bonnevay’s district of Villefranche-sur-Saône) wrote a brief and rather clumsy letter, which he ended in the same way, to thank Bonnevay in June 1920 for his intervention. It seems that the deputy had helped Rivier obtain his demobilization fee in full.29 Closing a letter with a handshake usually expressed the correspondent’s wish to meet the député and actually shake his hand. In Bonnevay’s archives, a promise of a handshake appeared in letters from militants and protégés who had all benefited from the deputy’s help to obtain a recognition or financial support.30 In November 1904, Mister Artignes from Amplepuis (in Bonnevay’s constituency) stressed his gratitude and devotion toward the député for what he called “the service” the representative had rendered; something he would allegedly never forget. Thanks to the deputy, Artignes’ son was posted to a different military unit (probably to fulfill his military service closer to home). The man felt greatly indebted to

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Bonnevay because of this. In his view, words did not suffice to show how devoted he was to the deputy. Therefore, Artigny wished to meet him in person. To explain why he had not “settled his debt” yet, the letter-writer mentioned that he had always believed that he would meet Bonnevay at one of his talks. Because this never happened, he was now hoping for une audience privée pour vous indemniser. In other words, the député’s service had created a debt Artigny felt he could only settle through a private conversation, during which he might have wanted to give a present in return. By referring to the deputy’s speeches, the letter-writer made it very clear that he was a supporter of his, which contains a promise in itself (viz., of a vote).31 Although it is unknown whether and how the député responded to this, it is obvious that Bonnevay was very approachable, even more so since he explicitly refused any concrete reward for his services (such as money), which he thought savored strongly of bribery. The only thing he would suggest doing as a compensation was shaking hands.32 Consequently, the deputy’s response and accessibility may have blurred the boundaries (at least in the eyes of his correspondents) between the representative and those whom he represented, hence opening the door himself to more informal ways to address him. The aspiration to shake Marin’s hand was usually linked to the letter-writer’s wish to congratulate him in person for his reelection or nomination in the government.33 Whereas Marin’s correspondence files are centered on his elections and nominations, the majority of letters preserved in Bonnevay’s archives are letters of thanks for his interventions, which explains the different reason for their authors’ handshake. Another explanation can be found in the appearances Marin made in his constituency, at the balcony of a hotel, waving to the people, and shaking hands with the crowd that awaited him. In comparison to Bonnevay’s handshake as an approachable protector’s deed, Marin’s handshake seemed related rather to his virtual star-status in the 1930s (cf. Chapter 7).34 The least formal letter headings (from Monsieur X without his title, to Cher Monsieur le Député and even Mon cher Député) are more common in Dumesnil’s archives than in the other deputies’ files. His correspondents were, moreover, often more direct in the expression of their wishes and promises than the letter-writers appearing in the other deputies’ archives. In his letter written on 15 December 1931, Pierre Dauteloup got straight to the point. As a resident of Nemours (Fontainebleau, Seine-et-Marne), he addressed “his” deputy to ask whether he could receive an invalidity

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card for a reduced train fare. (Résident à Nemours, je viens m’adresser à mon Député pour savoir si l’on peut m’accorder ce que je demande.)35 This particular style does not necessarily mean that Dumesnil’s “ordinary” correspondents were unfamiliar with the more formal and customary Monsieur le Député or (when applicable) Monsieur le Ministre and other rules of epistolary etiquette. Dauteloup combined the formal Monsieur le Ministre with the more familiar Cher Député. Such a choice can be best explained by Dumesnil’s strong local ties, which must have created a feeling of solidarity with people from his constituency.36 The handbooks’ model letters could not easily be recycled because of the specificity of the letter-writers’ question and situation. Examples in these manuals range from demands for war-veterans’ pensions to the request to be allowed to communicate with a certain prisoner. Most model letters directly addressed the president or the right Minister (thus the end stage of a request), without a deputy intervening. However, the Secrétaire pour tous (of an unknown date, but probably from the late nineteenth or very early twentieth century) stated that a petition’s chances improved when being postulated by an influential person.37 Indeed, the letters written to députés testify to this important intermediary role of the parliamentary representatives. Nonetheless, handbooks on epistolary style were much less straightforward when it comes to offering advice on how to address different types of intermediaries than on how to address the president, for example. In presenting themselves toward parliamentary representatives, the letter-writers thus had to be creative. They needed to reflect upon their relation to the deputy and the justifications they could formulate accordingly.

Channels of Communication and Networks of Mediation If we would focus on the massive amount of individual requests alone, a patronage-like relation seems evident at first sight. However, the negotiated reality behind the numbers can only be revealed through a thorough analysis of the actual content of the correspondence. Quantification would not only be undesirable because it can skew the results. It is also very difficult for two main reasons: one is linked to the nature of correspondence networks, and the other to the preservation of the sources. First, it was not uncommon for supplicants to try to get their message across through different channels. For instance, some addressed a certain

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problem themselves while already having seized an intermediary by the arm who was acquainted with the député, and whose recommendation could thus enlarge their chance to be heard.38 Indeed, citizens’ demands were often works-in-progress, in a final attempt to find a sounding board for their griefs. There are also cases of applicants who used an intermediary to formulate the request but thanked the deputy themselves afterward for his services, which shows their belief in the impact of their own words.39 Counting on the help of an intermediary for a request to a député was not exclusive to female letter-writers. At times, women even acted as intermediaries for a male supplicant, in particular when the latter was prevented by illness or (war-)duties.40 Some female mediators had a higher degree of eloquence and/or had already established contact with the député, unlike the citizen on whose behalf they intervened.41 Rather than as a matter of gender, the use of go-betweens can best be explained by the type of contacts maintained by the representatives. Dumesnil, for example, had strong local ties. It was not exceptional for him or his constituents to count on the knowledge of local politicians Georges Sédack (Fontainebleau) and Léon Daunay (Nemours).42 An intervention of a go-between was usually meant to give the request more legitimacy, which is why anonymous material letter-writers only constituted a small minority. The second reason why a quantitative comparison is difficult and even undesirable is that every deputy had a different way of organizing his incoming correspondence, which had probably gone through another selection procedure carried out by his descendants and the archivists. Marin’s political archives, re-organized and deposited by his wife in the National Archives, are centered on his successes and congratulations from citizens, presented along the lines of the social or societal group to which they belonged. Groussau’s archives, in contrast, revolve around great political issues of the time, and especially the ones to which he had attributed much of his attention in his parliamentary activities. The titles structuring his correspondence suggest a large focus on personal interventions in the fields of religion (linked to the Separation of Church and State). Whereas Groussau’s letters are thus collected in thematic files, along with other documents relevant to the theme, most of Dumesnil’s are presented alphabetically (within short periods of one or a few years) for the early 1930s, which is where the bulk of his correspondence dates from. (This was the archivist’s decision.) Whereas the amount of letters in Marin’s and Groussau’s archives are manageable enough to be studied as

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a whole, Dumesnil’s files from 1930 to 1934 are so abundant and contain so much of the same—many kilos of correspondence in large moving boxes for each letter of the alphabet—that samples are needed. Therefore, among the interventions pour des particuliers par ordre alphabétique, boîtes 16–32, the boxes 20, 22, 24, and 26 (containing supplicants’ surnames starting with B, D, L, and P) are analyzed. From the letters of request for war medals, the ample files of interventions pour des demandes de Légion d’honneur: Guerre (file 11) and the interventions pour des demandes de médaille militaire (file 13) are selected. The letters of thanks that were kept separately in file 12 are also put under scrutiny, as they can be more easily compared to Bonnevay’s passive correspondence. The letters Bonnevay received during his political career are preserved in a chronological way within three main types of correspondence files: letters of thanks from private individuals, letters of congratulations for his (re)elections, and First World War correspondence. The two other types of correspondence files consist of Bonnevay’s selection of letters that, according to him, characterized the “ways” of French Third Republican politics and society. These were collected more or less chronologically (in: Pour l’histoire, l’opinion et les mœurs sous la Troisième République) or more alphabetically (in: autographes de notables, d’artistes, de magistrats, etc.…).43 After his long political career during a large part of the Third Republic, and after having outlived this regime, Bonnevay thus decided to create a folder (file 31) compiling the letters he considered to have been telling of the manners of the time. Interestingly, he centered his selection on his job as a député, and not necessarily on his duties as a Minister, Senator, or general councilor. Moreover, the letters he chose came from a variety of villages that made up his constituency, especially for the year 1902, to show what the local response from below was to his first legislative election. For that year alone, he selected nine relevant letters, whereas for the period from 1910 until 1914 he only picked ten letters. Seven relevant communications are featured in his 1914–1919 file, and the shorter period thereafter contains eight cases. The 1930s seem to have been of interest as well, with a selection of ten letters, which is, of course, still not much to base conclusions on about the entire Third Republic. Nonetheless, his attempt to capture the citizens’ perceptions of certain policies and the effects these had on their own personal lives shows some important precursory steps as well as pitfalls in writing history from below. In this particular file, he mainly collected letters from citizens who informed him of malfunctioning policies and the reality in the field,

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such as the complaint in February 1913 from J. Josserand, artisan and insurer from Les Olmes (Villefranche-sur-Saône), about primary education and its lazy teachers in “their” countryside. Bonnevay labeled this complaint as Les Idées et les Faits, which indicates that he agreed with the man’s accusations. He seemed thankful for the update on what education in the countryside was really like in practice. Furthermore, the file contains some highly clientelist writings (such as a letter from a woman whom he referred to as La Plaideuse Récalcitrante and Une Lyonnaise, plaideuse notoire) or inculpatory ones, some of which he considered peculiar (curieuse missive / curieuse lettre). Instead of all being model letters, demonstrative of the history of the morals, and manners of the Third Republic, as Bonnevay called them, most of these communications were examples of sometimes exceptional complaints about very specific policies that affected the letter-writers personally. Via his compilation of these particular examples, Bonnevay tried to show his political integrity, because his responses to criticism and bribery proved that he stuck to his convictions.44 Despite the fact that his incoming correspondence has already undergone such a subjective selection procedure, the rest of Bonnevay’s sources seem to have been collected most systematically over a long period of time, from the beginning until the end of his career. Although his pre-war and post-war correspondence files with “thanks from individuals” (remerciements de particuliers ) lack the letters with the supplicants’ original requests, the topics are often deducible from their expressions of gratitude. Moreover, not rarely, such letters of thanks or congratulations contained a new request, or a more implicit expectation of future support. Surprisingly, Bonnevay’s First World War correspondence is more complete. However, its chronological presentation makes it difficult to trace and count all original letters of request when finding notes of thanks. The number of letters from his archives evolved from no more than forty-five relevant ones in his first year as a parliamentary representative (1902), to a little under one hundred after some active years (1906), dropping again until the war. His wartime correspondence grew up to an average of three hundred letters a month at its peak, which is when Bonnevay started counting them himself to keep track. Moreover, the importance of female engagement grew from a small minority to a significant minority that could not be ignored. Wives and mothers of mobilized men were now the ones to take care of the red tape to get the support

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they and their family needed. After the war, the correspondence flow remained quite high, except during his years as a Senator, which are not included in the analysis. After that interlude, it took a while for the number of letters to increase again in 1931, followed by a boost only as late as 1932. Aside from preservation problems, these fluctuations can be explained by moments of crisis, triggering the citizens’ need for advice and help from someone who was supposed to represent them, hence the peaks during the war and the economic crisis of the thirties. In order to be able to manage this large amount (of thousands) of letters, samples are needed that are in accordance with the chronological presentation of the sources. For Bonnevay’s files, it is not relevant to treat them the same as Dumesnil’s by singling out parts of the alphabet. Instead, it is more useful to study the lettres de remerciements for the even years. This almost completely excludes his only ministerial period, as he was Minister of Justice from January 1921 until January 1922. From his war correspondence, all the letters from the first months (August– December 1914) are studied, whereas for the years 1915 to 1918, the month of January is selected. To allow for additional comparisons, the requests Bonnevay received in the last month of the war are also part of the analysis. The aforementioned differences, not only between the four deputies but also within the same archive, render an attempt to provide statistical results on the interactions between citizens and députés near irrelevant. A quantitative approach could easily obscure the subtleties in the letterwriters’ language (such as silences, implicit references, and metaphors) that make letters particularly interesting sources for research into expectations, perceptions, and negotiations. Furthermore, even without graphs and tables, it is still possible to trace out the tendencies that appeared in their interactions. To gain more insights in the interactive component of these written exchanges, it is important to scrutinize the summary of the responses that deputies often scribbled next to the heading of the letters they received. These are less legible in Marin’s cases than in Bonnevay’s. Dumesnil’s (or his secretary’s) reactions are even more complete for the correspondence files of 1930–1934, containing the full draft responses attached to the letters of requests. Groussau, in contrast, frequently only marked his incoming letters with an “R,” indicating that he had replied to them, without summarizing his response. To compensate for these shortcomings, the deputies’ actual interventions in parliament will be traced when

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possible, in the digitized and searchable Journal Officiel des Débats (the Chamber’s proceedings). In addition, the Journal Officiel des Lois et décrets is consulted in the search for specific laws or decrees. Within the selection of the extensive archives of these four core-cases, another selection has to be made, which distinguishes the letters written by individual “ordinary” citizens from other correspondence. Individual citizens’ letters can be found alongside circular letters of more politically and officially organized associations (generally recognizable by the mention of their administration, consisting of a director, a secretary, and a treasurer) in the private archives of the selected députés. Even though these circular letters are not the main sources, it can be fruitful to compare how both types of correspondents formulated their requests. By their political mandate, mayors, prefects, and general or municipal councilors do of course not count as “ordinary” citizens. Therefore, their letters are not part of what I consider to be my main source material. Political journalists are excluded from my investigation as well, since they were too politically involved to still be called “ordinary” citizens, and often belonged to the politician’s immediate circle of acquaintances. The aim is to analyze the letters of citizens who did not seem directly involved in the political world but engaged in political communication via letters to députés regardless. Nonetheless, letters from local politicians are scrutinized as well, because they could have acted as an intermediary for citizens from their village or department, who were not eloquent enough to address the deputy themselves, or who hoped that a recommendation would enlarge their chance of success. As for letter-writers who called the deputy their “friend,” two possible situations can make their letters relevant to this book as well. First, if they were indeed a “true” friend or acquaintance of the parliamentarian, they could have acted as an important intermediary for individual citizens, which is interesting for the same reason as letters from mayors and prefects are. Secondly, several “ordinary” citizens who were not considered a “friend” by the député himself could nevertheless have identified as one, out of gratitude for his help or to show their approval of his political ideas. Therefore, the letter-writers’ self-presentation “as a friend” is telling of the representative’s interactively constructed role and his correspondents’ perceptions of his representative task (discussed in Part II). The difference between a political militant or a protégé and a friend is, however, not always very clear. Such letters should therefore be treated with due diligence. In sum, even though letters from individual, politically

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unorganized or informally organized citizens constitute the main source material of the following chapters, other letters are carefully read too, as they help determine the accessibility and availability of the député and his network for ordinary citizens, and consequently, of the correspondents’ perceived level of success in writing upwards. The deputies’ responsiveness played an important role in the letterwriters’ positive perception (regardless of whether the actual application failed or not). Overall, parliamentary representatives most commonly tried to intervene if the request would have at least a slight chance to succeed and if the letter-writer seemed to deserve their support. Even when the odds were clearly against a positive outcome, the député still often contacted the relevant authority to ask for more information about the regulations and requirements that determined the citizens’ deservingness. By communicating the third party’s response to the applicants or by rephrasing this response himself (hence testifying to his intervention), the deputy could show the efforts he had made for them despite the slim prospects of a solution.45 When a Minister’s or a (vice-)prefect’s response was rather negative, Bonnevay preferred to rephrase it himself in his reply to the applicant. By furthermore suggesting a last possible step to take, he showed his personal engagement.46 Sometimes, it was up to the citizen to take action first, to increase their chances for applications for jobs and allowances. In the early thirties, several citizens simply asked Dumesnil to find them a position, without giving him enough indications as to where they wished to apply. The député usually advised to look for a vacancy themselves, and only to contact him when they had already applied. Even if he had an idea of the kind of job the letter-writer was looking for, he was not always aware of the relevant vacancies in the sector, despite his strong local ties. That being said, he always supported concrete and realistic job applications of citizens with roots in his constituency.47 Even when the job market in public transportation had become completely saturated by 1934, Dumesnil offered a favorable recommendation, after explaining how small the chances were to get hired. Not rarely in failed cases too, the député still received a letter of thanks and was seen as the go-to intermediary for future requests.48 To be clear, this phenomenon of supporting applicants despite the odds was common for all four of the deputies under scrutiny. However, Dumesnil’s correspondence archives contain the most complete responses, hence offering the best insights into the interactive component of the written exchanges between citizens and a député.

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Dumesnil happened to be on good terms with representatives from the mayor’s office in Fontainebleau (Albert Doigneau and especially Georges Sédack, the first vice-mayor). In addition, he had good contact with the mayor of La Chapelle-la-Reine (Dr. Antoine Battesti) and with officials at the Prefectures of Seine-et-Marne and Seine (like the Directeur-Général de la Préfecture de la Seine, Pierre Bodereau, whom he knew from being a lawyer at the Parisian Court of Appeal before his mandate in the Chamber). These contacts in local politics allowed for a triple approach of requests for his “services” or “favors.” First, his network enabled him to obtain information about a potentially undeserving applicant. Whenever Dumesnil was uncertain about the validity of specific requests or when the context of a citizen’s demand was vague and hence sometimes suspicious, he asked the (vice-)mayor or the mayor’s secretary of the supplicant’s hometown in Seine-et-Marne what was going on exactly and how he could or should proceed.49 In the case of Daviot from Boulancourt (Fontainebleau), Dumesnil had mistaken the applicant for a different Mister Daviot, until the man (who was clearly not familiar with writing letters) showed up during his consultation hours in Larchant. Because the deputy did not seem to know the man, after all, he sent a letter to the mayor of Boulancourt to find out who he was.50 Although the député tried to respond favorably to most citizens’ requests, he needed to be sure that the applicants really deserved the financial relief they asked for. This did not seem to have been the case for Mr. Darnault, whom Dumesnil’s friend Meiguen described as a “victim of his own behavior.” According to Meiguen, the reason why Darnault from Fontenay-aux-Roses (close to Paris) asked for financial help, was that his father, a local politician and judge at the Commercial Court of Melun (Seine-et-Marne), had stopped paying his dettes de bonne vie. Darnault had “the reputation of a profligate.”51 In another example, Dumesnil asked the secretary of the mayor of Avon for more information about Mrs. Louvet who had applied in vain for a secours at the municipality. Given her husband’s alleged tax liabilities, Dumesnil wanted to know whether they would be worthy of support.52 Secondly, (vice-)mayors and (vice-)prefects, from their side, often presented themselves as intermediaries for (poor) citizens who may not have been able to write well enough and/or for those whom they had been unable to help at the local level. The aforementioned vice-mayor of Fontainebleau, Georges Sédack, was an important point of contact who informed Dumesnil of the characters, relations, and further context of the

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situation of the supplicants. Even outside the village of Fontainebleau, Sédack was known as the go-to intermediary for appeals to Dumesnil’s help, hence Mrs. Bolvin’s decision to look him up in February 1931. Bolvin, who came from the town of Avon, had initially addressed her request for help to Mr. Laborie, former chair of the Fédération des Anciens Sous-Officiers de la 33 e section. Laborie had advised her to contact Sédack. She and her husband hoped that their deceased son’s invalidity pension could be passed onto them, so that they could raise their grandson (the son of the deceased). Sédack, for his part, addressed her request to Dumesnil (then Minister of the Air force), who, in turn, intervened toward the Minister of Pensions.53 Similarly, Mr. Bouery, also from the village of Avon, was sent to Sédack by Mr. Michel (vice-mayor of Avon), who seems to have considered his colleague in Fontainebleau to be Dumesnil’s secretary. Sédack’s notes reveal that Bouery was looking for a job, but had not found anything in Avon or Fontainebleau yet, hence the question whether Dumesnil would be able to find him a position. The député replied directly to Bouery that he would gladly do what he could to help him, but that he needed to know what kind of work the man was looking for. In addition, Dumesnil promised to keep Bouery updated on any vacancy that might seem of interest to him.54 Whereas the transmissions of citizens’ requests could take the shape of a regular letter of recommendation in favor of an individual citizen,55 befriended mayors of villages in Dumesnil’s constituency sometimes sent him a compilation of multiple (pending) applications for recommendations to which he was expected to respond favorably. Such was the case for Dr. Antoine Battesti, the mayor of la Chapelle-la-Reine, who passed on three unrelated requests for recommendations (for two men and a woman) in one letter, written on 11 August 1933. Dumesnil had checked off the first two and added to the third one that he had received a response on the 21st of the month. Important to note is that Battesti did not necessarily intervene in his capacity as the mayor of la Chapellela-Reine, because the three applicants did not appear to have been inhabitants of his village. Rather as the deputy’s friend, the doctor helped him keep track of his constituents’ problems and wishes, reminding him of the fact that he had already intervened for two of them. As for the third case, he stressed how “worthy of interest” Mademoiselle Bouchet was.56 Along the same lines, Dr. Maurice Petit from Montereau-Fault-Yonne in Seine-et-Marne (whom Dumesnil considered a friend as well) seems to

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have informed and reminded the deputy-Minister of multiple requests for nominations of citizens from Seine-et-Marne into the Légion d’honneur. As the Minister of the Air force (1931), Dumesnil was seen as the ideal intermediary back then between these applicants and the Minister of War. In his draft response to Petit (most likely written in November 1931), Dumesnil not only referred to one new intervention (for Louis Bouvat from Montereau), but he updated Petit on multiple ongoing applications from his locality, hence showing his intentions to continue to intervene in favor of these seemingly dormant cases as well.57 On a smaller scale, the phenomenon of bringing multiple demands to the deputy’s attention in one letter occurred in Bonnevay’s case too, specifically in letters from Clovis Chavanis, who was mayor of Ranchal between 1896 and 1900, and again between 1919 and 1924. He remained politically active (in the municipal council) in the period in between, which was marked by his continuous support for Bonnevay’s political ideas. In his letter from 12 September 1906, Chavanis thanked the député for his intervention for soldier Antoine Jonard. Now that the latter had been recognized as a breadwinner, he could return home from his military duties. Furthermore, Chavanis applauded Bonnevay’s defense (in the general council) of the poor elderly people, and gave him two concrete cases to work on. Two destitute widows from Ranchal needed his help after the rejection of their request by the welfare bureau. Their application for financial support was now in the hands of the prefect, toward whom Chavanis expected Bonnevay to intervene in his capacity as general councilor.58 In her chapter on Bonnevay’s solidarity network, Gaëlle Charcosset highlights the important role his cousin (Jean Nesme Petit from SaintNizier-d’Azergues) played in his embedding in the valley.59 Other key go-betweens belonged to the civil society of Villefranche-sur-Saône, viz., the district’s most important industrialist employers and insurers (mutualistes ).60 More concretely, textile workers from the area were “represented” by the Poizat brothers from the blanket and flannel factory of Cours and A. Chignier and Pierre Champalle from the weaving factory of Grandris, who addressed the deputy on behalf of employees and their families.61 On the card he wrote on 23 May 1906, Chignier transmitted the gratitude of the family of “the young girl,” for whom Bonnevay had managed to obtain a “family grant.” On that same card, Chignier formulated a new request, concerning a retirement pay for Antoinette Humbert

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(widow Duperron). As an important employer in the region, the intermediary was well-informed of the labor and pension legislation.62 In their correspondence with the deputy in 1932, the other important textile industrialists from the area, the Poizat brothers, advocated for the nomination of some of their good employees for the Médaille du Travail. They transmitted the eleven ministerial responses Bonnevay had managed to obtain to the employees in question and conveyed their gratitude toward the deputy.63 Apart from the textile industry, Bonnevay maintained close contacts with the winegrowers of his area, among whom some even sent him requests on his own demand. If we have to believe Jean Marduel, a viticulturist from Saint-Laurent-d’Oingt (in Bonnevay’s district), the député had asked him to send requests for financial support, formulated by winegrowers from this small village, whose vintage had been destroyed by disease. Together with his letter from 17 May 1911, Marduel transmitted (“as promised”) three such applications. He claimed to have selected the most destitute viticulturists who had not received any support at what he called the second round of the distribution de secours.64 On 20 December 1910, parliament had promulgated a law that provided 5 million francs to help the winegrowers from all over France whose only or main source of income had been destroyed by bad weather or disease.65 The Rhône-department received a share of 350,000F, to which the department’s general council added another 100,000F in February 1911. Of this amount, they put 50,000F aside for distribution in a second phase, to winegrowers who had been forgotten during the first round of help. Following the prefect’s statement of 4 February 1911, the general council had the liberty to decide upon the conditions of the distribution of the department’s grant, which could differ from the state’s conditions for distributing the 350,000F. During the council debates of that day, Bonnevay criticized the arbitrary nature of this decision, while defending the interests of the small landowners from the mountains. As was typical for that part of the country, the winegrowers often not only had a monoculture of wine but also grew potatoes or grains, so he explained. Their grapes were completely lost, but their potato or grain yields had led to a deficit as well. He therefore pleaded for the attribution of a secours to all winegrowers in need, because in their department, “almost all viticulturists” had a few cows and grew some other crops to feed their animals.66

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Indeed, the letters Bonnevay received in May 1911 contained complaints from such winegrowers with vignerons à moitié fruits in SaintLaurent-d’Oingt, who had been forgotten even during the second round of support. To the three applications coming from farmers of this village, Marduel added a request from his former domestic servant, who used to be a winegrower in Theizé but who now lived in Jarnioux (both in the canton of le Bois-d’Oingt). Marduel mentioned somewhat euphemistically that “Mister Lacroix would have forgotten him a little” (Monsieur Lacroix l’aurait un peu oublié) because the applicant was not one of his partisans. Robert Lacroix was the mayor of Theizé, representing le Bois-d’Oingt in the general council of the Rhône-department. In sum, in Bonnevay’s case, this second approach (combining several requests in one letter) appealed primarily to his role as a representative in the general council, instead of his duty as a deputy in the Chamber. The combined (updates on) requests to Dumesnil, in contrast, related to more individual cases, such as recommendations for jobs and decorations in the Légion d’honneur, the latter for which he was expected to mobilize his ministerial position. The third approach of citizens’ requests in the deputies’ network is in fact the opposite of the second one. Not in every case local politicians served as intermediaries toward the representative. At times, they were the authorities the député was asked to intervene toward instead. In other words, a deputy passed on certain requests he received from citizens to the prefect or a mayor, with his own recommendation in attachment. Again, this was not specific to Dumesnil. The other deputies too acted as mediators between citizens and political authorities on the national as well as on the local level. What is remarkable in the case of Dumesnil, however, has to do with the role of Sédack, whom he called in to solve very individual requests from citizens from the Fontainebleau area. The tasks Dumesnil charged him with, exceeded Sédack’s official duty as a mayor’s representative, but leaned more toward his (unofficial) role as a representative of the deputy-Minister. A very telling example in this context, is the case of Henri Dauphin from Marolles-sur-Seine (Provins, Seine-et-Marne), who could not pay the bill of 3,000F at the hospital of Fontainebleau for the care of his fivemonth-old son. Upon his visit to Dumesnil’s ministry’s office in Paris, the man had explained his situation in person. As Dauphin’s intermediary toward Sédack, Dumesnil stressed that the man, father of seven children, was a farmer with limited revenues. Sédack, for his part, sent Dumesnil’s

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notes to the hospital’s administrator, who responded that they could not exonerate the man of his debts. On the contrary, the debt would only increase, since the honorarium and radiology costs had not been taken into account, and the child had not left the hospital yet. Dauphin had signed the agreement to pay the costs, which he could not revoke. What he could do, however, was ask for an Assistance Médicale Gratuite at the municipality of his hometown of Marolles. Sédack passed this information on to Dumesnil, who rephrased it in his response to Dauphin.67 Clearly, back then, Dumesnil was not yet aware of the possibility to apply for free medical assistance, but he learned from this experience. In later interactions, he gave other citizens the advice to submit an application for free medical assistance at their own municipality.68 This is a remarkable indication of the mutually educational nature of letters between citizens and deputies (a phenomenon that is even more obviously present in Bonnevay’s war correspondence discussed in the next chapter). Furthermore, Dumesnil had the habit of sending several original letters of requests at once to the prefect of Seine-et-Marne, with an enclosed message summing up the cases that needed his response. Indicating a strong local patronage network, this peculiar way of passing on or even exchanging multiple requests that still awaited a successful intervention, is very typical for Dumesnil’s archives.69 His dense influential network in Fontainebleau is exceptional in comparison to the other three cases, although the three other deputies too were seen as influential intermediaries by the citizens who contacted them with requests for help, advice, or mediation toward a Minister, a mayor, or a prefect. Laurent Bonnevay lived in the department he represented (le Rhône), but opted for Dardilly/Lyon, outside but close to “his” more rural district of Villefranche-sur-Saone. In both places, he had a solid base of contacts with the aforementioned civil society, taking place and shape in health care services, the textile industry, the railroad construction company, etc., through which he could help citizens on a concrete level. Although his local political support varied—not always having the mayors of every village of his district, nor the prefect on his side—he was able to exert his influence regardless. Letters from citizens to Bonnevay show proof of protest against the municipality of Cours in 1908, and complaints about the “sectarian prefect,” radical freemason Charles Lutaud, in 1910. Bonnevay seems to have been the one to take the sting out of that situation.70 He managed to remain strongly embedded in his constituency as a general councilor at the level of the department, who could treat higher

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appeals of citizens let down financially by their municipality. Important contacts on the ground (such as the aforementioned Clovis Chavanis) kept him up-to-date of the (political) life in his rural constituency.71 Henri-Constant Groussau, like Louis Marin, lived relatively close to the Palais Bourbon. However, he was less visible in “his” own department. He managed to create a personal connection with his correspondents regardless, by taking up the task to reply himself to the letters that were addressed to him. The same goes for Bonnevay, although on 5 January 1918, the deputy for Villefranche-sur-Saône seems to have counted on a (temporary) secretary or representative to hold a consultation day on his behalf in his constituency. This “secretary” did not reveal his/her name in the notes he/she made during the conversations of that day. Therefore, it is unclear who this person was. Still, it is obvious that they only acted as the deputy’s messenger. Given his expertise, it was Bonnevay himself who responded to the very specific requests.72 Marin and Dumesnil clearly called in a secretary on a more regular basis to help them cope with the flow of letters and keep up with citizens’ expectations. This was especially the case in their ministerial years, since their combination of mandates influenced the amount (and content) of the requests they received. As the Minister of the Navy, for example, Dumesnil could appeal to the help of co-workers from his cabinet, who answered several requests on his behalf, signing off with the following phrasing: Pour le Ministre et par son autorisation, le secrétaire particulier 73 or Pour le Ministre et par son autorisation, le chef du cabinet civil.74 Although the latter (Pierre Biénès) was an administrator of the Colonies, the requests he treated in his capacity as the head of the civil cabinet of the Minister of the Navy did not all have to do with his specific authority or expertise.75 The decision of which cabinet member had to write the reply seems to have been a matter of who had the time to respond. The reactions formulated by Dumesnil’s co-workers were phrased as if they were Dumesnil’s words. Therefore, although the names of the cabinet members were made public through the Journal Officiel, they remained virtually anonymous for the “ordinary” citizens who contacted the Minister, hence maintaining the citizens’ impression of a personal exchange with their representative. Later letters, unrelated to Dumesnil’s mandate in the government, testify to the continued interventions of a secretary. The deputy for Fontainebleau received help at two fronts. Aside from Georges Sédack

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as his right-hand man in Fontainebleau, evidence exists of a Parisianbased female secretary responding to letters sent to Dumesnil’s address in Paris in 1933. This was likely (still) Mrs. Renée Gérard whom he might have continued to count on after his ministerial mandates.76 She seems to have been less well-known among “ordinary” citizens than Louis Marin’s co-worker, Fernande Hartmann, who started as his political secretary in 1924. In contrast to Renée Gérard as Dumesnil’s private secretary linked to his cabinet, Fernande Hartmann did not appear to have been an official member of Marin’s cabinet of the Liberated Regions.77 Moreover, she continued doing her job after Marin had lost his mandate in the government. Hartmann’s relation to the deputy was also more personal. A Christmas card that was sent to her in 1929 suggests that she lived at the same address as Marin in Paris.78 Despite the necessity of a secretary’s help in these busy times, it was important for the deputies to stay involved and highlight their personal engagement. Even when Dumesnil represented France at the naval conference in London (as the Minister of the Navy), he treated complaints from individual citizens, which his secretary probably informed him of, in cases of emergency. Responses were sent on his behalf, with a reference to London in the heading, so he must have at least been updated on the matter.79 Moreover, he tried to send his response directly to the person concerned, instead of passing the suggested solution onto the gobetween whom the citizen had used for his application. Such was the case, for example, for Mr. Boistard from Cerisiers (in the Yonne-department in Burgundy). In March 1930, Mrs. Boistard appealed on behalf of her husband to the goodwill of Dumesnil in his capacity as a Minister of the Navy, hence the (for Dumesnil’s correspondents exceptional) irrelevance of the absence of a geographical connection. It is possible that Mrs. Boistard was the better writer of the two, her handwriting being neat and legible. Although her letter contained spelling and grammatical errors, she was familiar with the epistolary etiquette and the way to build a case. While calling the letter her request, she tried to obtain what she thought her husband “had a little claim to.” He had been injured during his military service in Algiers in 1905 and was unable to bend his left knee ever since. Still, the man had always continued his work to the best of his abilities, instead of living off an allowance, so his wife explained. As a small artisan-cartwright, he was the sole breadwinner of the couple. Now that he had trouble continuing his job because of this old injury, Mrs. Boistard

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counted on Dumesnil to arrange a pension for her husband. The deputyMinister addressed his response directly to Monsieur Boistard, explaining that he was not sure if the man would succeed in obtaining an allowance twenty-five years after the event. He should have complained earlier, but he could try his luck regardless by submitting a request to the Ministry of War, providing the necessary proof of his injury. If he “felt so inclined,” the deputy suggested Boistard send the request to him, so that he could pass it onto the Minister.80 In a very similar example from 26 September 1930, Mrs. Gauthier from Saint-Denis (in the suburbs of Paris) counted on Dumesnil’s “honor of a loyal and good man” to find a job for her husband as a gamekeeper or a supervisor of property. Dumesnil addressed his reply on 12 October to Mr. Gauthier himself. He did not know of any vacancies in the sector, but advised the man to apply toward the Minister of Pensions for access to such jobs that were specifically preserved for warinvalids. The deputy-Minister of the Navy promised to be at Gauthier’s service to support this request, if he so wished.81 That a député’ s efforts to reply to the letters himself was highly valued by his correspondents, becomes all the more clear in a letter from Benoît Thévenet (railroadman from Saint-Vincent-de-Reins in Bonnevay’s constituency of Villefranche) to his deputy. The man felt honored that Bonnevay had helped him sans l’intermédiaire de personnes. In return, he promised to vote for him and to encourage his friends to support Bonnevay too. The exact nature of the favor Thévenet was so grateful about is unclear, but it probably concerned a job recommendation, as it was not uncommon for Bonnevay to provide one and because Thévenet so explicitly mentioned his job. Moreover, his submissive selfpresentation in the close of his letter (votre très soumis et très-reconnaissant protégé) may also be an indicator of this reason for his gratitude.82 The personal efforts of députés to render services to those who requested them were overall highly appreciated and even praised, which makes a negative message, such as the one from a factory worker from Diane-Capelle in Marin’s files stand out even more. In a letter written on 22 January 1928, the worker (with an illegible signature) expressed his disappointment about having received a letter from the chef du secretariat instead of one from Marin himself, who always used to reply to him personally. Apparently, the deputy’s attempts to reply to as much individual requests as possible had created high, almost unattainable) expectations.83 Such negativity, however, was rather exceptional and did not help the citizen achieve his goal. Rather on the contrary: Marin most

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likely did not reply to the letter-writer whom he labeled as ungrateful (un ingrat ). More common was the use of positive reinforcement by showing their gratitude toward the deputy and their appreciation of his efforts to intervene on their behalf.84 Overall, negative responses to the intervention of a secretary were very limited. Several female letter-writers even seem to have appreciated the appointment of Fernande Hartmann to the job of Marin’s private secretary, which can be explained by their shared networks. Hartmann was known among women who had attended Marin’s teachers’ training at the Anthropology School in Paris. As a highly educated woman (a fellow anthropologist to be precise), Hartmann shared the same scientific interests as the deputy for Meurthe-et-Moselle.85 She started out as his secretary at his school, became his political secretary in 1924 (when Marin received his first ministerial portfolio, of the Liberated Regions), and married him after his political career.86 Marin was 83 years old when they became husband and wife in 1954. She is to thank for the preservation of his archives after his death in 1960. Some letter-writers gave proof of their knowledge that Mademoiselle Hartmann read their letters and that she would summarize the result of Marin’s intervention for them. Therefore, some women even addressed their request directly to her and/or included her in their best wishes and congratulations.87 Among the letters of congratulation Marin received for his nomination in the new government in 1924, the one from Mrs. Gérard (working at the administration of school inspections in the Seine-department), testifies to her awareness of the secretary’s task. After having praised Marin for his hard work, she gave him some more work by reminding him of his promise to write to Mr. Forsant, the school inspector of Mrs. Bax. Gérard made clear that she knew that after writing his letter to Mr. Forsant, his job would be done, because “Mademoiselle Hartmann would be so kind to send it to its destination and write a summary of the response.”88 Because of the overall increase of requests brought about by the First World War, Jacques Barty, columnist of the Notes du Jour in L’Homme Libre,89 suggested already in 1919 that deputies could use secretaries. Not the handbooks for epistolary style, he clarified, but actual secretaries: real persons who would handle the flow of letters. This suggestion to employ a secretary for each député, or even to let an agency deal with the letters through a hundred pre-printed forms with standardized replies should not be taken too seriously, because Barty often sarcastically pointed out a socio-political problem in this newspaper. The tenor of this specific

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column was mainly to draw the attention to the issue of the many letters a deputy received, in combination with the changed nature of the petitions. The requests were not merely clientelist demands for favors to which a deputy could respond with a simple promise. As a consequence of the more complicated laws, voted by deputies who “generally did not know themselves what they had put in them,” according to Barty, letterwriters asked more frequently to clarify whether they could appeal to a certain right or not. As a contemporary journalist, he thus seemed to notice a shift from clientelist exchanges to more political ones, making it increasingly difficult for the député to keep up. Perhaps the only solution would be to discourage writing letters to deputies altogether? His sarcastic suggestions were neither realistic nor were they put into practice, but they shed light on the shift in the amount and content of letters sent to French deputies.90 Paradoxically, the boost in this genre of letter-writing was brought about by a situation that challenged epistolary activity the most: the Great War.

Notes 1. Delphine Gardey, “Scriptes de la démocratie: les sténographes et rédacteurs des débats (1848–2005),” Sociologie du travail, no. 52 (2010): 201; Anne-Laure Cermak, “La poste pneumatique, un système original d’acheminement rapide du courrier: l’exemple du réseau de Paris des origines à sa suppression, 1866–1984” (unpublished MA-thesis, Paris, Paris IV - Sorbonne, 2003); Marnix Beyen, “De politieke kracht van het dienstbetoon. Interacties tussen burgers en volksvertegenwoordigers in Parijs, 1893–1914,” Stadgeschiedenis, no. 7 (2012): 81. 2. The Speaker had the droit de police to withdraw admission tickets for the Chamber debates and to call députés to order, but the huissiers helped carry it out and actually maintain order. They needed to intervene whenever feelings would run high among deputies, and had to remove people from the galleries if they openly expressed their (dis)approval, cf. Eugène Pierre, Traité de droit politique électoral et parlementaire, 5th ed. (Paris: Librairiesimprimeries réunies, 1924), 949. 3. Bulletin des lois de la République française 459, no. 8218 (071879), 61–62; Th. Aumaître, Manuel de droit constitutionnel,

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spécialement destiné aux élèves des facultés de droit (Paris: F. Pichon, 1890), 290–93; Pierre, Traité, 1902, 661–73. 4. For example: Annexe au Feuilleton 63, no. 521 (10-01-1924), 5– 11. 5. For example: Benoît Agnès, “Le ‘Pétitionnaire universel’: les normes de la pétition en France et au Royaume-Uni pendant la première moitié du XIXe siècle,” Revue d’histoire moderne & contemporaine 58, no. 4 (2011): 45–70. 6. Marie de Cazals, “Les (r)évolutions du droit de pétition,” in Regards critiques sur quelques (r)évolutions récentes du droit, ed. Maryvonne Hecquard-Théron and Jacques Krynen, vol. 2: Réformes-Révolutions, Travaux de l’IFR 2 (Toulouse: Presses de l’Université Toulouse 1 Capitole, 2005), 507–22; Perrine Preuvot, “Le droit de pétition: mutations d’un instrument démocratique,” Jurisdoctoria 4 (2010): 77–83. 7. For example: Annexe au Feuilleton 9, no. 125 (31-07-1929), 1– 11. 8. For more information of the development and interpretations of the different school laws, as well as their reception by the republican and the conservative press, see: Mona Ozouf, L’École, l’Église et la République, 1871–1914, Collection Kiosque (Paris: Colin, 1963), especially 65–81. 9. “Loi sur l’enseignement primaire obligatoire,” JO Lois et Décrets 4, no. 87 (29-03-1882): 1697–98. 10. On alphabetization as an effect of laicization and school wars, see: François Furet and Jacques Ozouf, Lire et Écrire. L’alphabétisation Des Français de Calvin à Jules Ferry (Paris: Minuit, 1977); Langlois, “Catholiques et laïcs,” 2337. 11. Cécile Dauphin, “Les manuels épistolaires au XIXe siècle,” in La correspondance. Les usages de la lettre au XIXe siècle, ed. Roger Chartier, Nouvelles études historiques, 1991:1 (Paris: Fayard, 1991), 209–72. 12. Interfaces/Fonds Anciens BU Lyon, “Les manuels républicains et les deux guerres scolaires à la fin du XIXe siècle et au début du XXe,” OpenEdition, Interfaces, May 24, 2016, https://bibulyon. hypotheses.org/6849; Baubérot, Histoire, 93–97. 13. Dauphin, “Les manuels épistolaires,” 211–12, 245. 14. Roger Chartier, “Des ‘secrétaires’ pour le peuple? Les modèles épistolaires de l’Ancien Régime entre littérature de cour et livre de

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colportage,” in La correspondance. Les usages de la lettre au XIXe siècle, ed. Roger Chartier, Nouvelles études historiques, 1991:1 (Paris: Fayard, 1991), 198–202. 15. (F. G.-M.) Frère Gabriel-Marie, Manuel de politesse à l’usage de la jeunesse: savoir-vivre, savoir-parler, savoir-écrire, savoir-travailler (Tours / Paris: A. Mame and son (eds. in Tours), and widow C. Poussielgue (ed. in Paris), 1908), 214. 16. Étienne Ducret, Le Secrétaire pour tous. Correspondance familiale, lettres d’affaires et de commerce, circulaires, pétitions, requêtes, formulaire des actes sous seing privé, etc. etc. (Paris: A.-L. Guyot, s.d.), 5. 17. Frère Gabriel-Marie, Manuel de politesse, 214–15. 18. Agnès, “Le ‘Pétitionnaire universel,’” 54. 19. Martha Hanna, “A Republic of Letters: The Epistolary Tradition in France during World War I,” The American Historical Review 108, no. 5 (2003): 1360. 20. For example: Ducret, Le Secrétaire pour tous, 10. 21. This is a compilation of general advice taken from Ducret, 74; A. Manillier, Le Secrétaire pratique, nouveau guide pour écrire lettres, pétitions, avec des modèles d’actes sous seings privés, baux, congés, etc., Bibliothèque des salons (Paris: Librairie de Jules Taride, 1884), 16–20; Frère Gabriel-Marie, Manuel de politesse, 215–22, 251–52. 22. Manillier, Le Secrétaire pratique, 15. 23. Idem, 16–18. 24. Agnès, “Le ‘Pétitionnaire universel,’” 55. 25. Manillier, Le Secrétaire pratique, 30–41 (letters to Ministers), and 50 (letter to a protector). 26. For example: “Letters from L. Boilot from Écuelles (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 13–09 and 01-11-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. 27. “Letters from O. Bonté from Amponville (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 28-12-1932 and 06-01-1933, idem. 28. “Letter from C. Rivoir from Saint-Pierre-la-Palud (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 12-01-1920, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 23. 29. “Letter from C. Rivier from Létra (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 13-01-1920, idem. 30. For example: “Letter from J. Fargeot from Saint-Jean-laBussière (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 03-10-1902,

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idem, file 22; “Undated visiting card from J. Gaillard from Chambost-Allières (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” (1906), idem, file 63; “Letter from E. Dory, a landownerwinegrower from Chiroubles (Villefranche-sur-Saône, but outside Bonnevay’s discrict) to L. Bonnevay,” 14-03-1932, idem, file 24/II. 31. “Letter from a man called Artignes from Amplepuis (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-11-1904, idem, file 22. 32. “Correspondence between J. Berchoux from Ternand (Villefranche-sur-Saône) and L. Bonnevay,” 19-03-1932, idem, file 24/II. 33. For example: “Brief note with many spelling errors from E. Schaff from Champigneulles (Nancy) sending his apologies to L. Marin for not having voted due to a mistake from the municipality of Moivrons (Nancy) which had not sent him his voter’s card,” 2311-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239; “Letter from F. Lichtfonse from Paris to L. Marin,” 30-04-1928, idem, file 240; “Letter from A. Bildstein from Nancy, who identified as votre très vieux et fidèle électeur towards L. Marin,” 02-05-1932, idem, file 241; “Letter from A. Rousselle from Paris to L. Marin,” 05-061932, idem; “Letter from H. Veau from the Café Oriental in Montrouge (Paris) to L. Marin,” 28-02-1934, idem, file 237. 34. See for example: “Undated letter from Albert Grillot from Lemainville par Bayon (Lunéville, Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” (1936), idem, file 242. 35. “Letter from P. Dauteloup from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 36. For example: “Mon cher Député” in a “Letter of thanks from A. Boucher from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-09-1932, idem, file 12. He thanked Dumesnil for having nominated him for the Médaille Militaire. Boucher’s more familiar form of address was perhaps triggered by the deputy’s personal favor. Moreover, it is likely that Boucher and the deputy had met in person. A similar remark can be made about the letter from Mr. and Mrs. Bertrand who, thanks to Dumesnil’s intervention, had been admitted to the Hôpital Paul-Brousse (which mainly focused on eldercare). The letter was written by the healthier one of the couple, Mrs. Bertrand, who laudatorily described the room they had moved into on 30 March 1932. In combination with the form of address

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Très cher Monsieur and Bertrand’s obvious relief (emanated by her expressions of gratitude), this detailed description enhanced the familiar nature of the letter, although the Bertrands did not appear to have been the deputy’s friends, cf. “Letter from Mr. and Mrs. Bertrand, written in Paris to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 17-04-1932, idem. 37. Ducret, Le Secrétaire pour tous, 74–83. 38. For example: “Letter from M. Bois, recommended by E. Verquelle, both from Voulx (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 02 to 28-051934, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. 39. For example: “Letter from widow Perrin from Ternand (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 29-03-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J, file 22; “Letter from a man called Tribolet from Bourg-de-Thizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 16-06-1910, idem. 40. Illness, cf. “Letter from Mother Superior C. Mounier from the convent of Bon Pasteur in Écully (Lyon) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-081933, idem, file 37. Mounier wrote the letter on behalf of abbot Bargeon “who would have written himself if he had not been lying in bed sick,” but also thanked Bonnevay in her own name and on behalf of the other nuns. War-duty, cf. “Letter from Mrs. Captier from Mardore (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 13-01-1917, idem, file 71/I. She requested exceptional military leave for her husband, around the time she would give birth to their fifth child, so that he could take care of the cattle when she had to take care of the baby. 41. For example: Marguerite Long-de Marliave, famous pianist and teacher at the Parisian conservatory appealed to Bonnevay’s capacity as former Minister of Justice, while asking for “a small service” for a young friend of hers, Mr. Sterkers. More specifically, she requested a recommendation for Sterkers, to speed up his appointment as bailiff in Creil (in the Oise-department). This letter was followed by cards on which she expressed her gratitude for Bonnevay’s intervention, while reiterating the promise of her fidèle souvenir, cf. “Letter and cards from M. Long-de Marliave (Paris) from to L. Bonnevay,” 10-03-1933, idem, file 35. 42. For example: “Letters from Mr. and Mrs. M. Damy-Papin from Fontainebleau to L. Daunay and J.-L. Dumesnil,” 26 and 29-091930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22; “Letter from Mrs.

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Guenot from Nemours to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 16-04-1934, idem, file 24; “Correspondence between G. Sédack and J.-L. Dumesnil about the case of O. Gray from Fontainebleau,” December 1932, idem. 43. ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , files 24–25: Letters of thanks from private individuals; file 31: Bonnevay’s own selection; files 34–38: autographs written by notables, artists, ecclesiastics, and the magistrature; files 63–64: congratulations for his (re)elections in the legislative assembly; files 65–76: First World War correspondence. These are the five types that make up Bonnevay’s correspondence files. 44. Bonnevay’s selection of letters in ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 31. 45. Dumesnil’s dense correspondence files from the early thirties contain many examples of (1) his mediation towards the relevant authority in response to a citizen’s request, together with (2) a copy of his letter to the applicant, written on the day of his intervention, explaining the steps he had taken, and promising an update on the results of his actions. For example: “Copy of the letter from J.-L. Dumesnil on behalf of L. Boisseau from Melun towards the manager of the railway company P.L.M.,” and “Copy of the letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Boisseau about his intervention towards the manager of that railway company,” 12-11-1930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. Similarly, but less extensively, Bonnevay’s draft answers scribbled on top of the applicants’ letters show how he explained whom he had contacted, and, if possible, what the response was. This was especially the case for his war correspondence, since his other files mainly contain the letters of thanks without the initial requests, cf. “Correspondances reçues,” 1914–1918, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , files 65–76. 46. See (his reply to the) “Letter from C. Jugnon from Saint-Justd’Avray (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 10-11-1918, idem, file 76, and “Letter from the cabinet of the vice-prefect of Villefranche-sur-Saône to L. Bonnevay,” 13-11-1918, idem. See also: “Letter written on behalf of C. Dubuis from SaintVincent-de-Reins (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 03-11-1918, idem; “Letter from the cabinet of the vice-prefect of Villefranche-surSaône to L. Bonnevay,” 08-11-1918, idem. See also: Chapter 4,

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discussing Bonnevay’s recurring suggestion (during the war) to take rejected breadwinner’s replacement allowance cases to the Higher Committee of Appeal. 47. For example: “Correspondence between Madame Blanchard from Paris and J.-L. Dumesnil,” 01-09-1930 to 10-11-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J, file 20. 48. For example: “Letter from E. Duchon, mailman from Ury (Fontainebleau), asking J.-L. Dumesnil’s ‘protection’ (i.e., a recommendation) for his son-in-law, C. Billaut from Ury who wished to obtain tenure as a roadman in his area,” 13-06-1934, idem. After Dumesnil’s unsuccessful intervention for Billaut, the latter made a second attempt, four months later, but without Duchon’s mediation: “Letter from C. Billaut from Ury to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 24-10-1934, idem. These are not only representative examples of how the trial-and-error dynamic worked, but they also underline the aforementioned difficulty to quantify the requests. Such follow-up letters, written either by the applicant himself (as was the case here) or by his spokesperson, were not a rare phenomenon. 49. For example: “Letter from G. Pinard, mayor of Égreville (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil in response to the latter’s request for advice on an anonymous imputative letter of accusation from a citizen of Egreville,” 10-01-1931, idem, file 24. 50. “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to the mayor of Boulancourt (Fontainebleau),” 23-11-1933, idem, file 22. 51. “Correspondence between J.-L. Dumesnil and his friend Meiguen from Dammarie-lès-Lys,” 26 and 30-10-1931, idem. 52. “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mr. Roux, secretary of the mayor of Avon (Fontainebleau),” 07-02-1934, idem, file 26. 53. “Letter from Mrs. Bolvin from Avon to Sédack,” 29-02-1931, idem, file 20, followed by “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to G. Sédack,” 09-03-1931, idem, and “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to A. Champetier de Ribes,” idem. 54. “Note from G. Sédack, followed by a letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mr. Bouery from Avon,” 31-04-1934, idem. 55. For example: “Letter from G. Pinard, mayor of Égreville (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil, on behalf of G. Lallia who wished to do his military service in a music regiment,” 30-031932, idem, file 26.

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56. “Letter from A. Battesti, mayor of La Chapelle-la-Reine (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil, on behalf of P. Robin, H. Toutain and L. Bouchet,” 11-08-1933, idem, file 20. 57. “Undated draft letter from J.-L. Dumesnil or his secretary to M. Petit from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins, Seine-et-Marne),” (November 1931), idem, file 11. 58. For example: “Letter from C. Chavanis from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 12-09-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. He thanked Bonnevay for having intervened for his poor fellow villagers Antoine Jonard, widow Auplat (née Julie Comby), and Miss Florence Burnichon. In an example from 1912, Chavanis thanked Bonnevay for having shown interest in four families from Ranchal who needed financial support, cf. “Letter from C. Chavanis from Ranchal to L. Bonnevay,” 02-09-1912, idem, file 23. 59. In 1896, moreover, Bonnevay, who strongly believed in solidarity among people from the same area, founded the Société amicale des Enfants de la vallée d’Azergues, cf. Gaëlle Charcosset, “Entre solidarité et clientélisme: un député du Rhône, Laurent Bonnevay (1902–1942),” in Les solidarités 2: du terroir à l’État, Actes du colloque à Bordeaux, ed. Pierre Guillaume (Pessac: Maison des sciences de l’homme d’Aquitaine, 2003), 470, 473–74. 60. For example: J. Decurel, spokesperson for the insurance company for cattle farmers from Chessy: “Letters from J. Decurel from Chessy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 22-06-1910, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. 61. For example: “Letters from P. Champalle from Grandris (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 28-08-1914 and 28-011915, idem, files 65–66. 62. “Card from A. Chignier from Grandris (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 23-05-1906, idem, file 22. 63. “Letters from the Poizat brothers from Cours (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” March to July 1932, idem, file 24/II. 64. “Letter from J. Marduel from Saint-Laurent-d’Oingt (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 17-05-1911, idem, file 69/I. (Together with four other letters from destitute viticulturists from Saint-Laurent-d’Oingt, Marduel’s letter was accidentally put in a file that was meant for Bonnevay’s incoming war correspondence of 1916.)

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65. JO Lois et décrets 42, no. 347 (21-12-1910): 10313–14. 66. Rapports et délibérations. Conseil général du Rhône (Lyon: Imprimeries réunies, 04-02-1911): 128–41. 67. “Correspondence case of H. Dauphin from Marolles-sur-Seine (Provins),” 08 to 30-05-1931, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22; “Urgent note from J.-L. Dumesnil to Sédack,” 24?-04-1931, idem, followed by a “Service note from the secrétariat de la mairie de Fontainebleau by Sédack,” 08-05-1931, idem, and “Letter from Millaux, économe de l’hôpital de Fontainebleau to the mayor of Fontainebleau,” 09-05-1931, idem, and “Copy of the response from J.-L. Dumesnil to H. Dauphin from Marolles-sur-Seine,” 30-05-1931, idem. 68. For example: “Draft response to the letter from M. Boisrond from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins),” 08-11-1932, idem, file 20. 69. For example the enumeration of eight cases in: “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Garipuy, prefect of Seine-et-Marne,” 15-10-1930, idem, file 26. Furthermore, an entire file is dedicated to such correspondence: “Transmission au préfet de demandes d’intervention, 1931–1934,” idem, file 14. 70. “Letter and postcards from E. Desmur from Cours (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01, 22 and 27-09-1908, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22; “Letter from ‘18 fathers of the strikers from the elementary school of Létra’ assembling in a bar in Létra (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 02-11-1910, idem. 71. For example: “Letter from C. Chavanis (on behalf of C. Jonard) from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 19-111904, idem. 72. For example: “Notes from Bonnevay’s secretary(?) based on a personal conversation with J. Berthinier from Grandris (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 05-01-1918, idem, file 74/I. Bonnevay’s scribbles below the notes show that he sent Berthinier on 11-01-1918 concrete responses to his tax questions. “Note from Bonnevay’s secretary(?), announcing that M. Dumontet (vice-mayor of Claveisolles in Villefranche-sur-Saône) would contact the deputy,” 05-01-1918, idem. The vice-mayor himself acted as an intermediary for an “ordinary” citizen, Mr. Descroix, in a dispute about the ownership of a talud with trees, cf. “Letter from C.-M. Dumontet from Claveisolles,” 07-01-1918, idem.

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73. Cf. “Responses to citizen’s letters from 1930,” ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72, files 20–26; for example: “Copy of the letter from Dumesnil’s private secretary to G. Fortier from Amponville (Fontainebleau),” 27-05-1930, idem, file 20; “Copy of the letter from Dumesnil’s private secretary to Mr. Laurent from MontereauFault-Yonne (Provins),” 08-05-1930, idem, file 26. 74. For example: “Copy of the letter from the head of the civil cabinet of the Ministry of the Navy, P. Biénès, to P. Bienvenu from Drancy (in the suburbs of Paris),” 05-05-1930, idem, file 20; “Copy of the letter from P. Biénès to L. Dadé from Figeac (Lot),” 02-05-1930, idem, file 22; “Copy of the letter from P. Biénès to H. Dauphin from Paris,” 02-05-1930, idem. 75. JO Lois et décrets 62, no. 64 (15-03-1930): 2852. 76. “Letter of response signed by “la Secrétaire” of J.-L. Dumesnil’s to O. Bonté from Amponville,” 13-05-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72, file 20. 77. JO Lois et Décrets 62, no. 74 (26-03-1930): 3322, compared to idem 56, no. 128 (10-05-1924) 4219. 78. “Christmas card from G. Avendant to F. Hartmann, 95, Boulevard Saint-Michel, Paris,” 1929, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 36. 79. For example: “Correspondence between S. Bonnet from Montereau-Fault-Yonne and J.-L. Dumesnil in London,” 14 and 19-03-1930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20; “Letters from H. Léger from Boisroux par Villemaréchal and C. Rocassel from Égreville (Fontainebleau), both intervening for widow H. Bouchonnet towards J.-L. Dumesnil,” 30-10-1929 and 02-031930, idem; “Letters from J.-L. Dumesnil from London to C. Rocassel (general councilor of Seine-et-Marne), and Champetier de Ribes (Minister of Pensions),” 12 and 19-03-1930, idem. 80. “Letter from Mrs. Boistard from Cerisiers (Sens, Yonne) to J.L. Dumesnil,” 21-03-1930, idem, file 20; “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil from London to Mr. Boistard,” 27-03-1930, idem. 81. “Letter from Mrs. Gauthier from Saint-Denis (in the suburbs of Paris) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 06-09-1930, idem, file 24; “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mr. Gauthier in Saint-Denis,” 12-10-1930, idem.

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82. “Letter from B. Thévenet from Saint-Vincent-de-Reins (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 08-04-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. 83. “Letter from someone (with an illegible signature) from DianeCapelle (which used to be in Meurthe, now in Moselle) to L. Marin,” 22-01-1928, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 35. 84. Bonnevay’s archives, consisting for a great deal of letters of thanks, contain plenty of such examples, praising the deputy’s efforts, devotion, support, benevolence, interest in the poor, etc., cf. “Lettres de remerciements de particuliers,” 1902–1932, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , files 22–25. 85. In March 1924, she received a prize for her PhD dissertation on agriculture in Ancient Egypt, cf. JO Lois et décrets 56, no. 73 (1403-1924): 2530. 86. Cf. his more private archives: “Papiers personnels dont correspondance,” ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 490. 87. “Letter from M. Forni from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 236. The P.S. reads as follows: Mademoiselle Hartmann qui sans doute lira ces lignes avant vous et pour vous… (car, comment tout lire!) j’envoie, avec mon affectueux souvenir, une part de félicitations aussi: voilà de hauts et nouveaux sommets politiques qu’elle va connaître, après les sommets universitaires et académiques. Bravo sur toute la ligne!!! 88. “Letter from M. L. Gérard from Paris to L. Marin,” 08-04-1924, idem. 89. This newspaper was founded in 1913 by radical-socialist Georges Clemenceau, Prime Minister between November 1917 and January 1920. 90. Jacques Barty, “Notes du Jour. Le Secrétaire universel,” L’Homme Libre, 23-12-1919: 1.

CHAPTER 4

First World War Correspondence and the Deputies’ Accessibility

During France’s partial occupation, many députés remained politically active and accessible, although the plenary debates were suspended for the first five months of the war. Parliament was prorogued on 4 August 1914, because the deputies (especially those of the departments of le Nord and Pas-de-Calais) wanted to offer concrete help at a local and regional level. When it became clear that the war was likely to take longer than expected, the question arose whether the French government could make decisions on its own. Hence, parliament assembled again in late December of the same year and resumed its normal sessions from 12 January 1915 onward. Even though some representatives chose to continue their work at the front, Fabienne Bock records a substantial group of active deputies in 1915 and 1916, with a presence of at least 500 out of 601 representatives taking part in the voting of measures. Some combined their military duty with their parliamentary mandate and were able to inform their colleagues of the reality at the front. In addition, parliamentary committees ensured supervision over the executive power.1 Where and how did “ordinary” citizens fit into the deputies’ wartime information and communication networks? How approachable and available were the representatives toward their constituents in these difficult times? The first section of this chapter explores where citizens could find their representative during the war and how they were able to

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_4

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contact him. The second and third sections analyze the mutually educational nature of their wartime exchange, with Bonnevay specifically, and how the latter’s wartime correspondents negotiated their deservingness within the framework of (social) citizen’s rights and duties.2

Information Exchange Between Homefront and Warfront, Paris and Prison Camps Louis Marin and Jacques-Louis Dumesnil both took part in the war effort, but resumed their parliamentary activities in 1915. The latter was 32 years old when he was mobilized and went to the frontline at his request, first as a sub-lieutenant in Barcy, and later as a lieutenant in Soissons, despite the injury he had sustained in the battle in Barcy. When he returned to parliament, he took part in the budget committee, the committee of the fiscal legislation, the secret committee, and the committee of arms, but he remained active at the front as a liaison officer of the Infantry or at an artillery observation post in the Air force. In 1917, he was promoted in the army as a captain, and in politics as the State Secretary of the (naval) Air force (Sous-secrétaire d’Etat à l’Aéronautique militaire et maritime, from 12 September 1917 until 9 January 1919).3 Dumesnil himself, but also his mother and his wife, received congratulations for this ministerial rank in 1917, but most letter-writers in this particular file cannot be categorized as “ordinary.”4 The absence of letters from the other war years and on other subjects is most likely a matter of preservation problems, with which Marin’s archives equally contend. As a 43-year-old (and thus undrafted) man, Louis Marin voluntarily went to the frontline as a chasseur.5 Not much of his war correspondence with “ordinary” citizens has been preserved. Only his more personal files, kept in the Departmental Archives of Meurthe-et-Moselle, contain letters from a few citizens whom he seems to have been relatively close with between 1915 and 1917, next to war-letters from female teachers who had been (former) students of his teacher’s education program in Paris.6 Despite their obvious limitations, these letters can give at least an indication of Marin’s location and accessibility during the First World War. Jeanne Gaucheron from Saint-Ouen (Paris) wrote in a war-letter of an unclear date that she knew that, “although he was mobilized,” Marin had “hardly left Paris.” She must have followed his parliamentary activity through the press. To be clear, her observation was not an accusation toward the deputy, but an opportunity for her to ask for help.7

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Despite Marin’s parliamentary activity, his correspondence with associations claiming war reparations in May 1918 prove that he had been in the Lorraine region shortly before to size up the situation.8 (Furthermore, a separate file is dedicated to his continued engagement in 1919–1920 for reparations in the formerly occupied regions.9 ) As unmobilized men (because of their age), Groussau and Bonnevay stayed behind in the capital during the First World War and were accessible there. Because of the German occupation of the North, it was impossible for Groussau to return to “his” department (referred to as le Nord envahi at that time).10 He thus stayed in Paris and Versailles, where he was kept in the loop by citizens from the invaded regions, and where he could voice their concerns about the deportations of 1916 in particular.11 On 14 August 1916, Victor des Bonnets, leading military doctor at temporary hospital no.101 of Berck-Plage (Pas-de-Calais), addressed a letter of complaint to Groussau, explaining the intolerable situation in the invaded regions. Alleged “evacuations for humanitarian purposes” (as the German authorities liked to call them) were taking place, which were, in fact, “abductions” (as described by people from the affected regions). On top of that, resources belonging to the people who stayed behind were often stolen. The medical practitioner urged Groussau to communicate these facts to the French people by means of the press, and to inform the Vatican of the situation. The truth needed to be placed alongside the error that had already been spread by the German authorities, and Groussau was just the right man for the job: “in your capacity as a deputy, as a natural defender of our poor relatives and friends left behind in the invaded regions, you are cut out for this.” To avoid putting his family in danger, Victor des Bonnets did not want his name to be cited. In this example, Groussau appeared clearly as an important intermediary during the war, between citizens of the invaded regions on the one hand, and the Vatican and the press on the other. He was known as a discreet but enterprising deputy toward the religious and national authorities.12 In his letter, the doctor did not specify his reason for addressing Groussau instead of a deputy for Pas-de-Calais, where he was located. His obituary notice, however, published in the necrology of the Journal de Roubaix of 17 August 1937, shows that he originated from Tourcoing, where he had been working as a resident-doctor and where he had presided the Medical Syndicate. The doctor must have known Groussau and appreciated his vigilance and convictions.

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During the war, and sometimes because of the war, other problems (outside the invaded regions) led Groussau to be called in as the representative of the French Catholic clergy as well. He was of course not officially elected as such, but this role had implicitly been bestowed upon him, in the course of his interactions with congregants from all over France. On 19 April 1916, Sœur Joseph du Sacré-Cœur, a nun of the Holy Spirit in Saint-Brieuc (in Côtes-du-Nord, that was not part of the invaded zone), put a letter she addressed to Groussau “into the good care of Sister Anna.” In this letter, she provided information about a statement that needed to be communicated to Maurice Barrès, an independent deputy for the Seine who was an authoritative right-wing intellectual. As an opponent to the Law on the Separation of Church and State (1905), Barrès was politically quite close to his septentrional colleague. Moreover, the independent deputy-writer was known as a fervent patriot, panegyrist of the Union sacrée, and member of the National Help Committee.13 It was thus not very surprising that Sœur Joseph wished to attract his attention, in order to make him use his “vindictive pen” toward the “tyrants of the Academy,” referring to the pedagogical inspectors. To cope with the lack of teachers caused by the mobilization, Sœur Adelaïde had been charged (in the school in Pommeret) with the difficult task of teaching a class of 98 pupils, even though, as a nun, she had already been expelled once, manu militari, for “a crime of education” (un délit d’enseignement ). Letter-writer nun Joseph noted that one would expect the war to have transformed this crime into a benefaction. Nevertheless, Sœur Adelaïde had to stop her pedagogical activities under penalty of a fine. In case of recidivism, a new fine and even imprisonment awaited her.14 This example should be understood in the context of the aforementioned laws on the Separation of Church and State and the liquidation of teaching congregations, voted in 1901, 1904, and 1905. Even though these were severe laws for the congregants, they nevertheless left some breathing space for resistance, because liberty of conscience and liberty of the individual always had to be guaranteed (by the law of 1905). Consequently, schools that had been closed for having nuns or priests among their teaching staff could be reopened with secularized teachers: nuns and monks who, with the bishop’s authorization, had abandoned their habit and the commune life. More than three thousand congregants, however, chose to live in exile. It was only during and after the Great War that some of them dared to return to France, because their infirmary and charity

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work was of great value, and because the conflict seemed to have toned down the religious issue, even though the tensions remained.15 What is especially interesting for us here, is the place of the letterwriter and the recipient in the network of intermediaries. Together with her bishop, Sœur Joseph deemed it necessary that Barrès denounced the pedagogical inspectors, these Boches de l’intérieur, an insult that she only mentioned in her letter to Groussau, written on the bishop’s behalf. It was absent from the more polished report the deputy was asked to give to Barrès, and which was, in addition, meant to attract the attention “of any Minister who had the quality to calm the ardors of our people.” Moreover, and again only in the letter addressed to Groussau, the name of the village and the nun were mentioned. In the report for Barrès, merely the initials P. and A. were used. Sœur Joseph also explained to Groussau that this situation was happening in Côtes-du-Nord, but that there was no need to mention the department’s name. Having underlined this last part in blue pencil, the deputy genuinely seemed to attach importance to the necessary discretion in this affair.16 Even though the letters written by clergymen/-women already made up the majority of Groussau’s pre-war correspondence, their requests had become especially imperative and more complicated since the start of the conflict, when tensions between legislation and practice needed to be addressed. More concretely, the outbreak of war had opened the door to alternative interpretations of the laws and decrees on the laicization of education. The law of 7 July 1904 had granted the teaching congregations as well as the mixed ones (combining teaching with contemplative or other missions) a transition period of ten years, before they had to close down their schools. After closure, the mixed congregations had six months left to redraw their statutes without mentioning an educational task. The deadline for this regularization of mixed congregations was thus disturbed by the war, to which an imminent end appeared increasingly less likely. Clerics who found themselves in these particular circumstances were not sure what to do. Groussau seems to have been their go-to contact for shedding light on the situation. In an earlier written exchange (in December 1914) between Sœur Joseph and the deputy, the latter had already shown himself a discreet expert on the matter, by keeping low profile until the circumstances required an intervention. In other words, he only decided to take steps and ask for explanations once he knew that the Minister of the Interior had given concrete instructions (concerning inspections of the remaining

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mixed congregations) to the prefects. Thereupon, the Minister reassured Groussau that the request for statutes was a “simple invitation” and did not entail any sanctions. This vigilant action probably explains why nun Joseph contacted Groussau (a few years later) instead of addressing Barrès directly. During the war, the deputy for le Nord was seen as an accessible, discreet, and competent intermediary between (religious) citizens and the government. The boundaries of his constituency were not that important: the requests mainly appealed to his expertise. Moreover, the war itself ignored departmental boundaries too, putting many French citizens in the same boat. Similar to Groussau’s northern district, one of the communities of the nuns of the Holy Spirit (Filles du Saint-Esprit ) equally suffered from “the invasion of the Barbarians” (l’invasion des Barbares ).17 Groussau’s war correspondence with unorganized citizens is lost for the most part, but his written exchange with authorities resulting from the updates he had received from below is preserved, and later correspondence provides evidence of his engagement during the conflict. Indeed, the exchange of letters between Groussau and the Vatican testifies to the interventions of the latter, initiated by the former in 1916– 1918, to enforce repatriations of war-prisoners.18 The député saw this as his duty, because apart from being a danger to the physical health of the young people involved, these “transportations” also endangered the morality of the entire population. To underline this danger, he derived a comparison to the barbarisms of slave-driving from a letter signed by Emile Toulemonde, chair of the Committee of Economic Interests of Roubaix-Tourcoing and one of his correspondents and “compatriots.”19 Aside from the Vatican, Groussau also informed Raymond Poincaré, the French president at the time (February 1913–February 1920), and Aristide Briand, the Prime Minister (October 1915–March 1917) about these “facts of atrocious barbarism.” Especially the letters sent by the Committee of Economic Interests of Roubaix-Tourcoing provided him with phrasings he could use when requesting the intervention of the French authorities and the Vatican. These letters made a profound impression by their descriptions of the atrocities their fellow citizens had to endure, and by the signatures of some important members, like Emile Toulemonde, who appears to have been, just like Groussau, a point of contact for the people of le Nord.20 Contrary to Groussau, however, the man was still living in the invaded zone. Transmitting such important information to authorities in Paris thus required creativity, which is

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what Marthe Fisener showed when smuggling those petitions out of the warzone (to Groussau) in the handle of her umbrella.21 Bonnevay’s war correspondence, in contrast with Groussau’s, testifies to his freedom to return to his district from time to time, to size up the situation where men had left their lands, crafts, and trades for the front and war factories. In the early stages of the conflict, Bonnevay had made a tour through his constituency, where local politicians could ask for a meeting to inform him of their village’s needs and problems.22 The nature of his district possibly defined what kind of people contacted him. As it was situated outside the warzone, mobilized men could return to their families when on military leave. Moreover, with its factories and the railway station of Lyon in the vicinity, Bonnevay’s constituency belonged to an important war production and transportation zone. Despite his different addresses (one in Dardilly, one in the center of Lyon and one in Paris) and his travels between Paris and his constituency, thousands of war letters reached him without a problem. Not many envelops are preserved, but when Bonnevay’s address was mentioned, it was remarkably often 82, rue de Varenne, Paris.23 As a member of the Commission supérieure of the Ministry of the Interior, the deputy’s presence was indeed needed in the capital. Surprisingly, even some soldiers at the front seem to have known his Parisian address (partially) by heart, and realized that the deputy for Villefranche-sur-Saône was most accessible there. If they did not know the address, however, the mere mention of Monsieur Bonnevay, Député du Rhône, Paris was enough for an army postcard to reach its destination. Such was the case for P. Dulac, who expressed his gratitude for Bonnevay’s intervention on an army correspondence card on 22 January 1918, in terms that were as vague as the address he mentioned (only referring to Paris). Because someone (probably the mailman) had added 82 R Varenne, Bonnevay nonetheless received the card.24 On 5 January 1916, a military engineer with the initials J. F., who originated from Tarare in Bonnevay’s district and who identified himself as a devoted voter of the deputy, sent him a carte-lettre de l’espérance, a card that folds open into a small letter, large enough for a message of hope. Because he used pencil, his name has become illegible over time. The standardized postcard format, especially made for front soldiers’ correspondence, reveals the address it was sent to, which was Bonnevay’s operating base in Paris. Even though the letter-writer did not remember the deputy’s house number and wrote down the wrong number of

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arrondissement (V instead of VII), the letter reached its destination and incited the deputy’s response (about ten days later). The letter-writer used the carte-lettre to send his New Year’s wishes to the deputy and congratulate him for what he had done for the région tararienne during the war. In return, the man promised to be at the service of Bonnevay and those who worked for the deputy at the next elections. He strongly believed that the war would be over by May 1916, and tried to transmit this positivity to the deputy. The main goal of his letter was, however, to ask if there were any people in Tarare—apart from the Comité de Tarare (most likely referring to the local branch of the Red Cross)—who were prepared to send help in kind or in money to front soldiers from the canton. Despite his prognosis of an imminent ending, the war had already lasted too long for the soldiers to manage to live off their savings. If Bonnevay knew someone who could help, J. F. would contact the person in question and would promise to repay them upon his return. Whereas the letter-writer thus in fact appealed to the help of an individual (possibly hoping for Bonnevay to contribute), the deputy seems to have responded that he did not know of such an œuvre, hence shifting the responsibility onto (semi-)organized charity work, and ignoring the clientelist tone of the letter. Even though the card did not offer much space, J. F. managed to make maximum use of it in his small handwriting by leaving no margins.25 Epistolary etiquette required writing in black ink and leaving the appropriate margins, which front soldiers could of course not always take into account, despite them seemingly being aware of it. Auguste Deveaux, a mobilized textile industrialist from the spinning mill of GouttenoireDeveaux in Saint-Vincent-de-Reins apologized for writing his letter of 3 January 1916 in pencil. The circumstances simply did not provide him with what was needed to écrire convenablement. He explained that he was sitting there in the trenches, writing his letter on his lap in the light of one candle, shared by a dozen other soldiers who were doing the same thing.26 Not only Deveaux’ letter, but Bonnevay’s war correspondence in general was more personal than usual. This more informal style created a sense of proximity or even familiarity, a phenomenon that can be explained, first of all, by the feeling of all being in in the same boat, in tune with the spirit of all against one enemy. Secondly, stressing the geographical link with the deputy had become more pertinent during the war, because the correspondent’s place of writing did not always reveal the fact that they belonged to his constituency. Thirdly, by taking January

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as a sample month for scrutinizing war letters, many New Year’s wishes to Bonnevay and his family pop up. These are by definition much more personal than general regards as a standard close of a letter.27 Still, it is remarkable that citizens thought of sending such wishes to a député, and especially that they did so in wartime. Admittedly, those wishes were not the main goal of the messages, but an opportunity to make a new request or reiterate an older claim, which the deputy could tackle in parliament or behind the scenes. Bonnevay was regularly active in parliament in the years 1917–1918, and appears to have resided in his part-time home in Paris for longer periods of time and/or more frequently. Citizens who then wrote the deputy’s address in Lyon on the envelops were corrected by the mailman, who crossed it out and changed it to Bonnevay’s address in Paris.28 At the same time, the deputy for Villefranche-sur-Saône tried to remain accessible for citizens at the homefront in his constituency. His wartime correspondence files testify to his recurrent visits to Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues, where he resided in Hotel Glattard to enable face-to-face meetings with inhabitants of the surrounding area.29 Letters sent from 1916 to 1918 show the citizens’ knowledge of this possibility, as several supplicants tried to reach him chez Monsieur Glattard.30 While these examples reveal the député’s attempts to remain accessible as well as the letter writers’ knowledge of his availability and different possible whereabouts, the question remains how well citizens knew what they could rightfully claim. At first sight, Bonnevay’s war correspondents seem to have overestimated his knowledge and power. This was especially the case for parents of war-prisoners or soldiers. When their sons’ communication suddenly stopped, they wished to be informed or even reassured by the député. A parliamentarian who lived in the capital during the war could act as an important voice of the people from the warzone, but he was also expected to be close to the source of some key information that was still unknown to “ordinary” citizens. On 3 September 1914, Paul Gravillon from Cublize (in Bonnevay’s constituency) wished to find out through the deputy what had happened to his eldest son. They had not heard from him since his mobilization. Was he alive or dead? Was he wounded or made prisoner of war? Instead of being a blatant overestimation of Bonnevay’s knowledge, his letter was proof that the député was their only accessible and reliable source of information about what might have happened at the front or in the prison camps. Indeed, Gravillon literally wrote that he could not turn to anyone else.

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Mayors and prefects were accessible too, but probably less-informed. As a higher placed politician, active in Paris, Bonnevay might have picked up on some news earlier than the local politicians from outside the capital and the combatant zone. He could encourage executive authorities to start an investigation and contact the army command to ask for information. Moreover, citizens from Villefranche-sur-Saône already knew they could turn to him with personal requests. Some were probably well-aware of his previous contacts with the army command, and more specifically of his support of pre-war requests for postponements of military service. In Gravillon’s case, Bonnevay did indeed contact the Colonel, who could ensure him that (on 4 September at least) the young man was still alive and in good health.31 This was not just an isolated case. A. Bolland, whose son Jean-Baptiste had been made a prisoner of war in Verdun on 6 March 1916, declared on 15 January 1917 that he dared to ask Bonnevay for “a great service” (i.e., news about his son), because he knew the deputy’s “kindness.” (Bonnevay had arranged financial relief for him in the past.) A summary of Bonnevay’s draft response, scribbled on top of this letter, proves that he did indeed make the necessary inquiries. He passed the Minister of War’s response onto the man, explaining that the disappearance of his son had to be investigated by the Spanish embassy and the Minister for Foreign Affairs.32 Another war prisoner’s case from 1917 concerns the confiscation of parcels addressed to a prisoner. Philippe Déresse from Cours (Villefranche-sur-Saône) described the distressing letters he and his wife kept receiving from their son-in-law. The latter, prisoner of war, apparently never got the parcels they had been sending over to him for three months already. His correspondence revealed that he had become desperate, thinking that his wife did not love him anymore. Again, Bonnevay tried to open an investigation at the relevant authorities, but he asked Déresse to send him a less intimate letter from their son-in-law than the one they had sent him as an example, so that he could pass it onto the Minister for Foreign Affairs.33 Although the actual investigators in this case too were the Minister and the Spanish embassy, Bonnevay’s personal involvement was nonetheless remarkable. Deputies even seem to have sent parcels to prisoners of war themselves, or at least kept a close watch on the successful arrival of packages at the camps where French soldiers were imprisoned in 1918. Bonnevay’s notes briefly mention a request from widow Sarrazin from Saint-Nizierd’Azergues, who asked him to send a parcel to her son, Alphonse Sarrazin,

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an infantry soldier made prisoner of war in Germany.34 In Dumesnil’s archives, we find a letter from widow Lemoine, thanking Messieur [sic] et Madame (both Dumesnil and his wife) on 3 March 1918 on behalf of her son for the parcel he had received. As it was difficult for him to write, she decided to do it for him, although the many spelling errors reveal that she was not used to writing letters either. It is possible that sending such a package to a constituent was an exceptional action from the deputy’s side, only destined for citizens whom he knew very well. Still, although widow Lemoine wrote Bonjour à Madame Dumesnil de ma par [sic], her informal writing style does not necessarily have to be attributed to a close relation to Dumesnil’s family; she was clearly not familiar with the epistolary etiquette.35 These examples indicate that French citizens expected much more from a deputy than just the execution of his representative duty, which, in turn, raises the question on how their expectations regarding the député correlated with their expectations of their deservingness, rights, and duties as “ordinary” citizens. (Because, out of the four case studies, Bonnevay’s war correspondence is the most extensive, the next two sections mainly draw from his archives.)

Deservingness of Solidarity Between Charity and Justice In his article on the relation between the welfare state and citizenship in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Western-European societies, Patrick Hassenteufel stresses the dual nature of the concept, which has a “statutory” side and an “identity-based” side. Citizenship as a statute, on the one hand, is a reciprocal relation, regulated by laws, between the state and the individual. Thus, it involves all duties that officially defined a citizen, as well as the rights that were granted to compensate for fulfilling these duties. Citizenship as an identity, on the other hand, refers to people’s sense of belonging to society and therefore to the values they attached to it. The ability to imagine themselves as citizens required at least a certain notion of the “official” definition of the concept (as a statute).36 Therefore, people’s knowledge of their duties and rights formed an important link between both manifestations of the notion. At the same time—and together with their interest in politics—political knowledge can be seen as part of the citizens’ duties. In the case of France, “good” citoyens were supposed to be aware of the “republican project” and know their responsibilities as well as the way

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these would be rewarded. This did not imply passive acceptance of topdown created conditions for citizenship. In other words, identity-based citizenship cannot solely be interpreted in terms of what Hassenteufel refers to as a “collective identification, based on the community created by the nation-state.”37 It is important to acknowledge the individual experiences French people had with their (complete or incomplete) citizenship, as well as their agency to adjust or co-construct their French identities. During the war years, authorities had to promptly adapt and implement social policies in response to the rapidly changing reality. This not only challenged the knowledge-gathering process of men and women who tried to stay informed about the policies that could apply to them or their families. It also challenged them to discuss the effectiveness and equity of certain social measures and to negotiate their own deservingness in their applications for state support. The requests they sent to French parliamentarians (députés ) were most often rooted in very personal (not rarely financial) issues, which they sought to overcome with the help of “their” representative. Nonetheless, these sources also reveal the letter-writers’ views of their own place in society. Especially women, who were excluded from full statutory citizenship by lack of female enfranchisement until 1944 (and in practice until the municipal and national elections of 1945), seem to have felt the need to explain more explicitly why they contacted a député and why they thought they were deserving of his help. As Hassenteufel remarks, those who could rightfully claim help from the welfare state were therefore not automatically recognized as full citizens. In other words, there was not necessarily a causal link between receiving state support and political citizenship.38 Whereas a so-called secours (a one-off financial aid) replaced individual acts of charity, the vote was a statutory, constitutional right. Still, people’s access to social security measures could have had an impact on their “identity-based” citizenship. More specifically, their feeling of national belonging was likely to be strengthened by their access to benefits from the welfare state. Regarding these benefits, Hassenteufel differentiates between community-based charity of Bismarckian Germany on the one hand, and French republican solidarity on the other.39 Poor relief based on the republican principle of solidarity can be seen as a debt of the nation toward the poor. It was a “social duty […] wider than the traditional concept of justice but more precise, rigorous, and obligatory than charity.”40 Although it was vague and therefore still quite noncommittal in its early stages (in the late 1880s), the principle mattered as a

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“moral basis” for poor relief outside of the Catholic framework and within a non-clerical republican one.41 Moreover, the concept of solidarity gradually became regulated by law. The requirements that were stipulated for the validation of applications for poor relief were based on the applicants’ inability to cover their basic needs through work and disregarded their contribution to society as a rightful claim. The law of 14 July 1905 on compulsory assistance for the aged, the disabled, and the incurably ill was a first important step in making such solidarity legally enforceable; thus, it was turned into a statute.42 Although during and after the First World War, such state allowances expanded in order to preserve “the right to live” for all French citizens, solidarity remained strictly regulated in terms of deservingness throughout the Third Republic (i.e., until after the Second World War). Able-bodied men and women younger than seventy who did not manage to make ends meet still had to count on the kind of poor relief that was not simply enforceable as a civil right. Since the right to state support was not as “universal” as the right to vote was said to be (though solely for male citizens), applicants needed to clarify their “identity-based” citizenship and how they thought it could validate their claim to this support. Because of the limits and vagueness of the notion of solidarity, which did not completely overlap with statutory citizenship, the difference between perfect (enforceable) and imperfect (unenforceable) rights (such as claims to charity) was likely to be hazy for French men and women. Consequently, deservingness was open to interpretation and negotiation. Important to note is that the studied letters do not literally refer to either solidarity or citizenship. Still, being on the receiving end of solidarities, many letter-writers did in fact appeal to the notion of the word by referring to the deputy’s charitable intérêt, his “sympathy” or a “service” toward them. This phraseology suggests that the letter-writers were aware of the unenforceable nature of their request and expected the deputy’s help on a more informal level. It should not come as a surprise that a job recommendation was often referred to in terms of charity or benevolence, since the letter-writers realized that they could not claim the absolute right to a job. The same was true for Bonnevay’s “favors” to farmers from his constituency, for whom he had in the pre-war years arranged a military leave, a postponement of their military service, or a posting to a different regiment. However, this did not mean that the applicants considered such requests as any less legitimate. The harvest season was a good reason for a postponement and, given Bonnevay’s known efforts

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or services for people from the valley, his interventions on the farmers’ behalf seemed only logical, even though they knew that what they were asking was not enforceable.43 The issue of allowances was more complex, because on the one hand, there were laws regulating the payment of pensions to which applicants could claim they had the right. On the other hand, for those who could not appeal to such an allowance on legal grounds, there was still the possibility to apply for a secours (either locally or toward a Minister), and call in the deputy’s “charitable intervention” for it. Even when citizens could make legal claims to a specific financial benefit but found themselves unable to enforce it, they not only tried to convince the député of the legitimacy of their request, but also recurred to notions of “benevolence.” Especially when slow administrations hindered the citizen in obtaining his/her enforceable rights, a deputy’s “kindness” or “support” was still the target of appeals.44 Although in many letters (written by men or women) the député’s services were often perceived as acts of kindness, we should avoid overinterpretations of rather general phrasings such as thanks for votre charitable intérêt. It was a quite common way of expressing gratitude for the representative’s efforts on their behalf, almost as a figure of speech in some cases. As recommended by the aforementioned late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century handbooks on epistolary style, many letter-writers respectfully, but without being overly fawning, focused on the politician’s praiseworthy capacities, like his well-known benevolence and the ease with which he would be able to grant the favor. In addition, instead of making a concrete promise that was impossible to keep, these manuals advised to make an indirect promise by expressing how grateful the letter-writer and their family would remain.45 The choice to frame the deputy’s “service” as a kind gesture thus aligned with this epistolary etiquette of the time, and allowed women to claim the same level of engagement from the politician as men did. Women too could promise their “devotion” and highlight their relation of debt as the deputy’s obligée or even his humble servante.46 Although these expressions could not imply the same as men’s promises for “future” or “eternal” gratitude, servitude and/or devotion,47 many female letter-writers seemed convinced that their prayers and wishes for the deputy’s good luck carried the same weight as their male counterparts’ implicit or explicit support. On a piece of lace-cut paper, decorated with hand-painted flowers, Mrs. Bonnouche Rival, for example, wished Bonnevay at the beginning of 1910 a perfectly happy

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and long life in good health. Even though she referred to her husband joining her in her New Years’ wishes, she expressed her gratitude (for the “great kindness” Bonnevay had shown toward her) from her side alone, confident in the impact of her own words.48 While the combination of men’s “gratitude” with the mere mention of their place of residence could already imply political support for the deputy, some letter-writers expressed their own or their family’s support more explicitly. This did not mean that the letters were examples of pure clientelist trade-offs. Bonnevay’s correspondents appear to have realized that merely presenting themselves as his constituents was not enough to justify their requests. Whereas a matter of justice could be a legitimization, because there was legal proof that the applicant had indeed the right to obtain what he/she claimed, a charity case needed further justifications to underline the applicant’s deservingness. Remarkably, most of Bonnevay’s correspondents had at least an idea of what they wanted or could ask for in their situation. Instead of simply asking for money, they requested the deputy’s help in obtaining a breadwinner’s replacement income, a retirement pension, elderly benefits, cheap train tickets, a job in a certain sector, a job transfer or a promotion. This phenomenon persisted in the interwar period, and characterizes the correspondence archives from the other députés as well. Citizens who decided not to let a mayor or another acquaintance of the deputy speak on their behalf, but to formulate their requests themselves, were not rarely already informed by such authorities of what to expect. Poor relief and unemployment fees fell within the competence of the municipality. When a request for support in such cases reached the deputy, local politicians most likely thus had already pointed out the applicants’ bounds of possibility. In addition, after the war, recommendations for jobs that were reserved for the poorest (e.g., as tobacco shop owners49 ) or for war-veterans or -invalids (e.g., as lockkeepers), were requested by people who did not belong to the target group. Their attempt to obtain the deputy’s support nonetheless should not necessarily be attributed to a lack of knowledge, as these interwar letter-writers often indicated that they knew the limitations and regulations. Their correspondence with a deputy rather appears to have been a trial-and-error tactic. Despite the low chances of success and their possible knowledge thereof, the letter-writers obviously thought that it was worth a try, especially when the deputy was already known for previous successes.

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Such was the case for a man called Davault, head lockkeeper in Ablon (in the suburbs of Paris), who remembered Dumesnil’s intervention from when he was still working as a lockkeeper in Samois-sur-Seine (Fontainebleau). In his letter from 19 June 1930, he therefore clarified that he hoped for a new “service,” at least “if it is in your power.” Davault’s son wished to become a lockkeeper as well, more specifically at the lock of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garenne (Eure), for which he had already gained the support of the engineers of the navigation de la Seine 3 ième Section. Although Davault knew that such a position was reserved for war-veterans and –invalids, a certain percentage was foreseen for civilian candidates. His son thus simply tried his luck. They would send his file to the Ministry for Public Works anyway, but hoped that Dumesnil would intervene in the son’s favor toward the Minister. The deputy did indeed support the application, but someone else got the job in the end.50 In many cases concerning state support, citizens only contacted the député after having been sent from pillar to post without receiving a satisfying result. Through these unsuccessful attempts, they were educated on how their individual situation failed to link up with statutory rights. However, the letter-writers were not passive subjects of the policies’ implications on their identity-based citizenship. A woman whose husbandbreadwinner had to join the army, for example, was convinced that his replacement income was rightfully hers. Nonetheless, Susan Pedersen and Susan Grayzel are right in stating that the allowances granted by WesternEuropean governments to women were strongly based on the dependency of these women on a male breadwinner.51 Before the war, it was indeed not uncommon for a man whose military service temporarily bereaved his family (wife or parents) of their only breadwinner, to consider the allowance that compensated for his absence as his own wages. When a man then took the initiative for obtaining this fee, it becomes clear that he saw it as his duty to continue to provide for his family’s survival. Such was the case for Jean Blanc, who thanked Bonnevay in March 1908 for his intervention. Blanc was sure that, c’est grâce à vous, que j’ai pu obtenir, ou plutôt que mes parents ont pu obtenir l’indemnité journalière. While at first, he referred to “his” allowance, he corrected himself immediately thereafter by stating that his parents received it. Nevertheless, his choice of words stressed the fact that it was a compensation for his absence. In addition, his promise “to stay loyal to the liberal and progressive Republic” upon his return, put the emphasis on his own agency and not that of his parents. His reference to the Republic indicated his support

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for Bonnevay’s political affiliation (to the so-called progressive republicans of the center-right).52 In another pre-war example, from a few years later, Gabriel Salot informed the deputy of having received his letter, announcing the decision of the departmental committee to grant him (Salot) “the breadwinner’s allowance” (l’allocation des soutiens de fammille [sic]). The letter-writer did not know how to express his gratitude for the trouble the député had taken for him. Thanks to Bonnevay’s efforts, Salot remarked, his wife and daughter did not have to live in misery.53 Both Salot and Blanc promised their continued support for the representative because of his interventions in “their” allowance cases. Along the same lines, J. Giraud legitimized a new request on 4 December 1912, by referring to the deputy’s previous successful intervention, thanks to which his brother had obtained the daily compensation during his military service. Their widowed mother was not literally mentioned as the actual recipient of this aid.54 Female letter-writers, on the other hand, most often considered the breadwinner’s replacement income as their own. Already in 1910, Elise Barré expressed her “profound gratitude” toward Bonnevay for his “kind protection,” thanks to which she had obtained mon secours militaire. Although she thus appears to have linked the success of her request to the good deed of Bonnevay as her patron-protector, she was also convinced that the money was her due; not as mere charity, but as her enforceable, statutory right.55 This was even more characteristic of letters from wives and mothers of mobilized men during the First World War, who were compelled by the circumstances to be well-informed of their rights and to take care of the formalities in order to claim their due. Many citizens indeed seem to have had a lot of faith in “their” individual representative and his influence on executive powers. In the case of Bonnevay, citizens’ expectations of his role often even exceeded his representative task, yet, instead of merely informing his supplicants about the limits of his authority, Bonnevay tried to meet their expectations as much as possible, if they were in line with the ideal of equality of opportunities. While, through their war correspondence with the député, citizens became more aware of his attachment to this republican ideal, they also learned to frame their individual requests along the lines of such a greater value and in relation to what they thought were (or should be) their enforceable rights. Seemingly at odds with this logic, men and women contacted Bonnevay during (the early stages of) the war on the assumption that he

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would and could send their mobilized family member or themselves to a line in the back, to a war factory in the interior, to the supply services at the railway company in Lyon or home on leave. Others seemed to expect that he would be able to convince the medical examiners to declare them or a family member unfit for military service. Historian Charles Ridel studied this phenomenon of embuscades, about which he found both complaints and requests for support in the war correspondence files of right-wing representative for the Seine, Maurice Barrès. Although being fit for battle, war shirkers (embusqués ) tried to avoid duty at the frontline or mobilization in general. People who managed to get their (healthy) family members posted in a privileged position fitted under the same umbrella. Embuscade is thus not the same as desertion, but it was often perceived as cowardly and unfair too, since it caused inequalities in the impôt du sang (literally: tax of blood).56 Considering the high proportion of farmers and artisans in Bonnevay’s district, the large number of such wishes was not surprising, for all manpower could be used on family farms and in factories, to keep life sustainable. Nonetheless, in the context of the early months of the war, when parliament was dissolved and preferential treatment for constituents had become less justifiable, such expectations of an individual representative’s concrete influence and action may appear out of place. They seem to suggest that rural citizens (still) heavily relied on their patron–client relationship with their député. In his analysis of similar requests to Barrès, Ridel notices an appeal to pathos, which, although understandable, sometimes seemed to tend toward “electoral blackmail.”57 A focus on pathos, however, risks to obscure another important phenomenon that characterized citizens’ war letters to parliamentarians (at least the ones to député du Rhône Bonnevay), which is the mutual educational nature of the exchange. Next to displaying emotion, displaying adequate knowledge of their rights and duties was important for such requests to be taken seriously. Indeed, especially further along in the war, many of Bonnevay’s correspondents tried to make sure not to sound like shirkers or free-riders, by elaborating on the details of their situation and the steps they had already taken, and by showing how this made them realize that theory and practice (concerning their rights) failed to match up. The député, in return, shared very concrete knowledge on the possible steps they could take to have at least a slight chance of success. Still, just like Barrès (studied by Ridel),58 Bonnevay wanted to be certain of the legality of the solutions he proposed, whether they concerned recruitment and posting (a), military

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leave (b) or financial compensation (c) the latter topic showing continuity in the letter-writer’s interwar requests for state support (d).

War-Related Requests Between Emotion and Mutual Education a. Recruitment and posting Bonnevay was not just a parliamentary representative, but he also continued to represent the canton of Lamure-sur-Azergues on the departmental level as a general councilor. In the latter capacity, he was automatically a member of the cantonal conseil de révision, which decided upon the military recruitment and unfitness of men.59 Pre-war letters of thanks make clear that in this combination of capacities, Bonnevay had been an important support for the families of his rural district before. His letters of recommendation for military leaves, postponements of military service (until after harvest time), or declarations of unfitness appear to have been very successful back then. Although the député struggled to (morally) justify such preferential treatment for constituents since the outbreak of war, he saw it as his duty to reply to these requests regardless. Rather than offer a ready-made solution, he educated his correspondents on the actual political situation, while suggesting possible steps to take.60 The interactive adjustment of citizens’ expectations regarding the deputy’s wartime authority and the enforceable nature of their rights appear clearly in Bonnevay’s correspondence with Pierre-Marie Félix Jacquet. On 27 January 1915, Jacquet, a mobilized laborer at the supply services in Fort Villeurbanne (Lyon), requested the deputy’s support for his application for sick leave. At the moment of writing, the man was recovering from an ankle fracture in a temporary convalescent hospital in Saint-Rambert-l’Île-Barbe (close to Lyon). Stressing that he was far from being recovered, as he still walked with difficulty, Jacquet formulated his wish to recover at home. Therefore, he needed Bonnevay to write a letter to Dr. Chabaud (chief physician at the hospital), encouraging the latter to write a recommendation to the conseil de réforme. The demand for declarations of unfitness was so high that Jacquet thought he should make a difference through “a certain protection, for the request to be taken into consideration.” Not merely asking for it, but clearly counting on the deputy’s support, the letter-writer did not shy away from explicitly

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placing himself under the député’ s patronage and expecting to be favored by him. However, Bonnevay made clear that he could not ask a physician to recommend a soldier to the conseil de réforme, as “it would run counter to the goal pursued by the rest.” With this vague phrasing, he meant that this action would create an unfair competition, while every applicant should have equal opportunities. Decisions for military leaves and declarations of unfitness should be solely based on the severity of each situation, without any influence of a recommendation. Still, the deputy contacted the Minister of War to be informed about what the man was entitled to. The Minister apparently ensured him that Jacquet had the right to spend his sick leave at home. Even though the letter-writer got what he wanted (because he had indeed the right to it), Bonnevay made a point of denouncing motives that were too clientelist, instead supporting more politicized values.61 By 1916, several letter-writers were already aware of the député’ s limitations regarding favors for constituents, and asked for advice on the steps they could take to enforce their rights themselves. Such was the case for Claude Bamillon, a letter-writer from Claveisolles (in Bonnevay’s constituency) who acted as an intermediary for a wife and a mother of a mobilized man, Antoine Sanlaville, from the same village. Although Bamillon was not an excellent writer himself (his letter contained many spelling errors), he was probably considered the right man for the job because he felt closer to the deputy. He made clear that he was Bonnevay’s supporter, by addressing him as Mon chèr [sic] député and identifying himself as votre tout devoué. Moreover, he was able to briefly sum up the necessary information about Sanlaville’s situation. As a reservist of the classe de 1903 (i.e., those drafted into military service in 1903), Sanlaville was called to arms on 10 November 1914. His child was born shortly thereafter. It seems that the man’s superiors had not given him the opportunity yet to go home on leave and see his child. He was sent to the front on 28 April 1915, but was posted to a different infantry regiment in October and again in November, right when he thought he would be granted his military leave. In the meantime, his comrades from his new regiment had already been granted their permission twice. Therefore, Bamillon wished to be informed about the kind of action they had to take in order for Sanlaville to be allowed to take his due leave as soon as possible. Bonnevay explained the possibility that Sanlaville’s change of regiment might not have been taken into account. If this were the case, he had to make his request through “the hierarchical way.” In other

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words, it was up to the army command to investigate the situation. Even though Bonnevay could not help the man by giving him preferential treatment, the deputy nonetheless asked Bamillon to keep him updated on the case.62 The legal terms allowing soldiers to be posted away from the battle zone were very strict too, and no patronage-like claim or miserable situation could change the chances of success of demands that fell outside the legal framework. In 1917, when the war had already put an enormous toll on the lives and supplies of many French families, Bonnevay’s responses made painfully clear what they did not wish to hear. In January of that year, insurance agent J.-M. Itéprat from Saint-Appolinaire (in Bonnevay’s voting district) sent him a letter on behalf of widow Rollin, in which he appealed to the deputy’s influence and protection in return for the family’s former efforts in the build-up to the elections. To further legitimize his request for help, he explained the widow’s unfortunate situation. Two of Rollin’s sons had been killed in the war; her third son was mobilized at the Salonica front. As she was almost blind and too ill to work herself, it would be of great importance (de haute urgence) to have her son back home. According to Itéprat, this was a just demand, because he knew the Rollin family as deserving of the deputy’s protection (elle mérite votre protection). At each election, they had distributed Bonnevay’s ballot papers. Moreover, Bonnevay’s high influence (votre haute influence) toward the competent authorities would render a great service (un grand service) to this miserable and deplorable widow. His letter thus did not differ from the typical pre-war demands for support appealing to the deputy’s great influence and readiness to help. However, these arguments were not valid in wartime. Bonnevay wrote back on 5 April that nothing could be done, because a widow’s mobilized son could only come home if three others had died in the war.63 The reason why he wrote back so late was that in the early months of 1917, the Chamber was still discussing specific conditions for exceptions concerning mobilization and posting. Itéprat’s request on Rollin’s behalf thus cannot be seen as proof of ignorance. Although his letter discussed an individual case, there was a chance that it could influence the statutory citizenship of a broader group of citizens at the homefront, because the legal grounds for the right he tried to enforce still had to be created. On 16 March, Henri Queuille (radical-socialist deputy from Corrèze, who worked as a doctor at the front) asked the assembly to finally constitutionalize the measures for transferring soldiers who were fathers of four

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children or those who had lost two brothers in the war (tués à l’ennemi) to less exposed positions. Queuille expected more guarantees than just the declarations or goodwill of the State-secretary for war administration.64 A transfer to less exposed lines within the same unit, however, was different from a transfer to a non-combatant job (granted to men who had lost at least three brothers). Therefore, in spite of the widow’s pitiful situation and her family’s political dedication, there was not much Bonnevay could do that would enable her to get her son back home. Considering all the manpower that was needed at the front, the group of men to make exceptions for could not be extended any further.65 The deputy for Villefranche did not stand on the barricades for this particular subject, but chose a different battle to fight in the parliamentary arena during these months, at the instigation of soldiers at the Salonica front and their families at home (especially those from the Haut-Beaujolais region, where his constituency was situated). b. Military leave and the Eastern Front When Bonnevay agreed that a certain case, like theirs, was indeed an example of a broader injustice, he involved himself openly, by interpellating in parliament once plenary sessions were reinstated or by addressing an official written question to the Minister concerned. Such questions for information generally started with a complaint about an unfair situation (as pointed out by correspondents) which could not always lead to direct change. In the case of the so-called Armée d’Orient (the Oriental Expeditionary Force at the Salonica front) in early 1917, the deputy addressed questions to the Minister of War, because of a lack of clarity and suspected unfairness concerning the furlough for soldiers at the Salonica front, in comparison to the regulations for those at the Western front. Corporal H. Pouly from the 372nd infantry regiment managed to send a letter to the deputy on 23 January 1917 from Grandris, his home village in Villefranche-sur-Saône. He was there on sick leave after his evacuation from the Salonica front, but he had never been granted any furlough, and did not seem to believe that the military authorities would grant him any in the near future either. Although sick leave of seven days cancelled out seven days of furlough for soldiers at the French Front, the same period of sick leave for those from the Oriental Expeditionary Force appeared to be compensated by the cancellation of their entire year’s amount of

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twenty-one furlough days. Because the way he was treated was profondément injuste, he asked Bonnevay for more information. That same day, the deputy addressed a written question to the Minister of War, which seemed based on Pouly’s complaint or at least a very similar one.66 As it was customary to generalize the topic of the written questions and to make the subject of the interpellations anonymous, Bonnevay did not mention his source, nor did he allude to this specific case. One day later, he responded to Pouly that he had submitted an official written question about it to the Minister of War. On 10 February, he sent him the Minister’s official reply from a few days earlier, indicating that military men from the Armée d’Orient only had to give up their furlough of twentyone days when their sick leave exceeded thirty days, whereas soldiers at the front nord-est lost their furlough after a sick leave of only fifteen days. This indicates that Pouly, who did not even seem to have left the front for seven days, was in his right.67 Still, this very same issue kept recurring, which led Bonnevay to use his right to interpellate again on 30 March 1917 to reiterate his complaints toward the new Minister of War, republican-socialist Paul Painlevé. During the debates on this topic, Bonnevay did not refer to an individual case, but to a specific regiment that he claimed to know well (i.e., the regiment to which his Beaujolais correspondents belonged), where furlough had only been granted to a small minority. By the month of March, “the parliament” had already complained several times about this situation, he remarked, yet none of the Ministers of War (rapidly succeeding each other) had been able to grant the wishes that had been formulated multiple times in the plenary debates, “in the spirit of justice.” This “spirit” also marked the rhetoric in the letters from the Salonica soldiers, who offered Bonnevay inspiration for his speeches.68 Throughout his interpellation, Bonnevay put his finger on the large gap between theory and practice, of which the Minister and his predecessors did not seem to have been aware, while the deputy with his contacts in the field was. The Ministry of War had previously promised that soldiers mobilized to reinforce the Salonica front would be granted their furlough before their transfer. In reality, however, they were often posted from one corps to the other without furlough being granted. In addition, Bonnevay brought up the issue of convalescence leave again, depriving recovering soldiers from their rights to other types of military leave. Certain commanders simply refused all sorts of furlough after sick leave, regardless of its duration. After complaints from the soldiers

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concerned, Bonnevay contacted their army command, informing them of the Minister’s answers. The army commanders, however, replied that they did not have access to the Minister’s responses, but only knew his circular letters. These prohibited retroactive measures, and were hence open to interpretation. Because all efforts for obtaining furlough seemed in vain, Bonnevay claimed to be giving up while demanding something else instead: demobilization from the Oriental Expeditionary Force altogether for those who had been serving there for at least a year already, because a longer mobilization would endanger their health. By using the pronoun nous, he rhetorically created an in-group of soldiers that included himself, although he did not join the army during the war.69 Hereby, he stressed his own engagement in the investigation, legitimizing his demand as the voice of a forgotten part of the army, far away. Although his claim seems to have been very problematic in practice and therefore might have appeared unrealistic, he was actually well-informed by those concerned and genuinely believed in this solution for the Salonica soldiers who kept updating him on injustices in the field.70 Even though the misery of these soldiers, as well as of civilians left behind at the home-front spoke for itself, Bonnevay’s supplicants nonetheless often added another layer of legitimization. The letter-writers commonly reinforced their argument of misery either through a very humble or even subservient self-presentation, or rather through a more assertive protest against the unfairness of the circumstances. While the more subservient letter-writers particularly recognized Bonnevay’s expertise, they thus counted on his knowledge and power to enforce change, the assertive letter-writers generally displayed their own knowledge of a specific policy that affected them directly; hence, they educated the deputy from their side. It seems typical for citizens addressing authorities to use a trial-and-error method including diverse rhetorical elements to increase their chances of success, which was not an exclusive feature of letters to deputies in the French Third Republic. In his analysis of English pauper letters to parish officers in districts of Essex between 1800 and 1834, Thomas Sokoll remarks that defensive (modest, humble, “apologetic phraseology and deferential”) rhetoric and what he calls offensive rhetoric (protest highlighting the unfairness of the situation and their conviction that their claims were legitimate) were typically combined.71 The same can be said for wartime requests and complaints concerning financial compensation.

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c. Widow pensions and breadwinner’s replacement income Rarely did Bonnevay receive a letter that was truly offensive, in the sense of containing a personal attack. Denise Chandon’s complaint denouncing the député’ s opposition against the Lugol bill was, however, an exceptional example. Her case is interesting nonetheless, because it shows how the war “mobilized” some women into micro-politics, where they engaged in informal discussions about their social rights, without therefore directly leading to their actual political (suffrage) rights. If it were not for Bonnevay’s vigorous opposition against article 12 of the Lugol bill (coming from the Committee of Pensions) during the parliamentary debates of 19 December 1917, the war-widow’s right to a pension would probably have been abolished in case they remarried. The bill only suggested such a withdrawal for remarried war-widows, while the pension of remarried widows whose first husband had died as a civilian remained.72 Bonnevay’s protesting amendment received enough support to pass, which did not please Denise Chandon. On behalf of herself and 21 other unmarried women between 20 and 25 years old from the Bourbonnais region (not linked to Bonnevay’s district), she wrote a letter of complaint, pleading for an abolishment of military pensions for remarried war-widows. These young female petitioners gathered every Sunday to make parcels of clean clothes for the soldiers in the occupied areas, and packages of books and illustrated newspapers for those staying at the military hospitals. Their war-effort had brought these single women together and left them talking about politics in general and Bonnevay in particular. “Does that surprise you?” Chandon daringly asked, as she was convinced that not only they, but also other young single women from everywhere in the country were talking about him, and not in a positive way. Did Bonnevay and his colleagues even realize what they had done by maintaining the military pension for remarried war-widows? “My God!” she exclaimed, the deputy had “forced young women into celibacy!” To make her attack even more personal, she asked Bonnevay if he had daughters himself. If so, they would undoubtedly be rich enough to find a husband. “But [had he] thought of the other girls?” she rhetorically wondered aloud. They would not be able to compete with the widows who maintained their pensions and consequently stole the single women’s possible wedding candidates. In case this personal attack alone would turn out to be counterproductive (which it was), Chandon tried to balance it out with a

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mathematical logic—the war inevitably condemned a large number of young women to celibacy—and an additional rational line of argument, as she moved the focus onto the injustice of granting military pensions to the alleged veuves … joyeuses. This concept referred to the remarried war-widows who did not mourn, but immediately attracted a new man by showing off how rich they were. Meanwhile, a generation of young single women would never be able to experience the joys of being a wife or a mother. Their dreams would be scattered, their future would be bleak, and their lives would be pointless, Chandon explained. The widow’s life, at least, had been fulfilled, especially if she had children. To add some nuance, the petitioning women agreed that it was fair to give pensions to war-orphans and grieving widows, but concluded that it should be abolished for these “joyful widows.” In sum, she contacted the deputy because an unfairly attributed statutory right, granted to this specific group of citizens (pensions for remarried war-widows), influenced her own identity-based citizenship (as a single woman who was unable to find a husband) to the disadvantage of the (republican but also Christian?) values she deemed important, such as marrying and having children. Even though Bonnevay remained in favor of equality of remarried widows’ pensions (mainly because these were supposed to prevent concubinage73 ) and seems to have ignored the women’s petition, the lack of results does not detract from their remarkable initiative. Chandon’s letter testified to their political knowledge and their concrete political agency, triggered by their unofficial reunions for their joint war-effort. They personally experienced the negative effects of a certain political measure, which they tried to change through a combination of a personal and a politicized discourse, referring to the ideals and expectations of their role in society (as a wife and mother), general values (justice), and rationality (a mathematical logic) in order to appeal to the politician’s empathy. They did not contact the député because he represented their district (which he did not), but because he was in favor of this allegedly futurethreatening measure and needed a reality-check. It seems that these single women, or at least their spokesperson, were well-informed about politics and policies of the moment, which affected their lives. Furthermore, they expected their words to have an impact, especially since they considered their suffering to be comparable to the suffering of soldiers at the front.74 Although with its personal attack, Chandon’s letter is quite exceptional, it does seem that the First World War brought about more

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assertiveness among the letter-writers (with an increase in female assertiveness), although most of them, similar to Thomas Sokoll’s cases, combined their “protest” with the common deferential rhetorical aspects referred to in the previous chapter. For example, factory-weaver Alphonse Lacombe used several tactics in one letter to Bonnevay, which he wrote only a few weeks after the beginning of the war. First, Lacombe began his letter, which was filled with spelling errors, by requesting a deserved grand Serviçe [sic]. Paradoxically, however, although he counted on the deputy’s unenforceable “good heart” and “high influence,” he needed Bonnevay’s help to assert what he called his “civil rights.” In fact, what he really needed was a correct execution of the law; at least that was how he saw it. Secondly, to ensure these rights, he tried to prove that he was a good citizen. Therefore, he stressed the importance of the allowance he claimed to have only applied for out of necessity, for the survival of his large family. In this context, he mentioned having eleven children of whom only five were still alive, and only the eldest was the family’s breadwinner, yet the latter would not be able to provide for his family anymore once he was mobilized. Consequently, the prospect of “great misery” that was out of Lacombe’s control drove him toward his application for a breadwinner’s replacement income. Describing it as an allocation journalière que la loi accorde au [sic] familles nécessiteuses, he highlighted that a destitute situation like his legally justified his application. Moreover, by showing that he knew to whom he should address his plea, he proved himself an enterprising citizen who knew what to do to keep his family alive. Although Lacombe had the municipal council’s unanimous approval, or so he claimed, his engagement was counteracted by the gendarmerie whose investigation had been influenced by “people of little value.” Apparently, he suspected those who had been interviewed to have spoken badly of him, which he had tried to invalidate by adding his clean record to his application, as proof of his good citizenship. It was the mayor who had advised Lacombe to turn to Bonnevay for support, and who certified Lacombe’s signature. In his response, the député assured the man that his case would be impartially examined in Thizy (i.e., on the cantonal level).75 Given Bonnevay’s “kind soul” that was “legendary in our arrondissement,” gardener Alfred Favre was also convinced that he could legitimately count on Bonnevay’s help. Just like Lacombe, Favre expected support for his application of the allowance he felt he had the right to claim in his capacity as a father of a large family, facing pure misery

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during the war. The focus on his misery and thus on the necessity of the allowance to survive, in combination with an appeal to the deputy’s kind soul, was not an exceptional legitimization of a request for an allowance. Especially in cases of extreme misery, the only way to survive seems to have been through the kind action of a deputy, as a counter to the slowness, passivity or even the suspected ill will of certain administrations. Therefore, the letter-writers’ chosen phrasings make it seem as if these citizens were entirely dependent on the deputy’s goodwill to obtain an allowance, instead of being able to claim it as their legal right. How should we interpret such common phraseology, that, at least at first sight, appears to have reduced the active letter-writer to a passive subject to misery and regulations beyond his/her control? In the case of Alfred Favre who (among many others) contacted the deputy only after he had hit rock bottom, the letter-writer had already taken action to solve his financial problems himself, before turning to Bonnevay in January 1915. As a father of a large family, Favre had tried to keep his head above the water after the mobilization of one of his sons, who used to be the family’s main breadwinner. When Favre still had a job himself, he had been able to put some money aside; he had not asked for an allowance, but since his employer had to close his enterprise when being called to arms, the man found himself to be “vegetating.” Nevertheless, he had tried to keep working to earn some money, but he had only been able to take on temporary jobs of one or two days, here and there. At the advice of his neighbors, Favre had already contacted the municipality for financial help, after having used up his savings first. Only because he had not heard back from them, did he write to Bonnevay, hoping that he could help him obtain an allowance. Favre stressed that he was driven by pure necessity, since his youngest child was ill, he had no job or money left, they had no coal to warm themselves, and at least one day a week, he was unable to put bread on the table. If the winter were over, he would not have bothered asking for help, he claimed. The letter-writer thus showed himself an independent citizen, who had tried to manage himself, but who, in the worst circumstances, had to appeal for state support to ensure his and his family’s survival. In his response, the député explained which steps the man could take to appeal after a possible rejection. Important to note here is that, although the deputy’s “kind soul” was what Favre counted on in the end (which sounds very passive), the man had proven himself to be very enterprising in his search for a solution to his problems. Moreover, his detailed explanation of his situation shows

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that he was well aware of the regulations that required true deservingness of citizens before they could rightfully claim an allowance to survive.76 Many non-mobilized people like Favre were suffering at the home-front, but financial compensation for their losses was subject to very strict rules. Even though this might not seem very surprising, it is different from the situation in Britain, for example, where all families were compensated for a mobilized soldier.77 To cover the bare necessities for the survival of the French soldier’s family during the war, the breadwinner’s replacement income amounted to 1.25F per day (for his wife, or his parents if he used to live with them), raised by 0.5F per day for each child under the soldier’s care that was below the age of sixteen. This was, however, only reserved for those who really needed the money to survive.78 If the soldier’s wife had a job or if the man was mobilized in a war factory where he received an income to sustain his family, their allowance was denied or withdrawn. Although these amounts and conditions were in place since the beginning of the war, the so-called Commission Supérieure, the Higher Committee of Appeal, was only created at the beginning of 1915 in response to the growing demand for allowances and complaints about the unfair applications of the law on the local level. Especially between town and countryside, there were different interpretations, often to the detriment of poor farmers and merchants.79 Although no concrete link can be found between the letters sent to Bonnevay in 1914 and the Minister of the Interior’s official denunciation of such practices, it is highly likely that the Minister’s creation of the Higher Committee of Appeal was an attempt to correct the flaws that he had heard in complaints. Encouraged by the citizens’ personal requests and his initial powerlessness to help them at the outbreak of war, Bonnevay enlarged his field of concrete action by taking part in this committee. In the first instance, it was up to the cantonal committee of the family’s hometown to decide upon the deservingness of each citizen, under the supervision of the vice-prefect or the prefect himself who had to sign the form. If either the (vice-)prefect or the concerned party wished to challenge the cantonal committee’s decision, the case had to be taken to said Commission Supérieure. Bonnevay thus made sure to belong to an executive institution that mediated between the local (cantonal) and the national level. There, he could exert influence on the correct execution of war policies, whereas in old and new parliamentary committees, he could contribute to their creation. Although Bonnevay did not seem to have

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been allowed to vote when the Higher Committee treated cases from citizens of the Rhône department,80 most of his passive correspondence concerning the daily allowance came from people from this department. To them, he was an important source of information about how to proceed and what to expect, especially since not all citizens were (immediately) aware of their right to appeal.81 On several occasions, the deputy had to encourage them to do so as a last resort, while sharing his view on the possible outcome of their case.82 Whereas these written interactions thus encouraged the deputy to expand his representative role (which will be further elaborated upon in Part II), they led citizens to elaborate on their (knowledge of their) deservingness. Men and women who decided to write a letter to Bonnevay did not primarily aim to clarify their duties connected to their citizenship. These were much more implied than the rights they highlighted to be able to benefit from the welfare state. Therefore, it is quite impossible to consider the word devoir as a keyword in the search for the letter-writers’ views on their duties as French citizens. However, in their attempts to obtain what they thought were their rights—referred to as droits, in the context of (in)justice(s)—it was not exceptional for correspondents to implicitly construct their image as a good Frenchman/-woman, hence alluding to their knowledge and perception of what a good citizen was supposed to be. For example, in January 1918, Marie Dupeuble wrote to the deputy that her application for a military allowance had been rejected a second time, because she was not perceived as destitute. As a counterargument, she compared herself to women who paid more taxes than she did, and who received a military allowance, nonetheless. She wondered if they had done better by not paying their taxes during their husband’s mobilization. In other words, Dupeuble denounced a blatant injustice: she felt punished for doing her civil duties (paying taxes) and thereby depriving herself of vital necessities, while at the same time not being able to pay the bills anymore. This constituted her main line of argument: she needed this allowance, which she felt entitled to receive, not only because her husband was at the front, or because others received it too, but even more so because she could simply not survive without it. Unsurprisingly, this was a quite common justification. Furthermore, Dupeuble supported her motivation through explanations that showed her high awareness of the war policies affecting her financial situation. As a merchant of grains, she saw her business go to

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ruin by the requisitions of oats. Moreover, in her region, the sale of other grains had stopped as well, while the sale of other small goods did not suffice to keep commerce open. Therefore, Dupeuble expected Bonnevay to help her formulate her demand once again. “Some people,” whom she did not specify, had warned her, however, that it would be difficult for her to receive the allowance, given “their” (her husband’s and her) political ideas. Even though she claimed that she did not want to believe that such favoritism could be the reason for the rejections, she decided to bring it up, nonetheless. This gave her the opportunity to stress that indeed all her male family members adhered to the same ideology as Bonnevay did and belonged to his constituency. The ideological support of her family members to Bonnevay was even the sole reason why she dared to contact the deputy, as it was the only way to be sure that he would do anything he could in her favor, she thought. Dupeuble thus promoted her request as a joint battle against the injustice embodied by their shared adversaries.83 Aside from this clientelist expression, the example of Dupeuble also displays high political awareness and knowledge on the level of national politics (cf. the matter of requisitions for which Bonnevay had been the rapporteur in parliament)84 as well as on the level of local politics (cf. the unfair distribution of allowances). She had proven to be a well-informed citizen, who could not be accused of passivity for asking the deputy for help. Petitioning him simply looked like the only way out, after what seems to have been a long struggle. Waiting and trying to deal with such struggles on their own first was especially typical during the years 1916– 1918. As the war progressed, the financial situation of families at home worsened, and the need for allowances grew inevitably. Several women waited to act until the situation became entirely unbearable, the daily military allowance was the only outcome, and the député their last resort. Mrs. A. Alamercery from Trévoux (in the Ain department, but close to Lyon, where Bonnevay lived) already received such a compensation, but requested the deputy’s help in January 1916 in obtaining “the raise foreseen for my daughter.” Through her choice of words, she made it clear that there should be no doubt about her deservingness of this child support. Her husband belonged to the first draft of soldiers, mobilized almost one-and-a-half years prior to her letter to Bonnevay. If she was so sure of her case, why did she ask for his help so late? Alamercery’s decision to contact the deputy mainly reflected the failure of her request on the local level. As in many cases, her late call for help was not a matter of passivity. She had already submitted her application for the raise of

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her allowance to the cantonal committee of Trévoux. There, they had rejected her demand, because her wages were “sufficient.” Alamercery considered this to be a flawed argument, for the work she did required “the greatest sacrifices.” She claimed to render “indispensable services to the community, like transport of dispatches, prisoners, tobacco, garbage and night soil,” and all this despite the mobilization of her husband since the beginning of the war. She ensured that she would not ask for the raise if she could continue without it.85 This way, she tapped into the official rhetoric of the law that regulated the “allowances for families in need,” as well as the decree and circular letter of the Minister of the Interior to the departments’ prefects that fixed the conditions at the beginning of the war.86 Because of the emphasis on her deservingness, Alamercery’s letter was entirely in accordance with these official regulations and their phraseology. Still, this does not mean that she had read the law, decree, or circular letter. It was widely known that only the poorest members of society could make claims to the financial support meant to replace the mobilized breadwinner’s wages. Moreover, it was common sense for supplicants to highlight their poverty after the rejection of their demand. Letter-writers like Alamercery took pride in their honesty and endurance, stressing that they only asked for the money as a last resort, because they really needed it to survive. (This aligned with men’s letters, cf. Lacombe’s and Favre’s rhetoric.) Because of this fair attitude, they considered themselves good French citizens. This was especially true for Alamercery, who had actively contributed to society and made sacrifices for the community. Just like Dupeuble, however, she felt punished for doing her citizen’s duty: if she had given up on her community jobs, it would have been easier for her to claim the raise. This was not possible, because life was simply too expensive. When she had explained her situation to the local Committee of Appeal in Trévoux, they had threatened to withdraw the allowance she already received if she would not drop the case, while she knew very well that her daughter met the legal requirements for the raise she requested.87 Around the same time, a female letter-writer from Thizy (in Bonnevay’s district) who remained anonymous in order to speak on behalf of an informally organized group of mothers-housewives, explained how insufficient the allowance of 0.5F per child was, given the cost of living. Five hundred grams of butter was 2F, and five hundred grams of grease was 1.25F, “and that is not the only thing a household needs,” she

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explained. Everything was just too expensive. The letter-writer appealed to the deputy’s empathy by encouraging him to imagine how sad it was “when a child asked you for food, and you would have nothing to give them.” She hoped that Bonnevay would not let their pauvres petits esclaves (i.e., their innocent children) who did not know what was going on in the world, die from hunger. Women at home were compelled to send a little to their poor and suffering soldiers (i.e., husbands at the front), who had been away for so long. The longer the war lasted, the greater the misery, and the end did not seem near. Therefore, they had tried to obtain a secours from a Bureau de bienfaisance, but because they already received the daily allowance, they were denied other financial support. Like Alamercery from the previous example, this anonymous letter-writer made clear that they simply would not ask for extra money if they could survive without it. They knew that they could not legally enforce supplementary financial help, but it was only fair and necessary for their survival. In sum, they appealed to the deputy’s power because they were at wit’s end.88 Marie Lupezza from Thizy too counted on the deputy’s power to put injustices right. She expressed her gratitude toward Bonnevay on 2 July 1918 for all his services and information. Thanks to all his efforts, “I am sure to receive my allowance this month.” She made clear that she had already submitted her demand on 25 February 1918 to the mayor’s registry, instead of to the mayor himself, because the latter did “not bother with such formalities.” The letter-writer was thus not only aware of the right institution to address her request to, but also of its deficiencies in practice. After a long time of waiting in vain, she thought of all the grands services Bonnevay had rendered in notre Département du Rhône, which is why she dared to ask him for his support. At the time of her writing, Lupezza was still waiting for the allowance in arrears, but she believed to receive it soon and promised to inform the deputy and to thank him again for his bienfaits once she would have received her fivemonth-overdue allowances. Again, although she saw the deputy’s help as a “good deed,” his intervention was merely required to help her obtain what she thought was her due.89 These are just a few telling examples of the many letters revealing an important field of tension. French citizens attempted to fulfill a paradoxical duty by, on the one hand, trying to manage themselves in difficult situations (showing courage, enduring misery, and suffering from it), and, on the other hand, knowing when it was time to take action as well

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as from whom they could seek help in such miserable circumstances. This explains the seemingly late requests, or, in other words, the ubiquitous gap between the citizens’ cry for help and the event that had put them in their destitute situation. Hence, not all belated requests should be attributed to a lack of knowledge. On the contrary, the gap could even prove the citizens’ knowledge of the important turning point, when their claimed right became enforceable, that is, when it was no longer possible to ensure their own and their family’s survival without help. Thus, their letters reflect what they considered as the momentum and the requirements for claiming their universal right to survive. d. Interwar requests for state support The correspondence files from the 1920s and 1930s are filled with letters that still related citizens’ requests for state support to the war. We can even find rhetoric that put women’s suffering on a par with the suffering of front soldiers. Contrary to the tactics of the aforementioned Denise Chandon, however, it was more often used in defense of pensions for remarried war-widows. In an article in the periodical La France Mutilée of 14 January 1923, Judith Polge, chair of the Association for war-widows of Marseille, appealed to such a rhetoric in her criticism of the severe measures of the law of 31 March 1919. While she considered the widow’s “modest pension” to be rightfully hers (as a compensation for years of hardship), it was granted to her minor children in practice. Thus, war-widows were not only “victims of war” but also of nos gouvernants. From this victim position, she did not expect to be able to change anything about the situation.90 Article 18 of the law she referred to offered remarried war-widows the option to give up their pension in exchange for the direct payment of three annuities of the allowance they renounced. Still, this money did indeed not belong to the widow, but to her minor children; a measure reflecting fear of ill will from her second husband, especially in case children would be born out of the new marriage. If a war-widow wished to maintain her allowance after remarriage, half of it would be payed to the children from her previous marriage until the last one had come of age. As Peggy Bette rightly sums up in her doctoral thesis, the law was not about the war-widows themselves, whose interests were subordinate to the interests of marriage,

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family, and children. The right to a pension was not her individual right, but a marital and familial one.91 The recurring threats to the remarried war-widows’ pensions triggered protest from associations as well as individuals. The differences among war-widows became all the more problematic after a considerable subgroup had remarried over time and experienced discrimination, especially since 1925, when their pensions were no longer corrected to inflation. In times of financial crisis, their allowances could greatly differ from the pensions for those who remained single. As from 1932, the question of withdrawing the remarried war-widows’ pension altogether was brought up again. In addition, since many “war orphans” had come of age by then, their mothers lost the financial advantages linked to their guardianship of a minor. Peggy Bette’s dissertation on remarried war-widows offers a very detailed overview of the debates regarding their pensions, and of the responses from several (members of) organizations under the umbrella of “war veterans and victims.”92 This leads us to wonder how “ordinary” remarried war-widows presented themselves outside of these organizations, in their complaints about how the aforementioned discussions and decisions affected their personal situation. After the war, deputies received many circular letters from syndicates or associations that were sometimes hardly formally organized. These circular letters did not receive much attention from the députés. HenriConstant Groussau, for example, seems to have been more inclined to react to individual demands (with a personal story, linked to a higher interest). If Groussau had responded to a letter, he marked it with an “R,” sometimes followed by a brief draft answer on top of the letter itself. Many circular letters, however, were marked with a “/,” indicating that he had not responded, or that he did not agree with their demands.93 This explains the decision of the National Federation of remarried warwidows in February 1931 to use a form of petitioning that we would consider a modern formula today. The Federation made an appeal in the regional newspapers to all remarried war-widows, whether they were members of the Federation or not, to urgently address a letter to “their” député, explaining their family burdens, and the reasons why they had remarried. Eleven such letters can be found in the archives of Groussau. We cannot be sure which letter-writers were in fact active members of the Federation, but at least none of them referred to their membership of an association of the sort. Instead, they claimed the deputy’s attention in

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their capacity as an autonomous individual, inspired by the call they had seen in the Réveil du Nord. A comparison between the way they addressed Groussau and how the Federation addressed him afterward, can thus be revealing. Some did not give proof of a real notion of the political goal of the Federation’s call, whereas others testified to a high political awareness. On one side, there were widows such as Mrs. Gautherot and Mrs. Henri Blondelle from Armentières, who only did what the appeal in the papers had asked them to do: they gave a dry description of their family situation and the reasons why they had remarried, without formulating a wish or asking for an intervention. On the other side, there were those who denounced the inequality of pensions, and who tried to convince Groussau by means of a reasoning that reveals a real familiarity with parliamentary customs. For example, the composition of the letter from Mrs. Robyn Gillon from Houplines (Armentières), with her very personal story, rich in descriptive details of her life in hell, followed by an appeal that was addressed directly to Groussau, proved that she knew very well what she expected from the deputy. Gillon explained that even after having divorced her violent second husband, she did not have the right to the pension supplement that “widows who stayed widows” received. By means of such a comparison and appeals to general values, she enlarged the bearing of her personal request. Hence, she legitimized her demand that was directly addressed to Groussau, in the interest of other malheureuses who found themselves in the same situation. This appeal was an urgent invitation to act in the name of justice. Her intentions could not be misunderstood: Groussau had to treat everyone fairly, and had to take care of the situation of certain war-widows who were living in misery. Mrs. Dubrulle-Spons from Armentières knew very well too what she wanted to achieve when she explicitly suggested an intervention in the Chamber of Deputies. She put Groussau to work, after having told her personal story in a letter that was filled with spelling errors. Despite the errors and her strange form of address and close (showing that she was not used to writing such letters), she seems to have learned some customary formulations for attracting the representative’s attention and for presenting her case with modesty. Like the majority of Frenchmen and –women from the Third Republic, she was probably vaguely familiar with the rules of epistolary style. As mentioned before, the tactic to start a letter with a personal story, before generalizing her expectations and

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interests, and linking them to more abstract values (such as justice) was a common one. Remarkably, not one of the widows referred to her new husband as a possible voter of Groussau’s. Instead, their line of argument was of a political (instead of a purely clientelist) nature. They represented what they asked as only logical and just. They had suffered enough; a compensation or reward for Groussau had not come up as something they should offer. Moreover, by merely mentioning their district (which they all did), they could already have implicitly created some kind of pressure.94 These letters from individual widows, which, according to the appeal in the newspapers had to be sent to the députés before 23 February 1931, were closely followed by a circular letter, coming from the Douaisis section of the Federation (from Nord-Pas-de-Calais), which dotted the i’s in a conclusion, backed up by figures. Here, the complaints were even more direct and the demands more imperative. The group underlined that, generally, war-widows only remarried because they had children from their husband who had died at war. Why introduce only a readjustment to the cost of living for the pensions of the non-remarried war-widows? Moreover, the letter not only mentioned the inequality among widows, but at the end, it also addressed the inequality between men and women. The physical damages caused by the war to male victims were taken into consideration, whereas the damages caused to the widows were not.95 (With this remark, the sub-Federation distinguished itself from its more official umbrella organization for all war-victims.) This link to the inequality of the sexes cannot be found in any of the letters from the individual war-widows. They presented themselves traditionally as brave housewives, who had not done anything but their duty for the wellbeing of their children.96 In spite of the higher level of politicization of some of the female letter-writers in this example, their self-presentation thus was not politicized. Their long-term misery had to speak for itself. In many other interwar cases too, letter-writers stressed their personal misery and the months or even years during which they had to suffer before even thinking about asking for help. Once they did, they needed to display the relevant political knowledge by providing the deputy with the necessary information that was relevant to their cause. Along these lines, it appears that the war-stricken textile industrialists of Lille and its surroundings first tried to manage on their own, during the years

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directly after the war, by leveling or reconstructing their destroyed factories before even requesting compensations for this work. In this context, Jean Dumortier (of the General Construction Enterprise of Dumortier and Dewulf) from Comines (in le Nord, but not in Groussau’s district) explained in 1931 that they had been “misadvised” when they were setting up their company without declaring the damaged commodities (dommages marchandises ). Because their losses had become particularly apparent now, during the economic crisis, Dumortier wished to know (probably too late) if it was still possible “to declare the 200,000F worth of wood,” a sum that had been absorbed by their new sawmill and joinery works. The deputy promised to try, despite his fear that it would not be possible.97 Even though this letter displays a lack of knowledge about war indemnities they had the right to, it also highlights the virtue of keeping their heads above the water themselves and only calling in help from the state in times of crisis. Similarly, several (male and female) letter-writers from Dumesnil’s files from the early-thirties were confused about what exactly they had the right to claim. They nonetheless all seemed convinced that they deserved his help with what they considered a rightful application. A letter written in January 1931 by a man called Genty from Saint-Mammès (Fontainebleau) is a very telling example in this respect. He appealed to the deputy’s help with obtaining a breastfeeding allowance of 45F a month for his wife. The “authorities” had refused his request, with the remark that his wife could not claim such a grant, because she had not made a declaration two months prior to the birth of their child, in which she stated that she qualified for this breastfeeding allowance. In Genty’s view, this was a strange procedure, because it was “impossible to know if a woman was going to be able to breastfeed” before she had even given birth. By putting it this way, he showed their sincerity as decent citizens who did not want to make unfounded claims and take advantage of state support. However, the absence of a prior declaration did not seem to have been the main problem. The issue was especially that they had waited for months after the birth of their child before applying. The letter-writer admitted that this was because he had no clue that such an allowance existed. Still, he stressed that not knowing his rights did not make him a bad citizen: j’étais complètement ignorant qu’il existat [sic] une prime d’allaitement, il n’en découle pas de cela que je sois un mauvais citoyen, parce que je suis

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mal documenté sur de nouvelles lois, et que pour cela je sois privé, ou plus exactement ma Femme de l’avantage que la République peut lui offrir en cette circonstance.98

He thus needed Dumesnil to help him obtain his right (literally: m’aider à obtenir mon droit ) and reward his wife for the duty she daily imposed on herself; a duty that fell increasingly out of use (que vous récompenseriez mon Epouse du devoir qu’elle s’impose journellement et qui tend de de plus en plus à disparaître de nos mœurs ). In sum, although he ended his letter with a statement about how irrelevant his lack of knowledge was to his good citizenship, the mere fact that he deemed it necessary to stress this, shows precisely how important of a duty political knowledgegathering and (self-)education really was. Furthermore, he added to this importance himself by displaying his understanding of citizens’ rights and duties relevant to his case, and the Republic’s values that connected them. Hence, his references to the allowance as his “right” and as the Republic’s compensation for his wife’s duty were not without meaning. By imposing the duty of breastfeeding on herself, moreover, Mrs. Genty recognized and safeguarded values that were almost lost and thus meant to be preserved or encouraged by this legal compensation. The letterwriter’s emphasis on the purpose of the bonus, in combination with the way he formulated his knowledge of the exact amount (45 francs par mois comme vous savez) testified to the very importance of political awareness as a citizen’s duty, even though he denied it. Genty’s explicit description of citizen’s rights and duties, his knowledge thereof as well as of the values of the Republic (which rewarded its good citizens with state support) was a very exceptional feature. It should not surprise that the least literate citizens, especially present in Dumesnil’s case, sometimes just asked for the deputy’s help, support or a secours, without referring to a specific form of state support they thought they had the right to.99 Ceramic factory worker Louis Boilot from Écuelles (Fontainebleau) did not seem sure about the possible steps to take in order to apply for financial support, and therefore turned to Dumesnil with the vague phrasing that he would be thankful if the latter took his situation in consideration. In his letter from 13 September 1933, filled with spelling errors, Boilot explained how his situation had become destitute. In July, his doctor had prescribed him nine days of sick leave, but Boilot felt compelled to start working again after four days, since his children were hungry (in his words: voyont mes Enfants san paint jaie reste

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que quatres jours ayant reprie mon travail trop tot [sic]). As he had gone back to work too soon, he had relapsed. A pleurisy was now keeping him from work for much longer, while he had six young children under his care. By mentioning their age range, the letter-writer implied that they were too young to work.100 This was quite a common feature of requests for allowances (also in Bonnevay’s files), that subtly indicated the letter-writers’ awareness of what the deputy needed to know exactly in order to support “rightful” claims to allowances for ensuring the family’s survival.101 In addition, the reason why Boilot had to apply for a financial relief was linked to virtues of a good hardworking citizen: because he wanted to take care of his family, he had started working again too soon. In a similar vein, several letter-writers preferred to thank the député for his job recommendation by stressing the virtues of hard work and dedication instead of by promising their vote. Boilot did not request a job recommendation, but asked Dumesnil to take his situation into consideration, hence indirectly requesting financial support. From a scribble on top of this first letter, we can derive that Dumesnil asked the prefect for a secours de 50F and later informed Boilot of the good news about this poor relief. Boilot thanked Dumesnil (and not the prefect) for the mandat that would enable him and his children to survive. Not having received it yet in November, he feared that the money might have got lost. He probably expected Dumesnil to send him the money by mail and might not have known about his intervention toward the prefect.102 Also remarkable, and not just in this particular example, are the different phrasings to refer to money without literally using the word argent. People like Boilot who were not sure if they could make any legitimate claims to official financial support, nonetheless most often used the correct terms like allocations, secours, mandat… The letter-writer’s doubt about what kind of support he could legally appeal to (and toward whom) was not unlogical, because the local institutionalization of financial support to those who deserved it was not perfectly developed yet in the interwar period. The correspondence files give proof of differences between localities. As was the case with the military allowances during the war, practice lagged behind theory again, which increased the need for a deputy’s interventions during the years of crisis. Less official practices like the secours direct were incorporated in the system to offer a way out. Especially in the countryside, decisions were not all implemented or executed the same. A municipality sometimes seems to have needed a period of transition (for example, in their cooperation

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with social security services), and failed to give citizens in financial need what they thought was their due. For example, letter-writer Paul Dagneau, from Bois-le-Roi (Fontainebleau) referred in his letter from 4 May 1932 to the steps he had already taken toward the local authorities to apply for an unemployment pay. His efforts had been in vain, though, because the municipality of Bois-le-Roi did not have an unemployment fund, and could thus not offer him a compensation. The letter-writer’s complaint was phrased in the form of an accusation toward the municipality not taking its responsibility, in contrast to his own enterprising and fair attitude. Dagneau showed that he knew the recent changes in the law (with its new requirements for applicants of financial support), and that he had done everything it took to obtain what he deserved. Due to the unwillingness of the municipality, however, Dagneau’s application was deadlocked. He had become a member of an employment office (which was the new requirement), hoping that this would be enough, but without the municipality’s commitment, the office would not give him anything, even though he had been paying his contribution to the social insurance since its foundation. As usual, Dumesnil made an inquiry into this situation through the prefect, who let him know (on 31 May 1932) that the municipality of Bois-le-Roi could indeed not grant an unemployment pay, because it was not a member of the necessary funding agency. The local authorities could, however, grant a secours direct instead.103 The requests to Dumesnil for such a poor relief can be explained by the characteristics of his rural constituency. In small villages in the countryside, the citizens’ municipality did not always have an unemployment funding. Hence, the only way for poor, unemployed citizens there to lay claim to financial aid, was to apply for a non-recurrent unenforceable poor relief. If the municipality was still reluctant to grant a so-called secours, the department’s prefect could offer a solution, enforced or not by a deputy’s leverage. Therefore, the expressions of doubts and the vague requests in his files do not necessarily have to be attributed to a lack of knowledge of the letter-writers, but can also be explained by the rapidly changing yet still paradoxical measures concerning Third Republican poor relief. These can be seen as a trigger for two very popular tactics, which “ordinary” letter-writers seem to have carried from their war correspondence into their interwar letters of request to deputies. One is the letter-writers’ comparison of their own rights to those of fellow citizens (neighbors,

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family or acquaintances) in similar situations. The other one is their appeal to the “greater good,” to higher values in the interest of the nation and its citizens. For both tactics, a certain level of political awareness and basic knowledge of the changing laws were needed, which is what widow Lecoq from Corbeil (in the suburbs of Paris) seems to have realized very well. She turned to Dumesnil on 6 March 1933 at the advice of her family in Fontainebleau, to ask him for a recommendation for her son, whom she described as a Pupille de la Nation (since his father had died in the war). As she did no longer have enough money to take care of both her son and herself, she hoped that (with the help of the deputy) her son could find a job allowing him to provide for his own needs. To justify her personal request, Lecoq did not only express her concern for her and her son’s future, but for the future of the nation as well. “Where will it all end? What has to become of us if this all continued?” she rhetorically asked. “And this after having sacrificed loved ones to the war.” The “us” in this discourse was broader than just her and her son, but referred to “us French people” instead. Although her writing was not very fluent (probably reflecting her humble situation) she knew very well how to link her personal request to the interest of the Republic. In addition, she not just asked for help but, like many letter-writers, she formulated in greater detail what kind of intervention she expected from the deputy. Dumesnil was supposed to recommend them toward a Bureau for Pupilles that had vacancies, more specifically in the Seine department, where her son wanted to work. She showed great confidence in the righteousness of her demand, since “our children cannot stay unemployed for a long time, because it demoralized them in the long run.” Again “our children” referred to the children of France. In November of the previous year, she had already taken steps to obtain a secours de pupille on grounds of unemployment, but they were still waiting for it. “Clearly, the majority of applicants was not in great need,” Lecoq suspected. In her appeal to the deputy’s compassion, she used the Republic’s device and duties, stating that leaving the pupilles in need was not egality, let alone fraternity (laisser les pupilles dans le besoin n’est pas l’égalité encore moins la Fraternité). To conclude, she assertively appealed to Dumesnil’s kindness to do what was necessary. Hence, after the war too, when justice failed, individual appeals to the deputy’s charity or benevolence were still important.104 In sum, when the supplicants’ destitute situation was undeniably connected with the war and their efforts for the nation, they seem to have used more obvious references to Republican values and the general

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interest of France. Political rights were not needed in order to legitimately appeal to such notions. Voters and non-voters of all classes could declare to be “good” citizens, which was open to interpretation. Regarding the overall nature of the correspondence, citizens continuously expected personal help and advice from their député in their usually very individual cases; the First World War was not necessarily a huge turning point in these actions. References to the deputy’s great influence, great service, kindness, protection, and favors, for which they compensated with their own devotion, were still an important part of citizens’ written wartime interactions. However, “ordinary” men and women learned to mask the personal nature of their request by adding references to matters of greater importance, comparing their situation to that of other citizens, and contextualizing it within the framework of their social-civil rights, the state’s responsibilities and its “republican” value of equality of opportunities. While Bonnevay made sure to educate his early wartime correspondents on this value, the letter-writers in their turn educated the député on the effectiveness and fairness of the social policies in the field. Encouraged by these interactions, Bonnevay decided to take part in wartime committees on the local executive level and on the national representative level. In sum, both the letter-writers’ identitybased social citizenship and the député’s multifaceted representative role were negotiated interactively. Meanwhile, the “republican project” itself was up for debate, which did not appear to have been a temporary wartime phenomenon. Some letterwriters framed their commitments to the Republic as a reward for the député’ s services, which also occurred in the analyzed interwar correspondence. Hence, they tapped into both clientelist and political justifications of their claims to social rights. Furthermore, these claims can be considered successful, not necessarily because they achieved the desired result, but definitely in regard to the deputy’s consistent responsiveness, as testified to by his draft replies (cf. Dumesnil) or reply summaries scribbled on top of the letters (cf. Bonnevay).

Notes 1. Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 317–19; Fabienne Bock, Un parlementarisme de guerre, 1914–1919 (Paris: Belin, 2002), 95– 116.

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2. These second and third sections contain ideas and examples that first appeared in Lauwers, “Negotiating French Social Citizenship,” 42–59. 3. Assemblée Nationale, “Dumesnil. Base de données des députés.” 4. AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP, 1917, file 29. 5. Assemblée Nationale, “Marin. Base de données des députés.” 6. “Correpondance et vœux divers adressés à Louis Marin,” 1915– 1917, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , file 35; “Papiers personnels dont correspondance,” idem, file 490. 7. “Undated war-letter from J. Gaucheron from Saint-Ouen (Paris) to L. Marin” (from 18-11-1915 or 1917?), idem. 8. “Réparations des dommages de guerre et reconstruction,” 051918, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 119. 9. Idem, 1919–1920, file 121. 10. Bernard Ménager, “Constant Groussau universitaire et parlementaire (1851–1936),” in Les ‘chrétiens modérés’ en France et en Europe. 1870–1960, ed. Jacques Prévotat and Jean VavasseurDesperriers (Lille: Septentrion, 2013), 315–16. 11. “Lettres concernant les déportations de jeunes gens, jeunes filles dans la région du Nord,” ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 108. On the life of civilians in the occupied territories and the deportations, see: Annette Becker, Les Cicatrices rouges. 14–18. France et Belgique occupées (Paris: Fayard, 2010). 12. “Letter from Victor des Bonnets at the temporary hospital of Berck-Plage to H.-C. Groussau,” 14-08-1916, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 108. 13. Assemblée Nationale, “Maurice Barrès,” in Base de données des députés français depuis 1789 (Paris: Assemblée Nationale, Updated in 2019) https://www2.assemblee-nationale.fr/syc omore/fiche/(num_dept)/434. 14. “Letter from Sœur Joseph from Saint-Brieuc to H.-C. Groussau,” 19-04-1916, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 46. 15. Étienne Fouilloux, “Chapitre II. Traditions et expériences françaises,” in Guerres mondiales et totalitarismes (1914–1958), ed. Jean-Marie Mayeur, Histoire du christianisme des origines à nos jours, XII (Paris: Desclée-Fayard, 1990), 462; Baubérot, Histoire, 81–92. 16. “Letter from Sœur Joseph de Saint-Brieuc to H.-C. Groussau,” 19-04-1916, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 46.

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17. Idem, 10-12-1914 and Groussau’s draft response. 18. “Draft letters from H.-C. Groussau from the Chamber of Deputies in Paris to P. Gasparri and F. Tedeschini,” June 1916– 1918, idem. 19. Literally: Cette mesure des autorités allemandes a naturellement soulevé une émotion intense. Les familles ainsi dispersées sont dans la désolation et le moral de toute la population s’en trouve très affecté: “-C’est toute la barbarie des négriers!” m’écrivait récemment un de mes compatriotes, cf. “Draft letter from H.-C. Groussau from the Chamber of Deputies in Paris to P. Gasparri,” 21-06-1916, idem. 20. “Copy of the letter from the Committee of Economic Interests of Roubaix-Tourcoing to R. Poincaré and A. Briand,” Paris, 15 and 16-06-1916, idem, file 108; “Draft letter from H.-C. Groussau to president R. Poincaré and Prime Minister A. Briand,” 1806-1916, idem, file 109; “Letter from R. Poincaré to H.-C. Groussau,” Paris, 18-06-1916, idem, file 108. 21. For a detailed description of her actions, see: Lauwers, “Image et action,” 393–95. Because Fisener’s interwar correspondence with Groussau strikingly illustrates what I call “the deputy-cult,” her case will be scrutinized further in Chapter 7. 22. On 17 August 1914, he presided the general council of Lamuresur-Azergues. Two days prior, Bonnevay had asked the mayors (in a letter) to make use of that opportunity to point out problems caused in their villages by the onset of war. They were invited to send their remarks to his address in Dardilly, cf. “Letter from Bonnevay to the mayors of the canton of Lamure-sur-Azergues,” 15-08-1914, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 65. Hotel bills from different hotels and Bonnevay’s notes from September 1914 show proof of his tour throughout his constituency (also outside the canton of Lamure), which offered opportunities to the mayors and town councilors to discuss the situation, cf. “Hotel bills and notes from Bonnevay,” 06-1915, idem. 23. Joseph Mosser from Amplepuis (Villefranche-sur-Saône), who presented himself as Bonnevay’s dévouer [sic], knew that he should address his New Year’s letter to Monsieur L. Bonnevay Député, 82 rue des Varennes [sic] N° 82 Paris. His best wishes were a way to compensate for a request that followed, concerning his application for a disability benefit. Apparently, he was in his

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right, and his way of presenting his situation had been fruitful, because Bonnevay promised to pass the request onto the responsible Minister, cf. “Letter from J. Mosser from Amplepuis to L. Bonnevay,” 01-1915, idem, file 66. 24. “Army postcard from P. Dulac to L. Bonnevay,” 22-01-1918, idem, file 74/I. Dulac was grateful for Bonnevay’s intervention, which he expected to be effective since it was “radical” in his view. It is unclear what kind of intervention he was referring to. 25. “Letter from J. F. at the front to L. Bonnevay,” 05-01-1916, idem, file 69/I. 26. “Letter from A. Deveaux at the front to L. Bonnevay,” 03-011916, idem. 27. “Correspondances reçues,” 1914–1918, idem, files 65–76. For example: “Letter from B. Dalling, an infantry soldier quartered in Belley (Ain) to L. Bonnevay,” 30-01-1917, idem, file 71/I. He addressed the letter to Monsieur Bonnevay à la Chambre des Députés, Paris, identifying himself as un de vos électeurs qui vient vous demander conseil. 28. For example: “Letter from B. Girard from Grandris (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 05-11-1918, idem, file 76. 29. In his capacity as a citizen from Bonnevay’s constituency, Nicolas Rochard sent a letter of request to the deputy at the end of October 1918 from a domain in Castelginest (Toulouse, Haute-Garonne), where he was temporarily incorporated in the farming division. The envelop shows that the letter was originally addressed to Monsieur le Député Bonnevay Hôtel Glatard [sic] à St.-Nizier, but altered (for the last part) into Chambre des Députés Paris. Both addresses were striked out and changed again, but in a different handwriting (probably by the mailman), into “82 R. de Varenne” in Paris, cf. “Letter from N. Rochard in Castelginest to L. Bonnevay,” 30-10-1918, idem, file 76. 30. “Letter from Mrs. C. Petit from Saint-Bonnet-le-Troncy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-01-1916, idem, file 69/I; “Letter from widow Arnaud from Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues (also in Bonnevay’s district of Villefranche) to L. Bonnevay,” 11-11-1918, idem, file 76. 31. “Letter from P. Gravillon from Cublize (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 03-09-1914, idem, file 65.

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32. “Letter from A. Bolland, sacristan from Mardore (Villefranchesur-Saône), to L. Bonnevay,” 15-01-1917, idem, file 71/I. 33. “Letters from P. Déresse from Cours (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 28-11 and 01-12-1917, 08-01-1918, idem, file 74/I. 34. “Note from L. Bonnevay about a conversation with widow Sarrazin from Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues,” 05-01-1918, idem. 35. “Letter from widow Lemoine to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 03-03-1918, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 26. This is one of the few warletters preserved in Dumesnil’s files. By accident, it ended up in a file with correspondence from the early thirties. It is thus impossible to make general assumptions based on this find alone. 36. Patrick Hassenteufel, “L’État-Providence ou les métamorphoses de la citoyenneté,” L’Année sociologique, Nation, nationalisme, citoyenneté, 46, no. 1 (1996): 129–30. 37. Hassenteufel, 146. 38. Idem, 130–31. 39. Idem, 135–36. 40. J. E. S. Hayward, “The Official Social Philosophy of the French Third Republic: Léon Bourgeois and Solidarism,” International Review of Social History 6, no. 1 (1961): 26, as referred to by John H. Weiss, “Origins of the French Welfare State. Poor Relief in the Third Republic, 1871–1914,” French Historical Studies 13, no. 1 (1983): 56. 41. Weiss, “Origins of the French Welfare State,” 85. 42. “Loi relative à l’assistance obligatoire aux vieillards, aux infirmes et aux incurables, privés de ressources,” JO. Lois et décrets 37(190), 16-07-1905: 4349. 43. Some early examples: “Letter from Mr. C. Margand from Oingt (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 23-06-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22; “Letter from Mr. D. Ruy in Tarare (Villefranchesur-Saône),” 31-08-1908, idem. 44. There were several requests from 1910 for a secours to be granted by the Minister of War to veterans of the 1870– 1871-war, e.g., “Letter from Mr. J.-M. Manus from SaintForgeux (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 19-04-1910, idem; “Letter from Mr. J.M.F. Ovise from La Ville (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 24-05-1910, idem; “Letter from Mr. J. Decurel from Chessy

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(Villefranche-sur-Saône) on behalf of Mr. S. Combes (from the same village),” 22-06-1910, idem. 45. Ducret, Le Secrétaire pour tous, 74; Manillier, Le Secrétaire pratique, 16–20; Frère Gabriel-Marie, Manuel de politesse, 215– 22. 46. For example: “Letter from widow Dupuis from Les Olmes (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 07-02-1904, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22; “Letter from Mother Superior Elisa de St.-Jean from the Asile des Petites Sœurs des Pauvres from Tarare (Villefranchesur-Saône),” 13-12-1910, idem; “Letter from Mrs. M. Chermette from Pontcharra (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 09-11-1918, idem, file 76. 47. For example: “Letter from Father Ronzier from SaintChristophe-la-Montagne (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 13-03-1906, idem, file 22; “Letter from Mr. P. Subtil from Lyon,” 18-061912, idem, file 23. 48. “Letter from Mrs. B. Rival from Tarare (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 04-01-1910, idem, file 22. (It is unclear to what favor she referred.) 49. For example: “Letter from O. Bosger from Vaux-sur-Lunain (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 27-09-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 20. 50. “Letter from Mr. Davault from Ablon (in Seine-et-Oise, now Valde-Marne, in the suburbs of Paris) but originally from Samois-surSeine (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 19-06-1930, idem, file 22; “Letters from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mr. Davault in Ablon and to the Minister for Public Works, G. Pernot,” 28-06-1930, idem. 51. Pedersen, “Gender,” 983–86; Grayzel, “Men and Women,” 107– 8. 52. “Letter from Mr. J. Blanc from le Bois-d’Oingt (Villefranche-surSaône), written from his regiment in Montbéliard (Doubs),” 2203-1908, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. 53. “Letter from Mr. G. Salot from Tarare (Villefranche-sur-Saône), written from Lyon,” 07-03-1910, idem. 54. “Letter from Mr. J. Giraud from Amplepuis (Villefranche-surSaône),” 04-12-1912, idem, file 31. 55. “Letter from Ms. E. Barré from?,” 05-1910, idem, file 22. 56. Ridel, “Le scandale,” 37–41. 57. Idem, 39.

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58. Idem, 40. 59. Gaston Griolet and Charles Vergé, eds., Dalloz. Jurisprudence Générale. Recueil périodique et critique de jurisprudence, de législation et de doctrine en matière civile, commerciale, criminelle, administrative et de droit public (Paris: Bureau de la Jurisprudence Générale, 1910), 69. 60. “Correspondances reçues, août-décembre 1914,” ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 65 (including the summaries of Bonnevay’s draft responses on top of each letter). 61. “Letter from Mr. P.-M. F. Jacquet from his place of recovery in Saint-Rambert-l’Île-Barbe (close to Lyon),” 27-01-1915, idem, file 66. 62. “Letter from C. Bamillon from Claveisolles (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 03-01-1916, idem, file 69/I. 63. “Letter from J.-M. Itéprat from Saint-Appolinaire (Villefranchesur-Saône) on behalf of widow Rollin to L. Bonnevay,” 29-011917, idem, file 71/I. 64. This is part of the discussion of the bill Mourier and its exceptions, leading up to the law Mourier of 10-08-1917: “Suite de la discussion de la proposition de loi de M. Mourier et plusieurs de ses collègues, fixant les affectations aux unités combattantes des mobilisés, officiers, sous-officiers et soldats appartenant à l’armée active et à la réserve de l’active,” JO Débats Chambre, 16-03-1917, 753–54. See also: Ministère de la guerre. Loi du 10 août 1917 (dite Loi Mourier), fixant les affectations aux unités combattantes des mobilisés, officiers, sous-officiers et soldats appartenant à l’armée active et à la réserve de l’armée active (Paris: H. Charles-Lavauzelle, 1917): 3. 65. With this argument (put forward during discussions of the law Mourier in the Senate) the rapporteur of the army committee objected to the suggestion to grant soldiers who had lost two brothers because of the war the possibility be transferred to non-combatant jobs. Although it would be especially useful for farmer’s families, such an extension of exceptions would weaken the French force too much, cf. JO Débats Sénat, 26-06-1917, 645. 66. Bonnevay used Pouly’s comparison and added an explanation of the origin of the injustice. The furlough of twenty-one days for Salonica soldiers was counted as one long period of military leave,

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instead of three times seven days, as was the case for the front soldiers in the West. For all mobilized men, sick leave had to be compensated by one entire furlough period, which, in practice, caused the distorted situation in which soldiers at the French front only needed to compensate by seven days, whereas those posted at the Salonica front had to give up all twenty-one days of furlough, cf. “Question écrite n° 13844,” JO Débats Chambre, 23-01-1917, 147. 67. “Letter from corporal H. Pouly (recovering in Grandris) to L. Bonnevay, containing the latter’s draft response,” 23-01-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 71/I; “Réponse à question n° 13844,” JO Débats Chambre, 08-02-1917, 338. 68. “Letter from J. Delafay from Bagnols (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” and “Petition from un groupe de familles de soldats de l’armée d’Orient du Haut-Beaujolais à Monsieur le Ministre de la Guerre, rue St. Dominique, Paris,”and “Letter from B. Michaud a.o. on behalf of families from Alix (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to the Minister of War,” 20-01-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 71/I; “Question écrite n° 13844,” JO Débats Chambre, 23-01-1917, 147; “Letter from corporal H. Pouly (recovering in Grandris, Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 23-01-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 71/I; “Réponse à question n° 13844,” JO Débats Chambre, 08-02-1917, 338; “Discussion d’interpellations relatives à la relève et aux permissions de l’Armée d’Orient,” JO Débats Chambre, 30-03-1917, 977. 69. Idem. 70. For example: “Letter from aide de camp J. Panzel (quartered in the Oriental Expeditionary Force) to L. Bonnevay, containing the latter’s draft response,” 12-12-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 74/I. 71. Thomas Sokoll, “Negotiating a Living: Essex Pauper Letters from London, 1800–1834,” International Review of Social History 45 (2000): 42–43; Thomas Sokoll, “Writing for Relief: Rhetoric in English Pauper Letters, 1800–1834,” in Being Poor in Modern Europe. Historical Perspectives. 1800–1940, ed. Andreas Gestrich, Steven King, and Lutz Raphael (Bern: Peter Lang, 2006), 102. 72. JO Débats Chambre, 19-12-1917, 3356–3359, discussed in greater depth by Peggy Bette, “Veuves françaises de la Première

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Guerre Mondiale. Statuts, itinéraires et combats” (unpublished PhD-thesis, Lyon, Université Lumière Lyon 2, 2012), 271–75. 73. For example: JO Débats Chambre, 19-12-1917, 11-02-1919, 528, also highlighted by Bette, 272. 74. “Letter from Miss D. Chandon from the Bourbonnais region to L. Bonnevay,” 30-12-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 74/I. 75. “Letter from Mr. A. Lacombe from Pont-Trambouze (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 18-08-1914, idem, file 65 (containing a scribble of Bonnevay’s draft response from 25-08-1914). 76. “Letter from Mr. A. Favre from Pontcharra-sur-Turdine (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 03-01-1915, idem, file 66. 77. Pedersen, “Gender,” 983–86; Grayzel, “Men and Women,” 107– 8. 78. “Loi tendant à accorder, pendant la durée de la guerre, des allocations aux familles nécessiteuses dont le soutien serait appelé ou rappelé sous les drapeaux,” JO. Lois et décrets 46 (213), 06-08-1914: 7127. 79. Impressions Chambre 437/art. 15, December 22, 1914: 20– 22 and 36–37; and the subsequent Ministerial Order by Louis Malvy (Minister of the Interior): Bulletin officiel du Ministère de l’Intérieur, Paris: Dupont, 01-01-1915: 15–16. 80. “Draft response from L. Bonnevay to Mr. J. Proton de la Chapelle from Lyon,” 16-11-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 74/I. 81. In his second response, Bonnevay informed Proton de la Chapelle of the rejection of his protégé’s appeal by the Higher Committee, 03-01-1918, idem. 82. For example: “Letter from the sergeant-secretary of a territorial commandment (and formerly a notary from Thizy) on behalf of comrade M. Poizat,” 24-01-1915, idem, file 66. The allowance of his comrade’s wife had been withdrawn for unknown reasons. In his draft response, scribbled on top of this letter, Bonnevay explained that Mrs. Poizat should take the case to the Higher Committee, which would probably restore her allowance. 83. “Letter from Mrs. M. Dupeuble from Pontcharra-sur-Turdine (Villefranche-sur-Saône),” 08-01-1918, idem, file 74/I. 84. “Annexe au procès-verbal de la séance du 27 juillet 1917,” Impressions Sénat 260: 1–8.

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85. “Letter from Mrs. A. Alamercery from Trévoux (Ain),” 02-011916, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 69/I. 86. JO. Lois et décrets 46 (213), August 6, 1914: 7127–138. 87. “Letter from Mrs. A. Alamercery from Trévoux,” 08-01-1916, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 69/I. 88. “Letter from ‘a group of housewives’ from Thizy (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 05-01-1916, idem. 89. “Letter from Ms. M. Lupezza from Thizy to L. Bonnevay,” 0207-1918, idem, file 23. 90. La France Mutilée. Bulletin de l’Union Fédérale des associations françaises de Blessés, Mutilés, Réformés, anciens Combattants de la Grande Guerre et de leurs Veuves, Orphelins et Ascendants 4, no. 118 (14-01-1923): 2. 91. JO Lois et décrets 51, no. 91 (02-04-1919): 3383; Bette, “Veuves françaises,” 269, 275, 325. 92. Bette, 538–41, 578–80, published in a more condensed version as Peggy Bette, Veuves de la Grande Guerre. Itinéraires et combats (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2017). 93. “Correspondance diverse d’associations ou de particuliers,” 1921–1934, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 123. 94. “Letters from eleven war-widows,” 21 to 23-02-1931, idem, file 112. 95. “Circular letter from the Fédération Nationale des Veuves de guerre remariées,” 23-02-1931, idem. 96. For example: “Letter form Mrs. Dubrulle-Spons from Armentières to H.-C. Groussau,” 22-02-1931, idem. 97. “Letter of J. Dumortier from Comines (Nord) to H.-C. Groussau,” 06-07-1931, idem, file 107. 98. “Letter from Mr. Genty from Saint-Mammès (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 09-01-1931, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 24. The deputy contacted the prefect on 23-01. From Dumesnil’s brief scribbles, it is unclear what the prefect had responded, but it does show that the deputy informed Genty of his right to appeal. 99. For example: “Undated letter from D. Paris from Ormesson (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” probably from 20-11-1934, idem, file 28. 100. “Letters from L. Boilot from Écuelles (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 13-09 and 01-11-1933, idem, file 20.

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101. For example: “Letter from A. Griffon from the fourteenth Escadron du Train in Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 30-01-1917, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 71/I; “Letter from L. Auplat from Lamure-sur-Azergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-11-1918, idem, file 76. It is not a coincidence that the most obvious examples come from the war years, because these were marked by a growing number of disabled people and families who had lost their breadwinner(s), and thus needed an allowance to ensure their survival. 102. The aforementioned “Letters from L. Boilot,” 13-09 and 01-111933. 103. “Letter from P. Dagneau from Bois-le-Roi (Fontainebleau) to J.L. Dumesnil,” 04-05-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 104. “Letter from widow Lecoq from Corbeil (in the suburbs of Paris, in Seine-et-Oise, now in Essonne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 06-031933, idem, file 26. The deputy responded a few days later, but the content of his response has not been preserved.

CHAPTER 5

Conclusion to Part I

The parcels to front soldiers, the smuggling of a petition in an umbrella during the First World War, the army postcards containing messages written in pencil, the unanswered knocks on the front door of the deputy’s home… Although these are all interesting anecdotes in and of themselves, they are much more than that. All combined, they shed light on the material and performative characteristics and possibilities of the interactions between people from the French Third Republic and their representatives in the Chamber of Deputies, in the turbulent first four decades of the twentieth century. Above all, each of these examples contributes to the image of individual French citizens as active and creative participants to networks of political communication, whether they had the right to vote or not. By focusing on the material aspects of these informal political communication channels, Part I attempted to prize open the deputies’ seemingly enclosed microcosm of camarades, to shed light on “ordinary” French people’s opportunities to watch them at work, read their speeches, and communicate with them about matters of personal, local, regional, or national relevance, even during the First World War. These possibilities were not an out-of-the-blue top-down creation, but they were organized in response to and in accordance with the high demand from politically unorganized citizens, both men and women. They could contact the députés in between sessions by sending cards © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_5

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through the pneumatic tube system of parliament. To attend the Chamber debates, moreover, people could ask a deputy for admission tickets. Generally, however, most letter-writers—at least those who lived outside of Paris—did not bother asking for a ticket to the public gallery of the Chamber. Instead, the majority of letters sent to French representatives in parliament contained personal requests or expressions of gratitude toward the deputy for having solved their very individual problems, often financial in nature. Usually, in these circumstances, the député was not the citizens’ first aid line, but a last resort, called in as an intermediary to put pressure on the relevant authorities and speed up their application process. Typical for the Third Republic is the importance that both citizens and députés attached to their personal (either face-to-face or written) exchanges. Deputies tried to meet the citizens’ expectations of possibilities to interact with them. At the same time, these expectations were fueled by the deputies’ accessibility at different addresses and through several possible mediators. If applicants made use of an intermediary, this was not necessarily an indication of their poor literacy. It was a way to increase the legitimacy of their demands and make them stand out in the large flow of letters sent to parliamentary representatives and Ministers. To cope with this flow, some deputies used spokespersons or secretaries in the busiest times of their career, especially when the practice of writing upwards (to a député) was booming during the crisis of the thirties and/or the parliamentarian’s ministerial mandate. Still, the personal engagement of a deputy in finding solutions to the supplicants’ problems was highly valued. Seeing this was the case, députés made sure to stress their personal involvement in the positive outcome of a request, and tried to come up with suggestions even if chances for success were small. Not only could they benefit from this in terms of gaining votes; correspondence between “ordinary” citizens and deputies was also mutually educational. Citizens gained writing experience, learned what to ask to whom and thus improved their political knowledge, whereas députés from their side learned about people’s concrete experiences with the effects of certain policies, and gained more knowledge about practical solutions on the local level. The war years specifically were a time when (claims to) social policies were continuously (re)negotiated, in relation to men and women’s commitment to the Republic. Whether or not they had political voting rights, “ordinary” citizens took part in these negotiation processes, yet in an informal way, through written communication with a parliamentary

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representative. Men and women who shared the same social background used similar rhetorical tactics in their requests for help, support, or a favor. Though reminiscent of the image of a clientelist rural France at first sight, the quite common Third Republican practice of writing letters to députés was not characterized by mere trade-offs. Instead, these written exchanges were increasingly revealing of how the letter-writers (re)imagined the concepts attached to their citizenship. While they did not commonly use the word citoyen(neté) in their letters, Bonnevay’s war correspondents explored different facets of the notion and applied it to their situation. Rhetorically, they turned their unenforceable right to poor relief into their enforceable civil right to survive, which required a certain level of political awareness and knowledge to be convincing. Citizens had to show courage in times of hardship, which they were supposed to try to manage on their own, while they were also expected to appeal in time to their statutory right to survive. Thus, political awareness and knowledge played an important role in connecting (Hassenteufel’s interpretation of) statutory and identity-based citizenship.1 It could therefore be argued that the context of war caused many “ordinary” citizens to adopt a more “political” attitude. This also applied to women, whose political knowledge and assertiveness arose in their clarifications of the duties they had fulfilled on the statutory level (abiding by the law and knowing what they could legally claim) and/or on the identity-based level (behaving like a “good” French subject who worked hard and endured misery without complaining). This latter duty was a vague and universal one, to which both voters and non-voters could appeal. Similarly, the epistolary stock phrases of the time were vague enough in their promises of gratitude to be applicable in women’s requests too, even though women could not promise their vote in return for the député’ s service or favor. While men made up the majority of the letter-writers, the importance of female engagement grew during the First World War, from a small into a significant minority that could not be ignored. Wives and mothers of mobilized men were now the ones to take care of the red tape to get the support they and their family needed. As a last resort against perceived injustices on (or inertia of) other political levels, their letters not rarely found a responsive deputy on the other end, which was true in all four cases. The chosen deputies (from left to right: Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, Laurent Bonnevay, Louis Marin, and Henri-Constant Groussau) were all very visible in Paris, where they had a long political career, which

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tided over the difficult period of the war and the subsequent crisis. However, the nature of their connections and the density of their local networks showed individual variations. Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, a republican-radical-socialist of the Seine-et-Marne department was firmly embedded in his rural locality. For their written communications, Dumesnil’s constituents frequently made use of the opportunity to call in the help of intermediaries within the dense network of connections their deputy had to offer, yet, they often preferred a face-to-face conversation with him. Despite the importance of the député’s personal engagement in the search for a solution for his supplicants, Dumesnil provided a strong back-up network of local contacts who could receive citizens for him and act as his spokespersons in his district. Laurent Bonnevay, a center-right deputy for the Rhône, also tried to divide his time between public representation in parliament and his presence in the rural district he actually represented and where the majority of his letter-writers came from. Although Bonnevay and Dumesnil’s correspondents had a relatively similar profile, Bonnevay did or could not provide his applicants with help from a network similar to that of Dumesnil’s on the local level. Nevertheless, he had strong connections with the important industrial employers and insurers of his area. In addition, his work in parliament as well as on the level of departmental representation (for example during wartime) offered him the necessary connections and expertise to inform citizens who appealed to him in need. The importance of specific fields of expertise would explain why it appears that both Bonnevay and Groussau tried to respond themselves to the letters of requests they had received, instead of counting on the help of a secretary. Compared to the local embedding of deputies like Dumesnil and Bonnevay, who were more left-leaning and represented a rural district, Groussau’s disconnection from his locality was quite exceptional. The letter-writers who contacted this Catholic deputy valued his discretion and his expertise in legal and religious matters over his representation of a particular constituency. The networks of the Parisian-based patriotic deputy for Nancy, Louis Marin, did not resemble Groussau’s ideology-based networks, nor the strong local ties of the more rural deputies. Given his multiple and overlapping geographic layers of representation, Marin’s connections seemed more complex. In his correspondents’ view, he was at the same time the député for Nancy, Meurthe-et-Moselle, and the entire Lorraine region. Furthermore, the combination of his political and teaching activities

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provided him with a very specific group of Parisian-based highly educated female supporters and correspondents. These differences in networks and geographical links defined the ways in which citizens interactively shaped their perception of the four deputies and their roles, creating a multi-faceted image of what representation was supposed to be.

Note 1. Hassenteufel, “L’État-Providence,” 129–30.

PART II

Typology of the Deputies’ Roles

All four of the selected deputies were labeled as republican, despite their different political orientations. They all believed in and respected the parliamentary culture with its specific set of rules concerning courteous speech and behavior, and actively participated accordingly.1 Their further interpretations and expressions of republicanism, however, took different forms. Whereas Groussau’s republicanism was linked to his right-wing Catholic ideology, Dumesnil can be found on the other side of the political spectrum, as a freemason and an anti-clerical radical-socialist (which is, in French terms, still less socialist than the SFIO, the party of united socialists). As center-right-wing democrats (at least initially), Laurent Bonnevay and Louis Marin can, in theory, be found somewhere between Groussau and Dumesnil when it comes to political orientation, but also between those two, there was a difference in reality. In its French Third Republican sense, the definition of a politician’s ideological orientation can be linked to his (dis)approval of the laws on the Separation of Church and State and the liquidation of teaching congregations (voted in 1901, 1904 and 1905). A député was situated on the right of the political spectrum if he opposed those laws, like Groussau, Marin, and Bonnevay did.2 The latter, however, was not necessarily a fervent adversary of his leftist colleagues.3 As mentioned above, he even changed labels in 1928, shifting from the democratic center (which had become increasingly rightist) to the republican left (which could still be seen as the center). Instead of reading too much discontinuity into the change of ideological labels, Bonnevay’s decision to distance himself

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from the Republican Federation instead has to be understood as a reaction against the political group’s stronger party discipline and its move further toward the right. His choice was one for political independence against growing dogmatism and reflected his hope to realize party-transcending ideals and measures. Hence, instead of making an actual turn to the left, Bonnevay initially remained more of a pragmatic republican of the center, before eventually joining the radical-republicans on the left in 1936.4 The difficulty of labeling French politicians of the Third Republic is especially proven by the contrasting political orientations that JeanFrançois Eck and Herman Lebovics attribute to Louis Marin. In his thesis on Marin’s strengthening of his local base in his early parliamentary career, Eck characterizes the député of Nancy as patriotic but moderate in his stance toward politics of the national border. Contrary to fellow-patriot Maurice Barrès, Eck concludes, Marin was not a revanchist regionalist. Focusing more on France’s cultural identity in his book True France, Herman Lebovics comes to the opposite conclusion. Because of Marin’s expertise in ethnography as “one of the gatekeepers of the French conservative social science,” Lebovics labels the deputy rather as a regionalist right-wing and even an extreme-right politician.5 Depending on which aspect of the parliamentarian’s role is highlighted, his political orientation can thus be interpreted in an entirely different way. This contradiction makes it even more interesting to examine how “ordinary” citizens perceived the role of Marin. Similarly, the image that the existing historiography attributes to Groussau (linked to both a highly clerical stance and a moderate ideology) raises questions about which aspect was most prominent in the interactive construction of his role. As a professor in administrative justice at the Catholic faculty of Lille, Groussau started his political career with a republican-liberal label. More specifically, he was a Catholic deputy rallied behind the Republic, belonging to the Action libérale populaire—on the right side of the spectrum—in a Chamber that was dominated by the Cartel of the Left. After the war, in the Chambre bleu horizon—meaning that the Assembly became dominated by the center-right Bloc national , which was the case until 1924—Groussau was part of the group of Independents. The Republican Federation of his department, situated at the center-right, considered him too clerical to include him. From the elections of 1928 onward, Groussau leaned more toward the center-right and joined Louis Marin’s Democratic-Republican Union, the “parliamentary expression” of the Republican Federation, and thus belonged to the right

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wing of this “poincarist” majority.6 The discontinuity of his political labels primarily testifies to the aforementioned fluidity of political party-ideology in the French Third Republic, where the center and right-wing partis de cadre were never really centralized and organized into partis de masse. At the same time, however, the fluctuations in Groussau’s political labels could indicate true moderation of his political-religious points of view, even though he always remained at the right wing of the political spectrum. The deputy for le Nord strengthened his parliamentary authority through his devotion to his ideology, which he appears to have defended courteously yet vividly in the Chamber.7 In his Master’s thesis, Manfred Piat shows that Groussau had built a certain reputation already early in his political career, and that he managed to gain the respect of even the majority of radical anti-clericals.8 Still, despite his seemingly increased moderation and his long career, the député du Nord never made it into the government, nor did he have a political mandate on the local level. Nevertheless, he was visibly engaged in committees and during parliamentary debates, especially in his defense of the liberty of congregations and education. In his article on Groussau’s career, historian Bernard Ménager bases himself on parliamentary debates—discourses of the Catholic deputy, and the characteristics his colleagues attributed to him—leading him to conclude that Groussau could be seen as a moderate Christian, despite his intransigence toward the laicization laws that punished congregations. In addition, Ménager refers to a memorandum written by the député in 1920/1921 (at the instance of the archbishop of Cambrai, Monseigneur Chollet, as asked for by the nuncio), which dealt with the revision of the Law on the Separation of Church and State. This document shows the continuity of Groussau’s distrust toward the measure (and the power it offered to the Council of State) as well as toward the other laicization laws, even until the beginning of the twenties. This was when the tension between the Republic and the Catholic Church actually began to loosen under the majority of the Bloc national.9 Despite Groussau’s attitude on the matter, Ménager remarks that the deputy’s constructive language, his parliamentary courtesy, and his style of interpellating without wanting to destabilize his adversaries, made him a moderate parliamentarian. Furthermore, Ménager concludes that, from the moment when Groussau presided the parliamentary committee of the liberated regions in 1919, his image as a defender of the interests of le Nord superposed itself onto his image as the defender of the

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Church, which allowed him to leave the “ghetto” of the Catholic right wing.10 However, what Ménager and Piat’s sources do not show, is the perception of Groussau’s role by “ordinary,” politically unorganized citizens, and the identities that the deputy constructed in interaction with letter-writers who explained their expectations to him. Can we discern tendencies similar to Ménager’s findings in the passive correspondence of Groussau?11 In other words, what image(s) and role(s) did citizens co-construct for and with the députés they contacted? A careful analysis of such interactions allows us to break the negotiated image of a deputy down into various subtypes. In the first research phase, these types are derived from the letter-writers’ chosen form of address, referring to the deputy as a Minister, Maître, bienfaiteur, ami. In themselves, however, these specific attributions do not elucidate the meaning citizens really attached to them. Therefore, the letter-writers’ more lengthy descriptions of their expectations of the deputy’s relation to them are analyzed in a second phase. Consequently, some very particular unofficial attributions (such as “the deputy-cult” in Chapter 7) surfaced. Precisely such remarkable cases can help reflect on the mechanisms of citizens’ communications with députés and put the attributed roles that seemed more generalizable in a broader perspective. Therefore, it is useful to ask what kind of requests a specific type of representative (such as the deputy-protector) was usually linked up with, and if the deputy-type varied depending on the citizens’ backgrounds. In other words, which contexts determined the specific type of parliamentarian men and women appealed to? In this respect, not only the letter-writer’s social class, schooling, capacity to vote or place of residence are possible variables. The representative’s own background (his ideology and his other political mandates, for instance) could influence the importance citizens attached to a certain aspect of his image as well. Hence, the third research phase delves deeper into how the deputy’s role(s) took shape in comparison to the role(s) of other institutions— the “party” or political group, the government, parliament and its other members, the Republic—and the image of the Fatherland. Although these were all part of the French Third Republic, and sometimes even appeared to overlap at first sight (especially the Republic, the Fatherland or the country), literal or metaphorical references to such institutions could reveal contrasts and paradoxes. To a certain extent, discursive constructions of what a député’s task should be and what his place was in these institutions were tactical choices. Concretely, citizens wrote to

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their “deputy-protector” (highlighted in Chapter 7) because they needed something from him. However, even the most personal requests often reveal the letter-writers’ broader interpretation of what the ideal political representation and regime should be and which political institutions met their expectations. Therefore, in Chapter 6, the citizens’ image of a deputy’s representative task will be analyzed first, in comparison to his official job description.

Notes 1. More on French parliamentary culture, cf. Hervé Fayat, “Bien se tenir à la Chambre. L’invention de la discipline parlementaire,” Jean Jaurès Cahiers Trimestriels, no. 153 (September 1999): 61–89; Hervé Fayat, “Le métier parlementaire et sa bureaucratie,” in Le travail de collaboration avec les élus, ed. H. Courty (Paris: Michel Houdiard, 2005), 29–48. 2. Groussau and Bonnevay were two of the 233 deputies who voted against the law on 3 June 1905 (vs. the 341 who voted in favor), cf. JO Débats Chambre, 03-06-1905, 2701–5. At that time, Marin was not a member of the Chamber yet, but it is clear that he adhered to Catholicism and was open to the griefs of his Catholic fellow-citizens. Dumesnil was not elected as a deputy yet either, but his ideologies and his stance toward religion became clear very quickly. Being a freemason, he was in favor of laicization. 3. Cf. his friendship with socialist Justin Godart from Lyon, where both parliamentarians resided. Both deputies were known for their engagement for the region’s silk industry in the early twentieth century, when Bonnevay was still a center-right democratic député and general councilor of the canton of Lamure-sur-Azergues, whereas Godart was a socialist deputy and municipal councilor of Lyon. Cf. “Letters from the syndicate of silk workers of Lyon and the surrounding region to J. Godart, AugustNovember 1908,” Musées Gadagne, Fonds Godart, file 1 (“la soierie”); “Letter from the syndicate of silk workers of Lyon and the surrounding region to L. Bonnevay,” 07-01-1910, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 22. When Godart was a socialist Senator and Bonnevay had become a député who leaned more toward the left, Godart praised his “dear friend” for his courage, righteousness, and loyalty, leading to his electoral success of 1936, cf. “Letter from J. Godart to L. Bonnevay,” 29-08-1936, idem, file 64. 4. Pierre Ancery, “Laurent Bonnevay, Président du Conseil Général du Rhône (1934-1957)” (unpublished MA-thesis, Lyon, Institut d’Etudes Politiques (IEP) de Sciences Po Lyon, 2007), 22–24. 5. Lebovics, True France, 12–50, especially 14.

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6. Mayeur, La vie politique, 277. As the leader of the center-right at that time, Raymond Poincaré was also Prime Minister (until 20-07-1929). 7. For biographical information about Groussau, see also: Ménager, “Constant Groussau,” 313–27. 8. Manfred Piat, “Constant Groussau, conférencier et parlementaire du Nord et la défense religieuse de 1875 à 1914” (unpublished MA-thesis, Lille, University of Lille III, 1990), 2 & 4. 9. ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 68, as referred to by Ménager, “Constant Groussau,” 318–19. 10. Ménager, 315–27. 11. I explored this topic at greater length in: Lauwers, “Image et action.”

CHAPTER 6

The Impartial Deputy

France had adopted the theory of Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès, who stated that “each deputy, directly elected by his district, but indirectly by the entirety of districts, is the representative of the entire nation.”1 Article 52 of the Constitution of the Year III (22 August 1795) reiterated this as follows: “The members of the legislative corps are not representatives of the department that has nominated them, but of the entire Nation.” Along the same lines, article 34 of the constitution of 4 November 1848 mentioned that “the members of the National Assembly are representatives, not of the department that nominates them, but of France as a whole.”2 However, this was only theory. In reality, “democracy had established itself against the Republic,” Marcel Gauchet explains in his contribution on the construction of left- versus right-wing French political identities, in Pierre Nora’s Les Lieux de Mémoire. According to the Republic’s ideal, the goal of representation was to express the voice of the whole nation in its unity. Therefore, the deputy was supposed to act completely independently. Yet, suffrage reforms and the organization of politicians along ideological and geographical lines—reflecting what part of the nation wanted instead of the nation as a whole—opposed the Republic’s initial aim.3 This tension between theory and reality becomes all the more clear in studies of French Third Republican parliamentary practice, stressing the importance of the interwar deputies’ local embedding and their concrete © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_6

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defense of specific interests of voters.4 Very valuable in this respect, is research that not only focuses on electoral times, but also sheds light on how representation took place and shape outside the physical institution that parliament is, and outside of the institutional practice of voting.5 To better understand, in addition, how the population actually perceived the theoretical representation of the nation (and how they actively negotiated its meaning, limits, and scope), we need an analysis of sources produced by citizens themselves. Therefore, this chapter focuses on the individual letter-writers’ perceptions of the theoretical impartiality of specific deputies of the Third Republic, especially during the interwar period. What did impartiality mean to these “ordinary” correspondents and how did it match their often very personal requests? Unsurprisingly, the letters they sent to congratulate or thank a deputy, or to ask him for a (new) favor, testified to complex and overlapping levels on which parliamentary representation operated or was supposed to operate: on the national, regional, departmental, local, and/or individual levels. The studied letters were thus inevitably full of paradoxes. More remarkable, however, is that these paradoxes of representation were generally not seen as conflicting by the citizens who co-constructed them in their correspondence. A very telling example in this perspective is the letter from Emile Delcambre, who presented himself to Louis Marin as an évacué à Rinxent (Pas-de-Calais). His explanation of why he addressed Marin in particular (on 3 February 1919), despite his place of writing being located outside the député’s district, suggests that he actually belonged to the latter’s constituency in Meurthe-et-Moselle. Although Delcambre realized that his “voice of a modest voter” was not significant, he saw it as his duty—after the long parliamentary discussion on the law on war reparations—to express his gratitude and admiration for Marin’s energetic and continuous defense of the “formidable interests” of those afflicted by the Great War. The letter-writer must have followed these specific debates closely in the newspapers because they concerned him directly as a sinistré de guerre. He seemed moved by Marin’s attitude during these debates, and thanked him for his courage. In expressing his hope that many of Marin’s colleagues would take the deputy as an example, Delcambre not simply referred to the courage to speak up in parliament, but more specifically to Marin’s courage to do so on behalf of his voters. If everyone did the same, this would lead to the ideal of what Delcambre called “perfect National Representation.” In other words, if every parliamentarian stood up for his electorate in particular, the whole

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nation would be represented by the sum of all of these fractions. He thus linked the “perfect” representation of the nation to a clientelist process in which the deputy rewarded his electorate by defending their specific interests. The letter-writer saw no contradiction in the two levels of representation (the national and the individual/local ones) he described. On the contrary, instead of opposing representation of the nation to what could be seen as its threat, Delcambre fitted both levels into a mutually reinforcing relationship.6 Consequently, this reasoning completely justified the many requests for personal favors, in which citizens often emphasized their connection with the representative’s constituency, while sometimes alluding to the greater good as well. Literal or metaphorical references to the Republic, the government and the députés, found in Marin’s interwar archives, usually revealed the letter-writer’s wish for impartiality, national unity, and the “salvation” of France. The latter aspect appeared especially in the 1930s (see below). The common presence of such attributions in the correspondence archives of this specific deputy, can be explained by the social and/or geographical background of the letter-writers. Many of Marin’s correspondents were highly educated, such as the aforementioned eloquent teachers from Paris. In addition, his constituency in the Lorraine region was close to the German border, which contributed to the inhabitants’ fear for new invasions and their hopes for a strong, unified nation. To be clear, impartiality can refer to the député going beyond boundaries concerning “party” affiliation or concerning the constituency he was supposed to represent. Therefore, this chapter will be further divided into two sections that differentiate between the ideology- and geographyrelated interpretations of impartiality. As we shall see, these two understandings often acted as each other’s opposites, almost to the extent of being mutually exclusive: transcendence of party affiliations not rarely went hand in hand with the strengthening of local or regional ties, thus implying a geographical bias. To understand this field of tension better, it is of course necessary to analyze its discursive construction by the “ordinary” Third Republican letter-writers who created it. How much importance did they attach to the deputy’s ideology? To what extent did they consider him their ideological ally? In this respect, it is important to note that, although the Republican Federation became increasingly rightist and strengthened its “party” discipline, its leader (Louis Marin) was perceived by several correspondents as an impartial deputy, who was supposed to act in the interest of the nation. This too indicates

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that, instead of merely being subject to the paradoxes of the regime, “ordinary” citizens also created contradictions, which they did not necessarily perceive as problematic themselves. The example of Delcambre was no exception. It raises questions on how expectations and theory of a député’ s impartiality and selflessness (and his duty to “save” the nation) could coincide with expectations and practices of representation of a specific part of the population and their interests.

Transcending Party Boundaries How to investigate perceptions of a representative’s political stance when the letter-writers’ expressions of support, congratulations, or gratitude were usually not accompanied by an explicit description of their interpretation of the deputy’s ideological affiliation? When “ordinary,” unorganized citizens revealed their understanding of a deputy’s political orientation, this coincided most often with their expectations of his impartiality. A parliamentarian was supposed to transcend the quarrels of election times to tackle the bigger problems of the nation and its regime or the specific problems of an individual citizen who did not necessarily support him. Because such an attitude was expected the most from two specific types of representatives—those who were at the same time part of the government, and those who investigated a specific issue in an important parliamentary committee—these roles will be highlighted in particular. The focus thus lies on the ways in which the deputy’s correspondents pictured his governmental and committee-related functions in relation to both the public role he performed during the plenary debates and his more private role of rendering services to individual citizens. Therefore, some committee duties will only briefly be touched upon in this section, while others are elaborated more thoroughly, in proportion to how much weight they carried in the studied correspondence. Hence, Bonnevay’s membership of the Committee of Drink will receive much less attention than his chairmanship of the Committee of Inquiry of the fraudulent Stavisky affair. Because that specific scandal had incriminated other politicians, letters referring to this case shed a clearer light on citizens’ expectations of good representation and impartiality, more so, of course, than letters about the wine trade. An analysis of the perceptions citizens had of these deputy-Ministers and deputy-committee members allows for insights into their more general notions and expectations of the relations

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between parliament, party, and government; relations that were shaken during the First World War. To understand the impact of exterior factors (such as the war) on the correspondents’ views on impartiality, a more or less chronological approach is required. Therefore, this paragraph will be structured along the lines of the different governmental and parliamentary constellations: from before the so-called “sacred Union” during the First World War up to the tumultuous 1930s. In French historiography, these economic crisis years are generally said to have been characterized by anti-parliamentarism and the crisis of the republican model. This anti-parliamentarism was reflected in the actions of rightist leagues, but also manifested itself from within the institution, in political groups that were present in parliament, such as the increasingly rightist Republican Federation.7 Mathias Bernard who studied this phenomenon, remarks that the Federation’s leader, Louis Marin, remained attached to the parliamentary system. Nonetheless, the deputy had backed up the development toward strong governmental authority (which he was part of), to the detriment of parliamentary power, by letting nationalist anti-parliamentary elements into the Federation in 1934. (He wished to reverse or at least scale down this development in 1938–1939.) Although Bernard sheds light on anti-parliamentarism in the public opinion (through the press and demonstrations of associations), we do not get to know what individual citizens thought of Marin’s role in particular and the role of parliament in general. This is probably the case because (as Bernard writes in his conclusion), the anti-parliamentarist sentiments of the 1930s were not widely supported after all, and should therefore not be exaggerated.8 It is nevertheless interesting to compare his findings to my own research that focuses on a more individual level, because the opinions of politically unorganized citizens might have been influenced by Marin’s words or actions and vice-versa. This particular investigation of French people’s anti-parliamentarist views and their perspectives on impartiality will thus largely focus on Marin’s files. However, it is also interesting to compare them to the letters sent to Bonnevay, who used to belong to Marin’s political group (until 1928) and has the most complete and chronologically sorted (also pre-war) correspondence files. Both Marin and Bonnevay’s archives, moreover, contain files that are specifically centered on their reelections and important committee work to get the country back on its feet. This allows for a focus on the letter-writers’ perceptions of the deputies’ parliamentary work, against the background of the major shifts in the

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governmental composition. It seems logical that the so-called “sacred Union” during the First World War required impartiality of députés and Ministers. Did the falling apart of this union coincide with different perceptions of the deputies’ impartiality? And what were the citizens’ expectations in this respect during the pre-war years of the twentieth century? Were they really that much different later on? Do the letters indeed testify to a rise in anti-parliamentary sentiments? It is important to note that the act of writing letters to deputies in itself already acknowledged and legitimized the député and his representative job. Within these letters, however, it is still useful to search for the specific “markers” of this legitimization, such as literal and metaphorical references to the Republic, parliament, party, and government, and the context in which the letter-writers placed these phrasings. The legitimacy of each of these institutions takes shape in their relation to the deputy. His “impartial,” “selfless” or “patriotic” attitudes were especially expressed in contrast to other institutions that were said to have lacked such values. a. Pre-war impartiality The firm belief of several of Bonnevay’s correspondents in his impartiality coincided with their disappointment in other politicians, which is similar to Marin’s case, especially when the latter was part of the government in the interwar period. Contrary to Marin’s case, however, in Bonnevay’s correspondence, this phenomenon was not related specifically to his ministerial mandate. Already early in his parliamentary career, Bonnevay’s supporters attributed an impartial attitude to him, in their explanations for his electoral success. Especially letters from his militants show how he could count on wide support, despite the (at times fierce) opposition. An enthusiastic tailor from Saint-Vincent-de-Reins (Villefranche-sur-Saône) framed Bonnevay’s first election as a deputy in 1902 as the victory of the comité de jeunes à la bonne cause over his opponent, socialist Henri Palix, an homme indigne de notre circonscription, and his bande de voyoux (“gang of thugs”).9 Léon Fonbonne from Theizé (also in Bonnevay’s constituency) saw it as a victory over “freemasonry and collectivism in a coalition directed against” Bonnevay.10 Despite this polarizing language, the new député for Villefranche-sur-Saône was seen as a representative who could transcend these quarrels, because of his support from a broad left-to-right base in civil society. Merchant J. Josserand from Les Olmes

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(also in Villefranche) expressed in May 1902 how glad he was to see that Bonnevay had ideas and a political line of his own.11 Because Bonnevay’s orientation was not distinctly left- or right-wing during the period under scrutiny, he appears to have been able to win over some undecided voters. In 1906, radicals and radical-socialists merged, opposing democrats like Bonnevay, who was seen by his supporters as less partial. Emmanuel Vingtrinier, for example, a historian from Lyon in the early twentieth century, updated the deputy in March 1908 on his “excellent situation” in Villefranche-sur-Saône, where the letter-writer had stayed recently. According to his observations, both semi-radicals and conservatives (“even those who were a bit old-fashioned”) were glad to have Bonnevay. Although Vingtrinier claimed that he was not working on contemporary politics anymore, the topic still seems to have kept him busy, as he applauded the deputy’s campaign against parliamentary absenteeism, while providing him with historical proof of the importance of this battle.12 The militants of a representative like Bonnevay not only read his impartiality in the topics he defended in parliament, but also in the services he rendered to individual supplicants. Such was the case for Ludovic Billet, one of the député’s supporters from Thizy, who conveyed the “explosion of gratitude” coming from his illiterate fellow-citizen Antoine Guèpe on December 1910. Guèpe was convinced that he did not owe his recently acquired allowance to the Minister of War, who had officially granted him the money, but to notre Député instead, whose intervention was solely responsible for the financial support he had received. “All’s well that ends well,” Billet added, while predicting a political advantage resulting from Bonnevay’s action. Le Ronzy, the hamlet in Thizy where Guèpe lived, was a boulevard des unifiés, according to the letter-writer, which means that he saw the hamlet as a socialist stronghold, where Bonnevay’s supporters were scarce and, above all, had little influence. As an old militant of what he called notre parti, Billet assured Bonnevay that his support for Guèpe’s case had made him win at least twenty votes in this locality. Guèpe himself, who (as an ardent socialist) had never voted for Bonnevay before, now confessed that the deputy would get his and his son’s votes, and that he would convince others to do the same. Bonnevay’s action had made him realize that the deputy was “a man who did not have a party;” “a good man who did not fear to make an effort for the poor,” which, again according to Ludovic Billet, had made the man shout: “Long live the Deputies who were good for the Unfortunate. Away with the windbags!”

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With these quotes, the letter-writer tried to make clear that such acts were the way to go for Bonnevay to win more votes as the “Benjamin of suffrage.” Although the supplicant’s promise of votes resulted directly from the deputy’s personal intervention and can therefore be considered highly clientelist, Guèpe’s support was not just a matter of returning the favor. If we take Billet’s words for it, the man’s change of heart was rather an expression of his true belief in Bonnevay as the disinterested defender of the poor.13 Guèpe was not the only left-wing adherent who found common ground with Bonnevay, so early in the latter’s career as a centerright “progressist republican.” Hubert Thonnerieux, another one of Bonnevay’s militants, informed the deputy in January 1910 about a socialist citizen from Thizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) called Combanette, who was unhappy with the attitude of Elie Corgé. The latter was likely to become the socialist candidate of their district at the legislative elections in April, but Combanette would certainly not vote for him. He had spoken well of Bonnevay, who, in his view, inclined toward the left: Bonnevay oblique à gauche, il a voté l’impot sur le revenu, la fin de l’affaire Dreyfus, il est épatant comme mutualiste, il est très facile de lui parler, et puis Elie Corgé est un sale mouchard qui vend les autres débitants à la régie etc. etc.

In other words, Combanette (a retailer, apparently) would support Bonnevay because of his work in the Chamber and his social engagement in civil society, but also because of a very personal matter: Bonnevay’s probable adversary was a “rat” in the man’s opinion. The retailer’s “colleague” Corgé had informed on him toward the tax inspectors, so it seems. Although Thonnerieux considered this to be important news that could influence Bonnevay’s reelection in April, it was still too soon to work on a campaign against Corgé. What Bonnevay could do in the meantime, was address the lack of a weekly day’s rest for railroad workers from the line of Cours (passing through his constituency). It was the only secondary line where railroad workers did not have this right yet. This was outrageous in Thonnerieux’ view, because “Catholic liberal progressist patrons were in charge.” He warned that L’Eclaireur (Journal de la démocratie de l’arrondissement de Villefranche et des cantons suburbains de Lyon, appearing every three weeks) would march for this cause; they were just waiting for the right time. What Bonnevay could do to put courage

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into the railroad workers (nos amis ), was help Jean Champalle obtain the position of talley clerck in Saint-Victor in Thizy. What the letter does not literally say but implies regardless, is that Bonnevay had to cast off the bad image that surrounded the political group of progressistes he belonged to, by continuing to focus on social measures and individual interventions beneficial for his constituents. These also included more left-wing men, who were not inherently ill-disposed toward him.14 This support from left-wing adherents is specific to Bonnevay’s case. Although he belonged to the same political group as Louis Marin back then, the tenor of the letters he received was quite different. Whereas Marin’s passive correspondence contained several obviously anti-socialist letters (especially in the interwar period), Bonnevay’s image as the defender of the working class appealed to constituents of various convictions. It was also on these grounds that Sister Louis-François from the Castle of Neufbourg in Saint-Marcel-d’Urfé (Roanne, Loire) called in his help in March 1912. The deputy for Villefranche was known for his “continuous devotion for the poor and the small.” Therefore, as a modeste mandataire of Emile Roussel’s, a male family member from Roanne, the nun requested Bonnevay’s recommendation toward a director or administrator of the Paris-Lyon-Méditerranée (P.L.M.) railway company, whom she suspected to belong to his circle of friends or acquaintances. The deputy appears to have already helped her poor and sick brother, who lived in Claveisolles (in his constituency). Thanks to Bonnevay, her brother had obtained recognition of his invalidity and was consequently declared unfit for military service. In the new case she brought to the fore, Emile Roussel, who already worked at the P.L.M. in Roanne, was waiting impatiently to be appointed as a train driver. Roussel’s current wages were insufficient to sustain his wife and two small children. Because he was an honest, hardworking man, according to Sister Louis-François, he deserved this kind of “attention.”15 It is remarkable that, on both occasions, the nun acted as an intermediary for a man, who had more political leverage than she had by virtue of her being a woman, hence being excluded from the vote. Her brother, at least, was a voter in Villefranche-sur-Saône. We cannot be sure of that when it comes to Roussel, because he lived in Roanne, but he might have been a voter in Claveisolles as well. Although being part of the Loire department, the arrondissement of Roanne was adjacent to Villefranche-sur-Saône. Some of Bonnevay’s constituents used to do

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their military service there.16 Moreover, it was not uncommon for registered voters in Villefranche to cross the departmental border and work in Roanne.17 Some letter-writers had indeed received help from Bonnevay to find a job in the adjacent arrondissement (at the police or the railway company, for example).18 It is thus possible that Roussel too was one of Bonnevay’s voters, especially since the nun’s family originated from Claveisolles in Villefranche-sur-Saône, and she explicitly referred to herself as Bonnevay’s compatriote. Still, why did she write on behalf of her male family members? Why would she have had more leverage than two voters? In her letter, she deliberately tried to downplay clientelist arguments for help, while stressing more universal ones (such as help for the poor and ill). Hence, Bonnevay’s impartiality was implied here by the conscious decision of a woman to contact him, instead of letting her male family members do so. The impartial député was supposed to attach greater value to the attitude and poor situation of the applicants (and thus to their deservingness) than to their possibility to offer a concrete promise in return.19 b. From the “Union sacrée” (1914–1919) to the “Bloc national” (1919–1924) In France, the Union sacrée that already came into being at the outbreak of the war implied the adherence of socialists to the French government. This “sacred Union,” however, rapidly fell apart, even before the end of the conflict. The left was divided, containing elements accused of defeatism, wanting peace at all costs. At least, this was the criticism of the new Prime Minister, Georges Clemenceau, an independent radicalrepublican and patriot, who received wide political support, although not from the entire left wing, when he started his mandate in 1917. As expected, the further into the war, the less faith “ordinary” citizens had in the sacred Union and an imminent end to the conflict. Their faith in individual députés, however, was still present. This appears most explicitly in Mr. Bourguin’s letter from January 1918, in which he expressed his gratitude for Bonnevay’s informative responses to a previous letter. At the time of his writing, Bourguin worked at the Saint-Gobain factory in Bramans (Savoie), which focused on the war production of sulfuric acid. In previous communications to Bonnevay, the letter-writer had expressed his wish to be posted closer to home, which the deputy seems to have helped the man with by giving him advice on how to proceed. However,

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once it had come to Bourguin’s knowledge that men of his age category risked being called to the front, he was afraid to draw attention to himself, which could make him end up being worse off than where he was now. Although he was sure he would continue to suffer mentally and physically, it was better to be mobilized in the war industry than at the front. This personal matter aside, together with his thanks and his wishes for the New Year, the man sent his congratulations to Bonnevay for his bonnes besognes in the Chamber durant cette cruelle guerre. The letterwriter did not refer to specific parliamentary activities in the past, but rather to Bonnevay’s continuous effort. Even in wartime, the deputy for Villefranche was indeed regularly present in the Chamber, where he brought several social issues to the attention of his colleagues and suggested solutions through parliamentary questions, bills, and propositions for resolutions. Bourguin did not have much faith in the rest of the assembly though, which he compared to a theater full of sad comedians. Yet, this did not mean that he questioned the principle of popular sovereignty through parliamentary representation. On the contrary, “the people” needed to be able to learn from the terrible lessons from the war, but “Alas!” This expression implies that the man was still hoping for political change (initiated by “the people” and their votes) once the war would be over. His reference to parliament as a theater was specifically linked to its constellation under the so-called union that failed to work.20 Corporal Louis Poissant, who presented himself modestly but proudly to Bonnevay as a petit poilu was also convinced of the deputy’s political integrity and democratic sentiments. From his instruction unit in Montluçon (Allier), the weaver from Bourg-de-Thizy (in Bonnevay’s district) wrote on 1 July 1918 how surprised he was that the deputy had refused the important position that had been offered to him as the governor of Algeria. The only reason for this refusal the letter-writer could think of was that Bonnevay had wanted to show his selflessness in these sad times, by only thinking of his voters. If that was indeed the case, Poissant wished to congratulate him for it, because such a decision meant that Bonnevay was only guided by his “democratic conviction.” Bonnevay’s true motives are unclear, but such a position in Algeria was of course irreconcilable with his parliamentary representation of Villefranche-surSaône. According to Poissant’s interpretation, it was as if the deputy had rejected the egoism that characterized numerous men, even from his own constituency, who “had not feared to shrug off their patriotism when it could cost them their lives.” The virtues of selflessness, impartiality,

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and democratic and patriotic sentiments attributed to the deputy were thus linked to his efforts for his constituents, among whom (at least in Poissant’s view) many had shown themselves unworthy. As in Bourguin’s example, Poissant’s interpretation of democracy was thus limitedly linked to voters.21 The man’s interwar letters to Bonnevay testify to his continuous support for the député. As the elections of 1919 approached, Poissant informed him of the commercial and industrial situation in his region after demobilization. Several factories had been closed down, which was very demoralizing for demobilized men who had burnt their savings during the war, only to find themselves unemployed upon their return. At that point, the letter-writer was unemployed too. The Poizat-Coquard spinning mill had promised him a job once business was better, which would only happen after the peace treaty, Poissant was convinced. After asking the deputy for a job, Poissant raised the matter of the unjust distribution of “demobilization grants.” It was unfair that officers who had not suffered as much received the same grant as petits poilus who had spent all of their savings during the war. In conclusion to his letter, Poissant stressed that (in the build-up to the elections) there was still a lot Bonnevay could do for these soldiers. Their party press should focus on their interests.22 In this example, as in Bonnevay’s previous ones, the deputy was not addressed as a representative of a certain party or ideology, but rather as the defender of a particular class, prominent in his constituency. After the war, both the Chamber and the Senate leaned more toward the right, favoring the traditional groups of the Third Republic, i.e., the republicans of the left (center-right), and the independent radicals and the right wing of the radical party (center-left), at the expense of the radicalsocialists and the socialists (left). Even though the actual Union sacrée did not exist anymore, the new majority identified itself as a National union (Bloc national ), especially against the threat of a possible new enemy, which they saw in communism. In the meantime, the fear for the old enemy remained in the border areas, where a new German invasion was perceived as a real threat. The consequent reinforcement of regional identities threatened the notion of national unity. Because conservative as well as moderate Catholics but also patriotic republicans from these border regions (such as Louis Marin) were very critical about the Treaty of Versailles and its lack of security, the new Chamber of 16 November 1919 was not very clemencist . The left’s loss of seats was, however, not reflected that much in their real vote count. Even though the setback

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of the left could be considered a punishment for the premature pacification ideas (of socialists) and a loss of confidence in radical-socialists, it was also a consequence of the new voting system, based on a combination of proportionality and majority voting, on the larger department level.23 In 1924, the tables turned again: the Cartel of the Left won and is said to have revalued parliament as the center of all public institutions.24 Does this mean that there had been a first “boost” of anti-parliamentary sentiments among “ordinary” citizens during the governance of the Bloc national between 1919 and 1924? In 1919, Louis Marin and Laurent Bonnevay were both members of the Commission des dommages de guerre, discussing war indemnities. Marin, moreover, was known for his criticism of the Treaty of Versailles that, according to him did not offer enough guarantees for peace and reparations for France. Therefore, people who congratulated him in November 1919 for his reelection in parliament, remarked his “conscience, talent and hard work at the service of France,” and especially of the French who had been afflicted by the war.25 Unsurprisingly, this particular file of congratulation letters contained the most explicit references to Marin’s impartiality and to the letter-writers’ approval of his active role in parliament. At the same time, we get to know what his correspondents thought of the roles and power of the institutions of the French Republic in general. On this level, certain observations are more surprising. The most remarkable finding in this respect is that parliament could still count on the citizens’ trust and on the legitimacy they attributed to it, more than to the government, even though wartime had seemingly made the executive more powerful. The importance letter-writers attached to the parliamentary regime, however, did not necessarily entail approval of its (democratic) dynamics. In his letter from 23 November 1919, old professor and translator-jury-member for the court of the Seine, Virgile Gérard, who lived in Paris, referred specifically to the parliamentary debates of 23 September about the Treaty of Versailles. These were good for the “public spirit in a time when there was no State anymore, but only administrators and awkward diplomats who facilitated intrusions” in the French public services. His letter thus forms an example of how parliament could still count on the citizens’ trust, while the executive power was sometimes suspected of corruption. Gérard identified the intruders as “badly brought up and backward foreigners, who receive us in their ministerial antechambers like dogs, just as arrogant as Jeroboam

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Rothschild.”26 The latter actually went by the name of Georges Mandel and was Georges Clemenceau’s right-hand man. Following the elections of 1919, Mandel had become a deputy (right wing but factionless, representing the Gironde department) after his work as the principal private secretary of Prime Minister Clemenceau. The way Gérard called Mandel by his Jewish name in the xenophobic context he described, clashed with the universalist ideal of the republican regime. Another contradiction was created by the manner in which he addressed his congratulations to Marin’s voters. He referred to them in a rather exceptional but telling way, by using the word commettants, to indicate those who had put Marin to work, who had given him his mandate, and therefore had testified once again to common sense, gratitude, and justice, in Gérard’s view.27 Thus, in this example, the letter-writer’s recognition of the deputy’s duties in the interest of the nation as a whole coincided with his expectations of the deputy’s task to render services to individual citizens who asked for help. The representatives’ duties were inevitably paradoxical, but the dynamics between parliament and government were also construed in a contradictory way. Whereas parliament was seen as a stronger institute than the government, at least in 1919, letter-writers who acknowledged this power sometimes expressed their hopes for more authority of the government. This was a strange confession to make to Marin, who protested in the Chamber when he feared that its members were overlooked or overtaken by the executive powers.28 Nonetheless, a man from Paris (called Guillaume) combined both elements in his letter from 21 November 1919. He believed all Lorrains to be convinced of the “brilliant and productive role” Marin would fulfill “in the new Chamber.” The government, in contrast, would need to restore its principle of authority, after having suffered a serious defeat.29 Hopes for a restoration of the power of both the legislative and the executive occurred in Joseph Bagard’s letter too. Thanks to the new constellation in parliament, Bagard from Toul (Meurthe-et-Moselle) was sure that the Chamber would be able to do a good job. He seems to have had more faith in parliament than in the government, unless Marin would become a Minister. The letter-writer was convinced that the deputy of Meurthe-et-Moselle would make it into the Ministry of Finances, because no one else mastered these somber issues better than he did.30 (Marin was, however, not appointed in the government until 1924.) Faith in the power of parliament appears to have been common in Marin’s 1919 correspondence. The choice of words of Emile Hannaud,

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overseer of the Télégraphie Sans Fil in Noviant-aux-Prés (Meurthe-etMoselle), corroborates this view. First, he expressed how glad he was that he had got the chance to vote for Marin (thanks to the department-level voting system). Secondly, he stressed how happy he and abbot Mauvais were to see Marin “in power” (heureux de vous savoir au pouvoir), a surprising attribution to a representative who did not belong to the government.31 Did this mean that citizens like Hannaud considered actual power to lie in the hands of parliamentarians? When, toward the end of the governance of the Bloc national, Marin obtained his first (but brief) ministerial portfolio (for the Liberated Regions from 29 March until 14 June 1924), his correspondents were proud of the honor bestowed upon him. Indeed, expressions of trust in the parliamentary regime in general and in one deputy in particular could coincide with hopes and expectations for a strong leader to stand up to “save” the country. This paradox surfaced especially when Marin was part of the government himself. Moreover, an important shift in his supporters’ interpretation of his nomination can be observed. The letters Marin received in 1924 framed his mandate in the Liberated Regions (in Poincaré’s third government) as an honor for himself but also especially for the people of the Lorraine region who supported him.32 In 1934, however, being nominated into the government was no longer that honorable. After the crises and scandals, Marin’s acceptance of a ministerial position in Public Health and Physical Education (in the second government of radical-socialist Doumergue, created after the very brief leftist Daladier II-government), was considered a gesture of goodwill from the deputy’s side.33 The different governmental constellation and the experience Marin had gained over the years obviously played an important part in this shift. Still, what else can help explain this change in perception of Marin’s nomination into the government? In 1924, the combination of Raymond Poincaré as the Prime Minister (who knew the region and its concerns well too) and Louis Marin as the Minister of the Liberated Regions seems to have reassured people from the formerly partly occupied territories. Marin had already proven his commitment for and authority in the matter as chair of the parliamentary committee investigating “war speculations.”34 Hence, his ministerial mandate could be seen as a reward and at the same time as an opportunity to get the départements meurtris par l’ennemi (and by extension the entire country) back on their feet.35 Unsurprisingly, the letter-writer in this case was a military captain, adopting a language of combat when

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referring to the specific departments affected by the war. Ecclesiastics, in contrast, recurred to a seemingly more unifying language when referring to Marin’s duty as “the reconstruction of the country” to improve “the fate of the Fatherland.” By showing their patriotic attachment to the Fatherland, they attempted to prove that they were “ultimately its good servants.”36 It is of course arguable whether these letter-writers can be counted among the “ordinary” citizens, as they belonged to the high ranks of the magistracy, the clergy, or the army, and possibly had already met the deputy in person. Nonetheless, framing Marin’s ministerial mandate as an honor and/or as a reward for his competence and previous efforts was not merely characteristic of letters of highly placed officials. Rather on the contrary, such references marked especially the letters coming from Marin’s more “ordinary” correspondents. Their congratulating messages generally contained expressions of gratitude, not only for Marin’s parliamentary work, but also for individual services. Following these letter-writers’ line of thinking, the combination of both levels Marin had worked on (the national and the individual level) provided him with this reward of “high esteem” (his nomination into the government). A good example in this respect is Mrs. Laplagne’s letter from 2 April 1924. As a politically engaged woman, she appears to have anxiously followed the different phases of the government’s formation, to finally find Marin being appointed as a Minister. Laplagne considered this function to be one of “great Honor” and “high standing” (cette place de grand Honneur; hautes fonctions de Ministre; ce haut Emploi) of which he was worthy. She was convinced that it would go well under his “tutelage.” Apparently, she knew that it would soon be Marin’s twentieth anniversary in parliament, and she highly valued his continuous work there “for the fortune of an entire people.” Using the metaphor of a wreath of laurels, Laplagne expressed that his efforts and labor had been rightly rewarded in the interest of the country. His many voters could be very happy, and by extension, the entire country should be, as Notre Chère France was now under the auspices and direction of administrators who were prepared for their “noble task” (referring to Marin and Poincaré). There was still a lot of work to be done (by which she especially pointed at the country’s security), but she was reassured that France was at least “on the right track” with such leaders. Her fear for France’s security seems to have been the main reason for her joy over the new government’s composition. All

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“poor Mothers” (among whom she counted herself) valued the country’s security, for the sake of their “future descendants.” However, Marin’s nomination was not only expected to be beneficial for the nation, but also for her personally. Because Laplagne considered the deputy of Meurthe-et-Moselle not just as the country’s protector but as her personal protector as well, a role that will be addressed in the next chapter, she must have already counted on his service before. Indeed, the purpose of her message was not merely to congratulate the new Minister, but also to bring her request for a tobacco shop to his attention again. A job in such a shop was only reserved for the poorest. Hence, applying for it required the proper justification. It appears that Marin had already intervened in her favor, but she expected that he would continue to take care of it.37 Marin’s “efforts” could thus have had multiple meanings. Personal, regional, and national interests coincided in citizens’ expressions of relief for what they called his important function. A citizen from Nancy, J. Beaumont, wrote that “together with all our friends of Lorraine,” he was proud of Marin and “happy with the honor that had been bestowed upon” the deputy. Besides his congratulations for Marin’s ministerial mandate, he expressed his gratitude for the kindness the deputy had shown toward him, i.e., for the service Marin had rendered to him personally.38 R. Collin from Frouard (in Nancy) was also happy with the “services” Marin had rendered and with his immense work. Although Collin remained vague about the nature of the services, he seems to have referred to Marin’s “value” for France in general, describing the deputy’s nomination into the government as a “token of security and honor for the country.”39 Mr. Lalance, former notary from Nancy who promised to continue his militant work for the deputy in the future, considered Marin’s newly acquired position as an honorable mandate as well, through which the deputy would be able to defend the “legitimate rights of the population of Lorraine.” According to the letter-writer, Marin’s predecessors had always denied these rights.40 The letter-writers’ perception of Marin’s ministerial mandate in the interest of Lorraine in particular and of France in general, did however not necessarily entail a recognition of the Republic’s democratic values. In her letter of 1 April 1924, Maria Barassin (née Boulay-de-la-Meurthe) from Courbevoie in the suburbs of Paris counted Marin among the “saviors of Marianne,” referring to the democratic-republican government Poincaré III to which Marin belonged as Minister of the Liberated

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Regions. This government had to “get to work to save the country.” Still, Barassin did not believe in its democratic character, which was (in her opinion) a flawed interpretation of certain newspapers. As a highly educated woman, nominated as an Officier d’Académie (Silver Palms decoration), this former student of Marin’s seems to have had the habit of reading multiple newspapers, allowing her to decide afterward which one was closest to her views. Barassin considered Prime Minister Poincaré (a patriot from the Meuse department, also in Lorraine and close to the German border) to be a dictator, which she approved of. (La France le tient enfin le dictateur que je lui rêvais si ardemment.)41 This stems from her fear of a new German invasion. There is no proof of Marin having replied to her, but he most likely did not share her opinion, as he had already shown himself to be a fervent supporter of a strong parliamentary institution instead of the government’s authority.42 Nonetheless, an important part of his interwar correspondents saw a strong leader in him, who could “save” the country while still looking after individual supplicants. Whereas his supporters were all glad that “their” deputy had gained a position to actually change something, some were worried that he would be less accessible. They feared that he would be too busy with his ministerial duties (in the national interest) to be able to tackle their personal problems. The major of the 18th battalion of Algerian tirailleurs, Bardou from Metz (Moselle, Lorraine) described Marin’s nomination to this “very high” and “very interesting” post as a “great honor for everyone who respected him and approved of all his ideas.” At the same time, he feared that it would estrange the deputy from those (like himself) who had different suggestions to make.43 Although Marin’s more “ordinary” correspondents did not necessarily bring it up in these exact wordings, their concern emerged in their apologies for bothering him with their own “little things,” that might even look “petty” to him.44 Nevertheless, they often presumed that small interventions would still be possible. In other words, instead of stressing their fear that Marin would not find the time for them anymore, these letter-writers made his individual services for them fit self-evidently into his ministerial framework. As they could link their expectations (concerning future help) to qualities (such as a big heart), for which the deputy had been rewarded with a ministerial mandate, his continuous individual support sounded only logical.45

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High expectations of the deputy’s defense of people from a specific region (Lorraine) were in certain cases linked to the citizens’ belief in his impartial and fair attitude. Lecturer at the School of Commerce of Nancy, Pierre Fauvet, considered it self-evident that Poincaré had only thought of Marin for the mandate, because the job required impartiality and a conscience.46 The attribution of these virtues to Marin was corroborated by a letter from Mr. or Ms. George from Pont-à-Mousson, who explained that even people “of different opinions” from their city praised the new Minister.47 Similarly, Andrée Dubarry, a teacher (and former student of Marin’s), was convinced that when the latter put his “morals” to action, he would purify the atmosphere a little and serve as an example, by which she pointed at abuse of power in the liberated regions. The deputy might have had political adversaries; he did not have any enemies, according to Ms. Dubarry, because his “great conscience” imposed itself.48 This did not mean, however, that he received letters of support from people who were openly socialist, like in Bonnevay’s case. On the contrary, the attribution of virtues like morality, impartiality, and conscience to Marin, was not unifying. Instead, such a rhetoric made a clear distinction between him and “the others.” Threats to unity, morality, and other ideals of the Fatherland were said to come from outside (“foreigners”/“strangers,” “intruders”)49 but also from inside (“villains,” “crooks” or “impostors,”and “communists”). Such polarization was quite common in Marin’s passive correspondence from 1919 onward, but the specific focus on an interior threat was especially typical for the times when his political group had lost the elections in the rest of France.50 Marin’s personal victory (and the success of the candidates who had appealed to his “patronage”) at the legislative elections in May 1924, seemed overshadowed by the overall victory of the left wing in France.51 The letters of congratulation sent to Marin that month reflected this we-versus-them discourse. c. During the Cartel of the Left (1924–1926) Clergyman from Nancy, Paul Ingouf showed his support for Marin in May 1924 by stating that: “while facing the exterior threat of arrogant and revanchist Germany and the interior threat of radicalism, socialism and communism, we have faith in you.” Moreover, he considered the Lorraine region as the guardian, not only of the borders of the Fatherland, but also of the things responsible for the Fatherlands’ strength, glory, and

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honor, viz., the cross and the flag. Fearing the rearmament of Germany, the letter-writer adopted a very combative language.52 Given Marin’s political orientation, such patriotic references to the flag and the glory of the nation should not surprise. More remarkable in such a context is an exceptional letter from Dumesnil’s case. Retired military man Clermont from Bourron (in Fontainebleau) explained in the letter he wrote (with many spelling errors) on 5 June 1924, how he had “worked well” for Dumesnil’s reelection. He had gone to several electoral meetings for communists, not to attend the speeches, but to socialize in the adjacent room. There, he had discouraged his interlocutors to vote for communism, by explaining the risks while treating them to a glass of wine. After their conversations, they had all shouted Vive Dumesnil! in unison, at least according to Clermont, who called himself a devotee to his flag.53 To a radical-socialist militant like him, communism seemed a threat, but one that could be overcome by an inclusive discourse, convincing communists to support the radical group. Several of Marin’s correspondents, on the contrary, used an exclusive language, creating an in-group to which they attributed impartiality and an out-group that was said to pose a threat to such a value. Whereas Marin’s election results and his nomination into the government greatly influenced his correspondents’ references to France or the greater good and Marin’s role in it, this was not the case for Dumesnil. Marin’s previous successes caused visible relief among his correspondents concerning national security (and security of their region), whereas Dumesnil’s victory in 1924 caused relief especially because of his previous personal services for his constituents and their expectations to be able to count on his future help.54 Citizens from Seine-et-Marne who tried to describe the victory of the Cartel of the Left did not all agree on the values that marked this triumph: some saw it as a republican victory,55 while others called it a radical success,56 which is not that strange given Dumesnil’s radical-republican orientation. His correspondents’ mentions of the Republic should therefore not be generalized as references to the nation as a whole. This becomes very clear in the letter written by basket-and-cane weaver Fernand Querrot from Lagny-sur-Marne, who conveyed the joy of tous nos amis républicains. He clearly identified as a republican adherent himself. Hence, his expression that “the Republic, the true Republic, always had its fervent supporters in our department” did not refer to the nation, but to radical-republican ideology.57 What is more surprising, is that a few of Dumesnil’s correspondents added

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a “democratic” interpretation to the victory, thereby perhaps purposefully delegitimizing the name of Marin’s “democratic Union,” which then moved to the opposition. For example, Marcel Forest from Gretz in the Seine-et-Marne-department referred to the election results of 1924 as the triumph of the République démocratique et sociale. By presenting himself as Le citoyen Forest Marcel and toujours dévoué et fidèle à votre cause, he clearly identified as a supporter of the left wing in general, and as a voter of Dumesnil’s in particular.58 According to wine-and-spirits producer Auguste Lawisky from Montereau-Fault-Yonne, their victory would have been complete “without this [partially proportional list] voting system.” Nonetheless, he expected Dumesnil to be glad with the results and therefore, to be prepared to organize a Grand Banquet Démocratique in Montereau, together with the three other deputies elected in Seine-etMarne and the letter-writer himself.59 Paradoxically, the nomination of patriotic democrat Louis Marin into the previous government in 1924 was not necessarily seen as democratic, whereas the victory of Dumesnil’s radical-socialist group at the 1924 elections was a few times referred to as democratic. (In neither of the cases, this denomination took a Christian-democratic sense.) Although the content of each letter was destined for the eyes of the deputy only, and generally, none of the individual letter-writers knew what the others had written, it is safe to say that Marin’s correspondents would not have agreed with the democratic framing of this radical-republican victory. Widow Mathilde Gaunard explained in the letter she sent on 13 May 1924 to Marin that people did not know what they wanted from politics, because of “the wind of madness and vague ideas” that blew over them. The ones to blame, in her view, were the “strangers” who spread disorder, and consequently brought notre cher pays to ruin. Although she apologized for going beyond the purpose of her letter (viz., congratulating Marin for his reelection), she continued on the same note by explaining that it was because she had “such a French” and “such a just” heart that she got angry at or annoyed with “everything that was harmful for the country.” At the same time, she remained thankful for everything Marin had done for her (i.e., non-specified personal favors).60 The threats, however, also came from within, according to Gaunard who was openly anti-socialist. Already in 1919, she had shown herself a fervent supporter of Marin’s. Although she could not vote, she claimed to have convinced many railroad employees—whom she referred to as mes cheminots de Nancy, as she

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seems to have presided over their syndicate—to vote for him. Through her propaganda, she had been able to “make the socialists lose at least fifty seats,” and thus make the Chamber less red, so she concluded herself. This shows how surprisingly sure she then was of her own influence on politics.61 There were multiple paradoxes in her correspondence: while valuing the Republic and aspiring to become part of the system herself, the polarizing tenor of her criticism could also endanger the values she wished to uphold, as was equally the case for the aforementioned Virgile Gérard in 1919. Whereas Gérard valued the parliamentary regime over governmental power, his fear for intrusions and conspiracies could lead to a wish for strong leadership instead of a strong parliament, and exclusion instead of republican universalism. Although the majority of letter-writers did not so overtly express their xenophobic sentiments, this phenomenon was not very uncommon either. It appears that Marin’s essentialist and regionalist ideas of France (as discussed by Herman Lebovics)62 attracted a wide range of grassroots support within the right wing. From the moderate center right to the extreme right, citizens from the Lorraine region saw him as their ideological ally. Remarkably, those who openly supported far-right nationalist ideas still managed to constitute a link with the Republic to legitimize their views. Groussau’s election in 1924 as a factionless representative could give the impression that he was the most “impartial” one of the four case studies. In the sense of transcending geographical boundaries in his representation, this was true, but Groussau had a very clear political ideology, which his correspondents not only acknowledged, but also explicitly appealed to. Charles Baussan from Paris expressed in May 1924 how glad he was that Groussau was still the deputy of le Nord, just like he was still the deputy of the Catholics. As a recurring reviewer on the Pages littéraires of the Catholic newspaper La Croix and as the secretary of the Comité de jurisconsultes of the Comité Catholique de Défense Religieuse, Baussan was not exactly an “ordinary” citizen. He defended the rights of Catholics and their education on an organized level within civil society. On several occasions during the interwar period, moreover, he acted as an intermediary (in matters of Catholic schooling) for more “ordinary” citizens toward the deputy of le Nord who had been a member of his Comité since 1921.63 Not because of an impartial attitude, but (rather on the contrary) because of his fervent Catholic ideology, Groussau was unable to find a political group or faction to adhere to.

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d. During the National Union (1926–1928) In July 1926, the tables turned: a government of National Union was formed with Raymond Poincaré in charge (again) and Louis Marin as the Minister of Pensions. Letter-writers who saw themselves as Marin’s true supporters tried to give him advice on how not to lose sight of his representative duties while being part of the government again. Insurance inspector from Nancy, J. Duvaux-Pizel, who called himself Marin’s most sincere voter, informed the député (after congratulating him on his nomination as a Minister of Pensions) of how his intervention in parliament on 17 July 1926 had been received in his constituency. The majority of Marin’s supporters did not seem to have taken his parliamentary intervention well, since it had provoked the fall of the Briand government in less than a month. It was followed by an even shorter government (Herriot II, overthrown on 21 July of the same year). What Marin’s partisans appear to have been confused about the most was the deputy’s public support for radical-socialist Édouard Herriot in bringing down the government of socialist Aristide Briand. During the parliamentary debates of 17 July, Marin had indeed criticized the “vague” reform plans that attributed “too much power” to the government in matters of finances and international politics. Marin shared Herriot’s fears about the reforms that gave the government the possibility to quickly enforce savings and loans through decrees, hence circumventing parliamentary consultation. These shared views did not mean—so he had explained in his discourse in the Chamber—that either one of them was a renegade to their own party. However, letter-writer Duvaux-Pizel did not seem convinced. He predicted that Marin’s political associates would not fail to confront him with the general discontent concerning the matter, now that he was a Minister himself. Because this would affect Marin’s prestige in the eyes of the public, Duvaux-Pizel advised the deputy-Minister to openly motivate his contribution to the attack on the Briand government.64 As already became clear from the extremist-nationalist examples drawn from the 1924 files, it appears that citizens’ expectations of the deputy’s impartiality had clear limitations. In several instances, letter-writers made him understand that his democratic-republicanism was irreconcilable with socialism and radical-socialism. (Yet, Marin did not seem to have come back on the matter.)

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Duvaux-Pizel’s criticism aside, most of Marin’s correspondents who congratulated him in 1926 for his nomination in the fourth Poincarégovernment, expressed how “all French people” who knew him experienced a “great relief.” Their trust was restored after what Germaine Pilliard-Bagge from Côte-d’Or called “the terrible nightmare of the previous weeks,” alluding to the quick falls of the two former governments.65 Around the same time, Mr. or Ms. George from Pontà-Mousson in Marin’s voting district assured the new Minister that everyone from the village was delighted with the “ministerial combination in the sacred union,” although “of course the radical-socialists were not very pleased.” Nonetheless, George too claimed to have noticed a “rebirth of trust” that provided “relief in all classes.”66 Overall, Marin’s correspondents from 1926 agreed that he enjoyed wide support in his region and could count on a broad-based trust in his contribution to France’s recovery. Some other participants to the government, however, “might look … suspicious,” at least in the eyes of Louis Goilliot from Nancy, chief clerk of the P.T.T.-services (Postes, Télégraphes et Téléphones ). He probably referred to socialists Herriot and Briand from the former highly criticized governments who had been nominated as Ministers again. Yet, that did not matter, Goilliot added, since their presence had to “symbolize the so desired union,” and Marin’s ideas and program “since long” corresponded to his own and to those of “numerous good French people.” The letter-writer truly believed in the recovery of the Fatherland, now that Marin was part of the government again. Therefore, Gouillot sent him Courage et Confiance, and was convinced that the wishes of “all good French people” would accompany the Minister, whom he assured of his inalterable devotion.67 Despite the probable sincerity of the correspondents’ joy about Marin’s new ministerial mandate, most congratulating letters from 1926 were meant to remind the deputy of a personal issue and/or a previous request, which he was expected to be able to tackle more easily now that he was Minister of Pensions.68 Unsurprisingly, his portfolio influenced the nature of the claims featuring in his passive correspondence. Regarding war-veterans, men who had served for at least three months in a fighting unit in the zone des armées could lay claim to a carte de combattant, which recognized its holder’s war efforts and granted him financial advantages in return. If the applicant could not meet this requirement, but was still convinced that he had the right to be acknowledged as a war-veteran,

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the decision had to be made by the Minister of Pensions, which Marin was between 23 July 1926 and 11 November 1928. In fact, it was Marin himself who, during this mandate (in 1927), had introduced the warveteran’s card.69 He continued to receive related requests after he had lost his portfolio, and still proved to be prepared to intervene for the applicants.70 Because such applications were often presented by official associations for war-veterans and war-victims, they do not fall within the scope of this book. e. In the turbulent thirties In Dumesnil’s archives, similar demands peaked at the time when he was Minister of the Navy (from 2 March to 13 December 1930) and of the Air Force (from 27 January 1931 to 20 February 1932), but also went beyond this period. When Dumesnil was a Minister and letter-writers explicitly addressed him as such, they asked him quite often to use his “great influence” for a personal favor that involved an intervention toward another member of the government.71 The letter-writers’ assumptions about his haute influence is, however, rather standard. As already became clear from the overview of the characteristics of handbooks on epistolary style (in Chapter 3), letters of requests to authorities were supposed to highlight the ease with which the recipient would be able to reach their goal. Moreover, the presence of the four selected deputies in the interwar Chamber, who had already been there for years, generated the impression of some stability in otherwise turbulent times. In other words, the deputies’ years of experience created expectations regarding the leverage they could possibly exert on other authorities. Although assumptions of a deputy’s “influence” were often linked to the governmental level (viz., the deputy’s influence on a certain Minister), it was not exclusive to the ministerial mandate of the député himself. This becomes clear in the case of Henri-Constant Groussau, who did not have another political mandate apart from his parliamentary one, but was expected to exert his “great influence” nonetheless, which he derived from his ideology and juridical knowledge. This will be addressed at greater length in Chapter 8 on the role of the deputy lawyer. Dumesnil’s contacts most often only referred to the services he had rendered to them individually. In the eyes of his correspondents, his political ideology (and whether or not it matched their own) seemed only secondary. In this respect, the letter written (on 4 March 1930) by Louis

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Dadé, day-laborer at the railways in Capdenac (Lot) was quite exceptional. Dadé, who originated from Villebéon (Fontainebleau), made clear that he could not always relate to the député’s political ideas. However, he immediately added that he admired Dumesnil’s “great sagacity,” through which he had managed to side with the “good and devoted servants of our high ideal.” That ideal was “the reign of the eternal France.” Instead of asking for a favor, Dadé’s letter was meant, first and foremost, to applaud Dumesnil’s impartiality, rising above any “sectarian clan spirit,” and allowing him to attach real importance to notre bon et beau pays de France.72 Dadé’s reference to the clan spirit of others is quite remarkable, because correspondents of precisely these “others” used the word “sectarianism” as a reproach toward anti-clerical freemasons among the radicals and radical-socialists, a group to which Dumesnil belonged. A priest from Inglevert (Pas-de-Calais) congratulated Marin in February 1934 for his appointment as Minister of Public Health and Physical Education, although he did not seem to have had faith in the other Ministers. He wondered if the country’s health would really improve with the presence of francs-maçons notoires et sectaires in the government, like radical-socialists Aimé Berthod (Minister of National Education) and William Bertrand (Minister of the Navy). Moreover, did “weakling Sarraut really belong at the Interior?” the priest asked. Albert Sarraut was a radical-socialist as well. Furthermore, the letter-writer was convinced that, after Alexandre Ribot (center-left deputy of Pas-de-Calais, who had had different ministerial mandates between 1893 and 1917), no one had been more pernicious to France than Édouard Herriot (again a radical-socialist, who had been appointed Minister of State). Now that Herriot was thus a Minister without portfolio, the priest feared that he would have more leeway to “commit sins.” “But maybe you have locks in the desk of your ministry for these villains?” so he wondered, while suggesting Marin should use those often to keep France “healthy.”73 Paradoxically, despite the polarizing language that clearly kept recurring in Marin’s passive correspondence, out of the four deputies under scrutiny here, he was perceived most recurringly as “impartial,” at least by his supporters. Dumesnil’s files, in contrast, contain the least references to his political views or impartiality. This does not mean, however, that his correspondents rarely showed their support to him—quite on the contrary—but they usually did not frame it explicitly as approval of his ideology or parliamentary activity. Instead, their support often stemmed from

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their expectations of and gratitude for his interventions in their favor. For example, Mrs. R. Pagnout from Montereau-Fault-Yonne asked in January 1934 for an audience with Dumesnil (either in Montereau or in Fontainebleau) to discuss her “confused situation.” She had already heard a lot about his “kindness to render services and to give good advice.” Her decision to turn to Dumesnil thus had nothing to do with her support for the radical group or député, but with his readiness to help people (especially from the Seine-et-Marne department).74 Because letter-writers like Pagnout did not deem their political opinions or capability to vote to be a clinching argument in their appeal to his favor, their communications implied expectations of impartiality. Therefore, in Dumesnil’s files, more than in the other cases, women (who did not have the right to vote) seem to have considered it only logical to address him the same way and appeal to the same commitment as their male counterparts did. In these letters, Dumesnil’s specific political orientation thus appears to have been of minor importance, whereas support for Marin’s ideas was more often explicitly present in the studied correspondence files. This can be explained by the eloquence and high education of many of the latter’s petitioners, as well as by their shared patriotic sentiments. Citizens’ explicit acknowledgment of Marin’s (parliamentary) activity and impartiality occurs most strongly in the thirties, for example in the congratulations for his nomination into the second Doumergue government (9 February–8 November 1934). He was appointed into the Ministry of Public Health of this government of national unity, after he had proven to commit himself “with honesty and selflessness to the interests of the country.”75 This was followed by his nomination as Minister of State without portfolio in the Flandin government. Marin’s appointment in the Doumergue-government of national unity was seen as an opportunity to render a service to the nation. Joseph Henri Moisant, who, according to the documents concerning his war decoration had been Assistant Colonel of the navy,76 literally remarked that Marin was one of those who honored the government by being part of it, rather than being honored himself by entering it. As he was re-reading “Richelieu’s political Testament,” Moisant had been thinking of Marin, so he confessed.77 Especially the description of the task of someone who was “charged with public affairs” reminded him of Marin as a member of the new government. Such men were to be pitied, because “the malice of the world” often diminished the glory of their good deeds. As a representative, one could do more good, but even that was impossible. Moisant

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did not specify the context of his parliamentarist sentiments. Instead, he shifted the focus onto Marin’s new appointment in the government again, when concluding that a Minister needed to know that he had to “invite guiding stars.” These would continue to shine and run their course “despite the barking of the dogs.” The letter-writer identified himself as such a guiding star, and therefore wished to be invited by Marin. He promised not to invite the barking dogs himself.78 The highly metaphoric language, the interest in Richelieu and in visiting the Minister to offer him his advice all testify to Moisant’s high political engagement. It could be argued that, instead of being counted among the “unorganized” citizens, he was perhaps a political “friend” of Marin’s, although he did not seem to have had a job in local politics or journalism. Nor did he originate from the deputy’s constituency, but from Neuvy-le-Roi (Indreet-Loire). At the time of writing, he lived in the political capital, just like the deputy-Minister. They must have corresponded before 1934, since Moisant warned that he had changed address. Indeed, in January 1930, the letter-writer had already sent his congratulations to the deputy, on a piece of paper with the heading of the insurance syndicate for forgers (more specifically against industrial accidents), but written in his own name and thus from the viewpoint of an “unorganized” citizen. He congratulated Marin for his work as the chair of the Committee of Inquiry of a fraudulent scandal (the Oustric affair). While assuring Monsieur le Président (Marin as the Committee’s chair) of the support of all those who wished to breathe “healthy air,” he gave feedback on another one of Marin’s interventions, though on a more individual level, as an ordinary citizen’s intermediary. Thanks to the deputy’s recommendation, a man called Vuillemain, whom Moisant referred to as votre protégé, had started his job (at the insurance syndicate?) since the beginning of the month. Moisant’s remark that this was yet another one of Marin’s services seems to imply that he considered it as important as exposing fraudulent (political) practices. In other words, the letter-writer recognized individual favors as being an integral part of the deputy’s task, aside from (and even seemingly on the same level as) the efforts in the general interest of the nation.79 Despite the scandals and crises of the thirties, Moisant’s references to Marin’s services in 1930 and to the work of representatives as opposed to Ministers in 1934 suggest a certain level of trust in the republican regime and its deputies, or at least in a député like Marin. This is all the more remarkable because of the allegedly anti-parliamentary nature

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of this period. As already became clear from the previous examples, citizens not simply underwent such paradoxes of the regime, but co-created them interactively. The examples from 1924 already showed that the most far-right correspondents still framed their discourse as republican, while those who valued parliamentary democracy sometimes hoped that a strong leading figure should step up nonetheless. Especially in the 1930s, the suggested solution for France’s crisis was not rarely to install a strong leader, which they saw in Marin. In addition, not only Moisant alluded to purges of the French political life, but also other letter-writers encouraged Marin to continue his purge for the salut de la France, in other words: to save the nation. Because of the economic crisis, scandals, and loss of trust in those governing the nation, it was no longer that much of an honor or a gift to be part of a government as it was in 1924. Marin’s correspondence from these difficult times shows an increasing number of expressions of admiration and gratitude, not just for interventions on the letter-writer’s behalf, but for Marin’s political ideas and actions in the (economic) interest of the nation. Although most expressions of thanks were still a response to the deputy’s efforts in their personal favor, the gratitude from non-constituents for his commitment to the “Fatherland” was remarkable in comparison to the letters found in other archives. J. Brion from Avignon, for example, who presented himself (in January 1931) as a stranger to Marin, wished to express his admiration and gratitude nonetheless, for the “courage [Marin] had shown at the head of the Committee of Inquiry. Among so many cowardly people without character, it is definitely very difficult and very beautiful to show so much of it. Bravo!” The scandal he referred to had clearly affected his trust in parliament, hence his anti-parliamentary reference to representatives as cowards. Marin was seen as an exception, thanks to his role in the committee. From all parts of the country, acclaim was sent his way, Brion guaranteed, because the deputy held “the torch high.” Although many people placed their hopes in Marin, the letter-writer warned him for the probably diverse pitfalls and wished him courage.80 Thus, whereas trust in parliament and government had not been restored yet, individual politicians like Marin maintained their legitimacy, which, in turn, still justified their supporters’ hopes for the regime’s validity. Concrete constructor from Paris, Gustave Lefebvre-Carpentier, was less optimistic in the message he wrote a few months later. The pitfall he tried to warn Marin for, was a possible threat to his life. Because the letterwriter had been hearing rumors at the pub about “some” who would

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like to see Marin “vanish,” he advised the deputy to take all possible precautions for his safety.81 Some citizens took the opportunity to expose other fraudulent issues, which they expected the député to tackle. For example, while reminding Marin of his promise to look into the situation of people like her, who lived off small annuities and still suffered from the effects of the war, Eline Roch informed him of how, outside Paris, exchange officers acted like fraudulent bankers. Her suggested solution was to force them to join a syndicate. Now was perhaps the right time to put this idea into practice, she thought out loud. The deputy’s role as the Committee’s chair had clearly increased her expectations of his influence and power to enforce equity (concerning the annuities) and equality (the same rules for all exchange officers). Marin’s draft reaction seems to prove that he took her remark seriously, but that his intervention had met with no response.82 In another case, Mrs. Barreaud from Mazières-en-Gâtine (Deux-Sèvres) clarified that she expected Marin to not only expose all “crooks,” but also to make them pay back what they had stolen. Moreover, she hoped that he would unveil many other scandals that were still covered in a unanimous and therefore significant silence.83 In sum, because of the involvement of politicians in fraudulent scandals, trust in the executive power certainly plummeted, but the trust in specific parliamentarians grew stronger, especially in deputies to whom they thought they could attribute values such as impartiality and selflessness. Letter-writers linked such qualities to Marin when he chaired the Committee investigating the Oustric affair in 1931, and likewise to Laurent Bonnevay when he was the president of the Committee of Inquiry concerning the Stavisky affair in 1934. In times when the government had lost stability and legitimacy, the deputies’ committee work still ensured the legitimacy of the parliamentary regime. Of course, the political affiliation of the député in question also played an important role in the overall perception of his impartiality. Marin identified as a republican who highly valued the parliamentary regime (with its committees and plenary debates, both of which he was very active in). Laurent Bonnevay was more independent from the Federation (and from the left or right wing in general) but was especially attached to certain social issues of his region, and of the nation as a whole, such as Health Care and social housing. Unsurprisingly, the letters Bonnevay received upon his return to the Chamber after his interlude in the Senate (1924–1928), explicitly valued

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the importance of his work in the Palais Bourbon as being of general interest. Several letter-writers framed him as an independent deputy, who was characterized by a “life of righteousness,” “great moral value,” and “political integrity,” in contrast to the “radical-socialist phraseology” or “communist illusions” of “demagogues” who shouted Vive la République! but eventually killed the “republican spirit.” In conclusion, “everyone” would benefit from Bonnevay’s return “to the public life,” according to his supporters.84 In the congratulation letters he received in 1932, however, the focus lay, more often than before, on the services he had rendered or was expected to render to certain groups or individuals, and less on matters of national concern.85 Nevertheless, as in Marin’s case, both the individual and the more general level were not rarely intertwined in the same letter. Such was the case, for example, when civil servant Félix Odin from Villefranche remarked in 1932 that Bonnevay’s success increased every four years. He linked this phenomenon to the deputy’s kindness for modest people, which attracted all sorts of sympathies. Although this sounds like a recognition of Bonnevay’s qualities as a representative of the interests of the (poor people of the) nation, it was in fact a reflection of Odin’s personal recognition of the deputy’s puissante protection on which he had already counted before. Hence, especially in his capacity as the deputy’s dévoué, Odin was happy with Bonnevay’s reelection. Such references to protector-protégé relations were quite common and will be analyzed further in the next chapter.86 Although his early correspondents (as addressed above) recognized Bonnevay’s moderation already at the start of his career, the letter-writers’ perception of his impartiality strengthened later on, in the thirties in particular. The reason for this was his chairmanship of the parliamentary committee investigating the Stavisky affair, for which he received broader acclaim, also outside his network of militants. For example, Emile Brès, parish-priest in Saint-Peray (Ardèche), addressed Monsieur Laurent Bonevay [sic], President [sic] du Conseil Général, Député du Rhône, Lyon. Monsieur le Ministre on 4 May 1936 to congratulate him on his reelection. As he did not belong to Bonnevay’s constituency, where the majority of the député’ s correspondents originated from, more explanations were needed regarding his identity and the reason why he really contacted the deputy. The priest explained that he had tried to create a village within Vénissieux (Lyon) with the help of the chair of the bureau for public housing for North-African laborers. This created a connection with the

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deputy of Villefranche-sur-Saône, who was highly engaged in the realization of affordable housing. Furthermore, Brès claimed to be a friend of professor in Law André Philip, a socialist deputy elected in Lyon. Although Brès identified as more leftist than Bonnevay, he described himself as a true admirer (Votre admirateur sincère et dévoué quoique de tendances plus à gauche) because of the deputy’s attitude as the chair of the Committee of Inquiry of 6 February 1934, against the “self-interested lies.” According to the priest, this attitude had turned Bonnevay into “one of the Christian-republican characters” highly needed in the “new era.” The letter-writer wished God would bless the député and give him strength for his contribution to more fraternal and noble laws. In his brief description of the letter, Bonnevay referred to it as “congratulations from one Christian to another.”87 Although this letter is a priest’s interpretation of Bonnevay’s moderate and impartial position linked to his effort for the poor, it also marks a broader phenomenon, showing the complexity of French republicanism, which, in practice, was not necessarily incompatible with religion. Socialism, Christianism, and Republicanism all coincided in this one example. Letter-writers rarely referred so explicitly to having a different ideological affiliation than Bonnevay, but it was not uncommon for them to read fervent republicanism into his political attitude of the mid-1930s. Such admiration was often not only linked to his committee work, but included gratitude for his disinterested intervention concerning a personal issue, similar to the other deputies’ cases.88 To show their gratitude for and deference toward Bonnevay, several letter-writers kept calling him Monsieur le Ministre like Emile Brès did, despite the deputy having been part of the government for only a year (from 16 January 1921 to 15 January 1922). This phenomenon was also common in the cases of Dumesnil and Marin.89 Upon Marin’s nomination as Minister of State in 1934, some deplored that he had lost his portfolio of Public Health and Physical Education. With a specific portfolio, his role in the government would be more clear and concrete. Still, his correspondents generally agreed that his new position was for the sake of more honest national politics.90 This legitimizing and unifying role could only work when they (other parliamentarians as well as part of the population) attached importance to this title and attributed prestige to it. The meaning and prestige attached to a Minister of State should be seen as a top-down and bottom-up interactive coconstruction. Only because citizens perceived it as a recognition and saw

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Marin as selfless and just, his role as a Minister of State had meaning. Although he did not receive many letters of praise for this particular nomination in 1934, the title still resonated in 1936, more specifically in the form of address citizens used in their letters.91 The era’s typical handbooks of politeness (as described in Chapter 3) taught to always refer to the addressee’s highest title, regardless of which one of his roles they actually appealed to.92 This probably explains why, in several letters, citizens kept referring to Monsieur le Ministre, even when the deputy they wrote to was not a Minister anymore. Rather than as proof of ignorance about the député’ s actual position, this should be interpreted, in most cases, as their acknowledgment of or deference toward the representative and his (former) achievements. In Marin’s 1936 correspondence, this was a continued effect of his previous role as Minister of State. Similar to the Belgian interpretation of a Ministre d’État, the French denomination was meant to be an honorary title without portfolio, attributed to prominent political figures. Contrary to Belgium, where it was purely a title of merit, conferred by the King, the French Ministre d’État had to be chosen when the (new) government was formed, just like Ministers with portfolio. Furthermore, he had a ceremonial, unifying role. Therefore, unlike his Belgian counterpart, a French Minister of State did not keep his title for life. Some governments had a few, whereas others did not select a Minister of State, which can be explained by the function of the mandate as a legitimization of the new government. As debatable as Marin’s political orientation may seem to present-day researchers,93 it could paradoxically be considered unifying in the thirties. Perceived as a stalwart of parliamentary values of debate and selflessness, he was recurrently rewarded with reelection in the first round. His nomination as a Minister of State thus ensured the legitimization of the incorrupt government in front of the parliament, as well as toward “the people,” among whom several correspondents testified to their belief in his impartiality.94

Transcending Geographical Boundaries Impartiality in the sense of crossing party boundaries did not coincide with expectations of geographical impartiality, or in other words, with purely national interests. Rather on the contrary, a deputy who was believed to transcend his party ideology could at the same time be expected to have a strong regional or even a local focus. Most ambiguous in Marin’s passive correspondence, is the citizens’ interpretation of his

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role as a representative of the country (le pays ). It could refer to his efforts and devotion for the pays lorrain, les pays envahis, the nation as a whole, or a combination of these denominations.95 It was no exception for letter-writers to rhetorically blur the lines between these different “countries.” Such was the case for F. Hamant from the Saint-Sigisbert School in Nancy, who congratulated Marin in November 1919 for his “brilliant and glorious electoral success” and the complete victory of his list. Hamant was all the more glad because of his own contribution to this victory by having fought “the whole idea of panachage” (voting for candidates on different lists). He would be even happier, however, if the rumors were true that Marin was destined to replace Millerand in Strasbourg (as commissioner general of the Republic, charged with the reorganization of the departments that made up Alsace-Lorraine), because he would do such a great job dans mon cher pays d’Alsace et de Lorraine. That was how Hamant explained his thoughts, before closing his letter with the exclamation: Hourrah pour la liste Marin, et vive la France! In sum, the deputy’s defense of regional interests was intertwined with his defense of national interests.96 Given their timing (following the first legislative elections after the Great War) it should not surprise to find several references to the French nation as a whole in congratulations for the reelection of patriot Marin in 1919. The electoral changes had incorporated new voters, such as Arsène Chaudron, a retired stationmaster of the Compagnie de l’Est from Housséville, in a canton of Nancy (Houéville) that was previously not represented by Louis Marin under the majority rule on the level of small voting districts. Chaudron expressed how glad he was that the new electoral legislation had allowed him to vote for Marin. When congratulating the député for his reelection, he shouted (in writing): “Away with the Bolsheviks, the traitors and betrayers of the Fatherland, and long live the Republic of honest people.”97 Although Marin’s supporters acknowledged the importance of his parliamentary work in defense of regional and national interests, he could not escape the pressure to justify his decision to spend a lot of time in Paris. On 6 January 1921, the deputy of Meurthe-et-Moselle expressed these concerns very explicitly in his letter to the chair of the Nancy section of the Federation of the mobilized French merchants and industrials who had invited him to their conference and lunch. While Marin blamed himself for being in Nancy too often, he was accused of being invisible there. To his “old friend,” Marin dared to show how tired he was of such accusations: the voters had to realize that representatives “were not made

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to butter them up and go to banquets with them, but do a serious job instead.” The country needed that, Marin remarked, and he was sure that the merchants would be the first to realize that. Nevertheless, the député wanted to try his best to join the Federation’s conference and lunch.98 The député for Meurthe-et-Moselle clearly struggled with his different levels of representation (local, regional, and national) and so did his correspondents. The letters to Marin show proof of what I would call problems of appropriation, revolving around the question on how to justify personal demands toward a patriot, and thus how to legitimize the appropriation of his attention. Citizens from several municipalities wanted to make a special claim to it, because of their (former or existing) geographical connection. Sometimes they even explicitly referred to their contribution to his electoral success through voting or propaganda. This goes for letter-writers from his municipality of birth (Faulx), as well as for citizens who belonged to his constituency of the first district of Nancy, Nancy in general, or more broadly to other parts of the department of Meurthe-et-Moselle. Between 1919 and 1928, the geographical scope of political representation was officially broadened by the changes in electoral legislation. However, these can only partly explain the broader variety of the letterwriters’ backgrounds, because people from Meurthe-et-Moselle were not the only ones who felt represented by Marin. He was seen as the representative of the entire Lorraine region, as well as the Alsace region and sometimes by extension the Vosges too (and thus of what we would call the region of the Grand-Est nowadays). A contributing factor to the enlarged geographical variety of Marin’s correspondents was his portfolio for the Liberated Regions (29 March–14 June 1924). The majority of letter-writers, however, still originated from a village or city in either the Lorraine region, the Vosges, or Alsace. These regions had been partially annexed by Germany in 1871, but were French again since the Treaty of Versailles in 1919. Their fear of a new German invasion is what most of Marin’s correspondents, coming from one of these regions, had in common and what encouraged them to address him, regardless of their ability to vote for him. On the card he sent to the deputy on 29 March 1924, abbot André Litaize, vicar from the parish of Mirecourt but originally from Bruyères, called Marin his éminent compatriote, although his place of living was never situated in Marin’s district. Both Mirecourt and Bruyères belonged to a different part of the region (in the Vosges).99 A letter from Paul

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Jeandon from a year before, who also addressed the deputy as an “eminent compatriot” explains that fellow-citizens of Marin’s father saw the deputy as un Bruyérois. Jeandon was not entirely an “ordinary” citizen, as he published opinion pieces from time to time in the Télégramme des Vosges, a local newspaper, but his letter helps understand why people from his village saw themselves as geographically connected to the deputy of Meurthe-et-Moselle.100 His father, Louis Marin senior, had been a notary in Bruyères.101 Furthermore, from Alsace too, citizens sent their wishes to their compatriot Marin. Maurice Grisouard, inspector at the telephone services from Strasbourg, sent his modest congratulations to him on 30 March 1924, together with his best wishes for the deputy’s “good health” and “good luck with his noble task” as the new Minister of the Liberated Regions. Grisouard swore that Marin’s “compatriots, and especially those who resided in Alsace,” were with the deputy-Minister “with their hearts and their minds.”102 Even after Marin’s brief Ministerial mandate, expectations regarding his efforts for the area still resonated in letters from correspondents from Moselle, for instance, situated in the Lorraine region, but outside his department.103 In this context, in May 1924, a judge from Sarreguemines (Moselle) expressed his hopes that Marin would continue to put his heart in his work for notre petite et notre grande Patrie (the East and France as a whole).104 Although the majority of Marin’s correspondents thus had at least some connection with the East, the places of writing they mentioned were overall more diverse than in Dumesnil’s case. Nonetheless, people who originated from somewhere in Lorraine but had left the region to live somewhere else, still kept a strong sense of connection to it. This is illustrated very well by the letter written on 3 April 1924 by Louis Humblot, a clerk of the court’s office from Montfort-sur-Meu (Ille-etVilaine, Bretagne). He claimed that “the thirty or forty Lorrains from Ille-et-Vilaine were happy to see the highest functions being occupied by our eminent compatriots.”105 This plural form referred to Poincaré as the Prime Minister and Marin as the Minister of the Liberated Regions, who had both proven to be uncompromising regarding the war reparations, to be paid by the German authorities.106 Apparently, Humblot still counted on Marin’s personal services, even though he did not live in the député’s voting district anymore. Despite the distance, his request seems to have been successful, because he not only used his letter to congratulate

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Marin. He wrote to him in the first place to thank him for his “reassuring” answer to a personal question. Although the initial request has not been preserved, it is clear that it concerned a response to Humblot’s fear of losing his job.107 Marin’s services for individual constituents and others who originated from the region were not rarely seen as proof of his role as a servant of France. This confusion between regional and national interests, again, appears most obviously in the letters congratulating him for his portfolio in Liberated Regions. On 29 March 1924, Claude Huart, who then stayed at the Victorian Palace Hotel in Paris, confessed that he had been hoping for a long time that Marin would get the mandate he was now entrusted with. Others always told him that Marin was too nationalist, but Huart saw the different facets of Marin’s representative task in their totality. According to the letter-writer, the combination of the deputy’s different geographic identifications (as a nationalist, as a Lorrain, and as a representative of Nancy) did not stand in the way of determining the country’s fate.108 In other words, the ideal of representation of the nation did not conflict with Marin’s ideology, nor with his representation of a specific part of the country and its own needs. Given the cordial tone of the letter, it can be argued that Huart was no stranger to the deputy or to the world of politics. Nevertheless, similar tendencies can be found in other letters that were likely written by more “ordinary” citizens. In the same period, Louis Henri from Nancy (who did not specify his occupation) described Marin’s nomination into the government as a reward for his laudable efforts, his high value, and his boundless devotion, as well as to the goodness of his heart. While applauding the deputy’s inexhaustible yet burdening work to make the country happy and prosperous, the letter-writer referred to how Marin had averted the danger and the ambushes with which the “enemies” had tried to surround notre chère patrie. The Fatherland in this phrasing was probably France, but could still point to the Lorraine region in particular. According to Henri, this region (and especially Nancy) was proud to see Marin’s qualities being rewarded.109 Blurring the lines between the different geographical representations was quite common for Marin’s correspondents, who did not seem to have considered the multilayered representation as problematic. Hence, it is not exceptional to find imagery of the Republic (in references to the Marianne, the flag, and the Marseillaise)110 and what its regime should be

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or become (through health metaphors) in citizens’ letters to the “impartial” deputy.111 Singing the Marseillaise while shouting vive la france [sic] et la Lorraine, on the occasion of Marin’s reelection as deputy of Nancy, was the first thing Fernand Lichtfonse from Paris spontaneously thought of doing after having been informed about the legislative election results in 1928.112 That year, the reversal of the electoral legislation excluded Théophile Petitgrand from Marin’s constituency. Nonetheless, Petitgrand, a pensioner from Hannonville-au-Passage (in the canton of Briey in Meurthe-et-Moselle), confessed that he had still been following the campaign and reunions organized by Marin and his “loyal friends.” About these “friends,” the letter-writer mentioned how glad he was that Marin’s fellow “party” members Désiré Ferry, Édouard de Warren, and François de Wendel (all three of them representing a constituency in Meurthe-et-Moselle and previously appearing on the same list) had been reelected too with a “beautiful majority.” To the victory of the latter, Petitgrand was proud to have contributed himself. He was well aware that the success of the (center-)right was the most obvious in their department, as other republican-democrats still needed to go through a second voting round. He nonetheless generalized Marin’s victory by shouting: Vive la France, Vive la République bien comprise et Vive notre Lorraine.113 Similarly, although carpenter-industrialist Jules Picot from Gerbéviller (Lunéville, Meurthe-et-Moselle) could no longer vote for Marin in 1928, he considered the enthusiasm with which people from his department had applauded the deputy’s election, and the praise from all over France for the success of the “group,” as proof of Marin still being l’élu de tous (and thus elected by all). Picot contacted the deputy to add his own congratulations to those of “all good Frenchmen.” Building further on this generalization, he stated that “they” were reassured, now that the fate of France was in such sure hands (including those of Marin and Poincaré). The letter-writer seemed familiar with Poincaré’s political program, about which he had informed himself at a meeting in Bar-le-Duc (Meuse).114 On the same note, in a letter with spelling and grammatical errors, Martin Nicolas from Paris, who identified as a Lorrain who was glad (un Lorrain qui est content ), stressed in April 1928 that he used to vote for Marin when he lived in Nancy, and that his family (who was still living there) had contributed to Marin’s “great success.” Not only for the deputy, but also for the “great and new Republic,” Nicolas considered the result a success. He was convinced that all French nationals would be proud to see a representative again who was “worthy of them.”115

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Likewise, in his letter of congratulations, C. Handeville expressed that he was glad that, at the legislative elections of 1928, the people from Nancy had put their trust once more in their “worthy Representatives in the Chamber.” Although Handeville, unlike Picot and Nicolas from the previous examples still belonged to Marin’s constituency, his interpretation of the impact of the deputy’s reelection exceeded these local boundaries. People had voted for him for “peace and liberty” of the region and the nation, which made him shout: Vive la France! Vive la Lorraine! Vive Nancy and Vive les Députés de Nancy! Vive Monsieur Marin, Ministre-Député. The letter-writer addressed Marin as Monsieur le Ministre but he especially appealed to his representative function: as a deputy of Nancy, Lorraine, and France.116 Because of the region’s past partial German annexation and its inhabitants’ war experience, Marin’s correspondents almost self-evidently linked region-specific interests to the interests of the nation. However, although the lines between Lorraine and France (and their respective interests) were so often blurred, there was still a certain hierarchy. Marin’s regional identification seems to have been the most important one, at least in the view of several letter-writers. While France was the great Fatherland, Lorraine was sometimes literally framed as the “small Fatherland.”117 At times, even a separate Lorraine identity was created, consisting of “brave hearts and lucid heads,”118 almost to the extent of elevating it above the rest. Alphonse Bruant, chief accountant in Nancy, had spent 49 months at the front. He would never forget Marin’s support for the suspension of his mobilization on grounds of health issues caused by the war. Therefore, he identified as un de vos obligés in the letter he wrote on 18 November 1919, which was first and foremost a letter of congratulation. Bruant was glad to see that Marin and his list had won the legislative elections with “an overwhelming majority.” He wished all voters would be inspired by the sentiments de notre Lorraine, afin que nos querelles politiques et religieuses disparaissent à jamais. In other words, the region in general and Marin in particular stood for political and religious peace, in the letter-writer’s view.119 Similarly, after the legislative election results of 1924, Paul Ingouf from Nancy wished that “if only France in its entirety would have followed the example of “brave Lorraine.”120 In this respect, a certain continuity can be observed. With the election results of 1928, Lorraine set the example for France, according to Mr. Labriet from Nancy, who had voted for Désiré Ferry from Marin’s democratic union, representing the third voting district of Nancy.121 Around

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the same time, A. Miller from Troyes (in the Aube-department) identified as a Lorrain “of old stock,” (Lorrain de vieille souche). He had consulted a newspaper, not only to inform himself about the election results, but also to look into the perceptions Marin’s adversaries had of him. Indeed, Miller had read a newspaper of a more radical ideology to verify how they construed Marin’s image. It turned out that, after the elections of 1928, “they had to admit with disappointment” that Marin had been “Triomphateur.”122 It was very common for Bonnevay and Dumesnil’s correspondents as well to stress that their roots lay in the deputy’s constituency, especially when they wrote their letter from a place outside the voting district of the député they contacted. However, the letter-writers’ framing of their origins in almost racial terms (here, in the sense of a bloodline of Lorrains that goes way back), was only found in Marin’s files. The latter’s more “national” image, moreover, was not necessarily linked to his ministerial mandates, but rather to the diverse backgrounds of his correspondents who could not vote for him but wished to appeal to his “goodness” regardless. In this context, Mrs. Amélie Estienne from La Bouilladisse (Marseille, Bouches-du-Rhône) informed the deputy of Nancy in May 1932 about how glad she was to have read in the newspaper that his “mandate as a Député had been renewed.” Luckily, she wrote, France was “represented by good, trustworthy people” like him. Since she clearly did not see Marin merely as a deputy of the first district of Nancy, she expected him to stand up for her and her colleagues too. They were annuity owners (rentiers viagers ) who suffered from the increased cost of living and asked for justice. Hence, her personal expectations were linked to the perception she had of Marin as a “deputy of France” in its entirety.123 In sum, Marin’s interwar followers considered his reelections as a député and nominations as a Minister to be beneficial for “our dear France,” the Fatherland, or the Republic. Even when citizens clearly referred to the entire nation, instead of confusing region and nation, such references were still not straightforward. There was a difference between the Republic and France, for example when, in the interest of France (either the French citizens or a transhistorical idea of France), the Republic (the regime) needed to be protected. This conscious divide between references to the population and its political institutions, in order to stress the importance of the Fatherland, unity, and the Republic,

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was most characteristic of Marin’s letters of congratulations for his chairmanship of the aforementioned Committee of Inquiry.124 With regard to the tension between representation of the nation on the one hand and defense of the constituents’ interests on the other, Bonnevay’s representative role seems to have been simpler, because his correspondents more homogeneously belonged to his rural district. Therefore, they highly valued his defense of the (poor) farmers and working-class men and women, especially those originating from his agrarian-industrial district. This last part, however, sometimes clashed with Bonnevay’s own broader ambitions to represent poor workers on a more national level. In the letter he sent to the deputy in March 1913, landlord and café proprietor D. Bertrand from the small industrial town of Bourg-de-Thizy in Villefranche-sur-Saône, criticized the deputy’s speech in defense of affordable house-building. In a time when rented houses and factories in his constituency had become mysteriously empty, Bonnevay thought of building affordable houses for “imaginary tenants.” In the meantime, the owners of the “ghost houses” still had to pay “exorbitant taxes,” while the “social” houses (built with the taxpayers’ money) were tax free. This situation was especially detrimental to the ingroup Bertrand created of “small landlords of workmen’s houses in your electoral constituency.” The letter-writer was thus personally affected by the situation, but he framed the problem more broadly as an issue that harmed their constituency. More implicitly, this meant that Bonnevay was supposed to engage himself in solving their problems, instead of imaginary ones from outside their district. Bertrand urged the deputy to do something about this “paradoxical situation,” by exempting unoccupied rented houses from taxes. In his response, the deputy reprimanded the man for his lack of insight into the issue. “If you were aware of the situation of large families in Paris and workmen’s towns, you would not blame me for my engagement for affordable housing,” he wrote. However, on a more compromising note, he recognized Bertrand’s personal concern regarding the matter, and informed him of the possibility to ask for a tax reimbursement for his empty rooms.125 The electoral changes of 1919, broadening the constituency from the district level to the department level, influenced the diversity of the backgrounds of Bonnevay’s correspondents as well. Similar to the previous examples from Marin’s case in 1928, some of the letter-writers from Bonnevay’s files had difficulties accepting the electoral reversion that excluded them from his constituency again. In his letter from 6 March

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1932, wine merchant Jacques Dory from Chiroubles (in the first and not Bonnevay’s second voting district of Villefranche-sur-Saône) thanked the député for all the effort he had put into his brother’s case. (Dory’s brother had been awarded as Chevalier du Mérite Agricole.) How could Bonnevay help so many people who appealed to his “talent and high competence” and “begged for his good heart?” Dory wondered. He especially admired how the deputy combined all these successful favors with his “precious interventions in the Chamber.” It was precisely this combination of capacities that Dory’s fellow-citizens hoped to find in their new representative of the first district of Villefranche, “but alas!” Among the candidates for the next election, there did not seem to have been a man who could emulate Bonnevay and render them some services. Those who would have some chance of success in bringing about change did not want to participate in the “battle.” That was why Dory still addressed Bonnevay, whom he called “the man of Justice, who liked Just things.” This justice, however, was mostly linked to his interventions in the applicant’s personal favor.126 References to the national interest, or blurring the boundaries between region and nation thus occurred most often in Marin’s interwar correspondence files. However, there are some similarities with Groussau whose political role was also enlarged by the war. From being a deputy of Tourcoing and Quesnoy-sur-Deûle, he officially became a deputy of the North, and by extension of all “invaded regions.” He was never given the ministerial portfolio of the Liberated Regions, but defended their rights in the eponymous parliamentary committee between 1919 and 1936. Unlike in Marin’s case, the department vote, in Groussau’s, did not mark his passive correspondence that obviously. First, already before the war, Catholics from outside Groussau’s constituency and even outside the department of le Nord contacted him to ask for his advice, although he did not officially represent them. Secondly, his correspondence concerning the war reparations was not characterized by letters coming from all over le Nord (which he then represented), but rather by letters coming from some centers of textile industry: industrialists from Tourcoing, Roubaix, Quesnoy-sur-Deûle, and Armentières.127 Thirdly and contrarily, in the early thirties, Groussau received more circular letters from syndicates and associations of the entire Northern department, while he only represented the cantons of Tourcoing, Quesnoy-sur-Deûle, and Armentières.128

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Groussau’s passive correspondence thus did not particularly come from the districts he was meant to represent at that moment, but was rather characterized by political themes, like the rights of congregations, the decorations for valiant people from Roubaix, and the reparations (dommages de guerre) for the textile industry. This image is reinforced by the selective preservation of the sources, presented thematically instead of chronologically in his archives, and mainly covering the period between 1919 and 1933. Thus, the geographical link of certain inhabitants of the East with Marin seems to have been more important to his correspondents than the geographical link of certain inhabitants from the North with Groussau when it comes to the latter’s correspondents. As mentioned before, the deputy of Nancy had to justify his long stays in Paris, while these were, on the contrary, expected from the deputy of Tourcoing. A strong connection with the locality he actually stood for, did not seem to have been one of Groussau’s priorities, as becomes clear from the variety of letters he received from outside his constituency. Most of his “ordinary” contacts can be divided into two groups: there were many religious workers from different parts of the country, and even those who lived in exile, in Belgium and Spain,129 but also (physical and economic) war-victims from le Nord and the surrounding invaded regions.130 Groussau had played an important role for his compatriots who were left behind in the invaded regions during the First World War, by asking the Vatican to assert its influence over the German authorities, in order to repatriate the deported citizens and stop these transportations.131 However, this did not mean that the letter-writers then started to attach less importance to his ideology and his defense of the Church’s position in France. Groussau’s image as a defender of le Nord could easily coexist with his image as a defender of the Catholic clergy and of Catholicism in general.132 Often, this latter role continued to have the upper hand, and not just in public, in the parliamentary arena or in communications with a political organization, but even more so under the radar, which will be discussed in greater detail when his role as a deputy-lawyer is put under scrutiny (Chapter 8).133 Dumesnil’s role was more straightforward: he had to defend the interests of the people from his department (whom he called his dear concitoyens ). His correspondents seem to have struggled much less with their justifications in comparison to Marin’s, because Dumesnil’s support was more self-evident. People asking for help or advice often referred

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to their village, explicitly mentioning that it was situated in Seine-etMarne. This was often enough reason for Dumesnil to support their demand, as he knew many letter-writers’ family names, or he knew the people who recommended them (mayors, doctors, or lawyers). Chapter 3 already highlighted such networks of mediation.134 The correspondence files of radical-socialist Édouard Daladier, studied by Frédéric Monier, also mainly consist of letters from people from the department he represented (the Vaucluse), who asked for favors for themselves, or who recommended relatives/friends.135 Representation of local or even individual interests instead of national ones, appears to have been most typically expected by people from rural constituencies. Several letter-writers used the denominations compatriote (especially to Marin) and concitoyen (especially to Dumesnil) to legitimize their requests, particularly when their geographical link to the deputy could not be derived from the place of writing mentioned on top of their letters.136 The difference between a “compatriot” and a “fellow-citizen” appears to have been a matter of right wing (Marin being a patriotic député) versus left wing (Dumesnil being a radical-socialist). Interestingly, both identifications occurred in Bonnevay’s correspondence files, although compatriote was more often used than concitoyen. This again could be seen as proof that Bonnevay’s ideological affiliation was perceived as moderately center-right and found broader approval from left- and rightwing citizens. In any case, both denominations had the same purpose. They highlighted a certain connection between the letter-writer and the deputy. Although overinterpretations of such common phrasings must be avoided, they seemed to refer to a (somewhat vague) shared local background; in the smallest sense: being fellow-citizens of the same town or village, and in the largest sense: originating from the same region. As such, it was not necessarily used to point out the citizen’s and the deputy’s shared national identity as Frenchmen. On a scale from a broad (national and/or ideological) representation to a more local representation, we can place the four case studies as follows: from Groussau as a representative of Catholic ideology, over Marin as a deputy of compatriots from Lorraine (and by extension everyone who felt “French”), to the more locally tied rural députés Bonnevay and Dumesnil. The latter was the most strongly embedded in his locality.137 His responses referred more frequently to Mon cher concitoyen than the letters to him did. They most commonly addressed Dumesnil with the standard Monsieur le Député, Monsieur Dumesnil, Monsieur le Ministre,

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or sometimes they just used a simple Monsieur. Nevertheless, these letterwriters too attached great importance to their shared roots in the canton of Fontainebleau, and thus to their relation as a fellow-citizen of the same district. In addition, the more time and effort it took to reach the requested solution (such as a recommendation for a war distinction), the closer the applicants experienced their connection with Dumesnil, because of their ongoing correspondence and/or face-to-face meetings. Consequently, the image of the deputy-fellow-citizen not rarely resulted in the roles discussed in the following chapter.

Notes 1. Discourse of 7 Septembre 1789 at the legislative National Assembly, cf. François Furet and Mona Ouzouf, Dictionnaire critique de la Révolution française, vol. 2. Acteurs (Paris: Champs/Flammarion, 1992), 307. 2. Literally: Les membres du Corps législatif ne sont pas représentants du département qui les a nommés, mais de la Nation entière…, cf. Stéphane Caporal, Jörg Luther, and Walter de Gruyter, eds., Constitutional Documents of France, Corsica and Monaco 1789– 1848, Constitutions of the World from the Late 18th Century to the Middle of the 19th Century, XI (Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2010), 111; and: Les membres de l’Assemblée nationale sont les représentants, non du département qui les nomme, mais de la France entière, cf. Stéphane Rials, Textes constitutionnels français, Que sais-je? 2022 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2015). 3. Gauchet, “La droite et la gauche,” 2556–57. 4. Édouard Lynch, “Une Étude de Cas: Les Parlementaires Paysans Socialistes Durant l’entre-Deux-Guerres,” Parlement[s], Revue d’histoire Politique 2, no. 6 (2006): 124. 5. Adeline Beaurepaire-Hernandez et al., L’entre-deux électoral. Une autre histoire de la représentation politique en France, ed. Adeline Beaurepaire-Hernandez and Jérémy Guedj, Collection Histoire (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2015). 6. “Letter from E. Delcambre from Rinxent (Pas-de-Calais) to L. Marin,” 03-02-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 25. 7. Nicolas Roussellier, “La contestation du modèle républicain dans les années 30: La réforme de l’État,” in Le modèle républicain, ed.

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Serge Berstein and Odile Rudelle, Politique d’aujourd’hui (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1992), 319–35; as referred to by: Mathias Bernard, “L’antiparlementarisme de droite dans la France des années 1930,” Parlement[s], Revue d’histoire politique 3, no. 9 (2013): 99–111. 8. Bernard, “L’antiparlementarisme,” 102, 108–9. 9. “Letter from a tailor (with an illegible signature) from SaintVincent-de-Reins (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 3004-1902, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J, file 31. 10. “Letter from L. Fonbonne from Theizé Olmes (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 28-04-1902, idem, file 63. 11. “Letter from J. Josserand from Les Olmes (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 08-05-1902, idem, file 31. 12. “Letter from E. Vingtrinier from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 20-031908, idem file 35. 13. “Letter from L. Billet from Thizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) as an intermediary for A. Guèpe towards L. Bonnevay,” 03-12-1910, idem, file 22. 14. For example: “Letter from H. Thonnerieux from Saint-Victorsur-Rhins (Roanne, Loire) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1910, idem. 15. “Letter from Sister Louis-François from the Château de Neufbourg in Saint-Marcel-d’Urfé (Roanne, Loire) as an intermediary for her male family members,” 14-03-1912, idem, file 23. 16. For example: “Letter from H. Thonnerieux from Saint-Victorsur-Rhins (Roanne, Loire) on behalf of J. Champalle from Cours (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1910, idem, file 22. 17. For example: “Letter from A. Lamure from Roanne—voter in Grandris (Villefranche-sur-Saône)—to L. Bonnevay,” 08-051906, idem, file 63. 18. For example: “Letter from J.-J. Cholet, train driver in Roanne, to L. Bonnevay,” 27-12-1910, idem, file 22; “Letter from D. Ronzy from Riorges (Roanne, Loire) to L. Bonnevay,” 06-06-1914, idem, file 23. 19. “Letter from Sister Louis-François,” 14-03-1912, idem. Bonnevay replied that he did not know the railroad inspector of Saint-Etienne (Loire), but that he had asked Dr. Laurent (who did know the inspector) to recommend Roussel, which the doctor had done indeed.

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20. “Letter from Mr. Bourguin from the sulfuric acid factory in Bramans (Savoie) to L. Bonnevay,” 02-01-1918, idem, file 74/I. 21. Literally: Avez-vous voulu dans les tristes temps que nous vivons, montrer votre désintéressement en ne songeant qu’à vos électeurs. Je crois que c’est là l’unique raison de votre refus. […] acceptez ces félicitations d’un simple poilu […] votre conviction démocratique vous avez guidé [sic], in: “Letter from L. Poissant, stationed in Montluçon (Allier) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-07-1918, idem, file 23. In 1928, G. Boucher from Sainte-Paule (in Bonnevay’s district of Villefranche-sur-Saône) used the word democracy to refer to the electorate. He summarized the election results of that year as such: “Although the democracy has often been ungrateful towards its deputies, it can sometimes show its recognition too.” In this phrasing, “the democracy” clearly referred to the (un)grateful voters and not to the regime, cf. “Letter from G. Boucher from Sainte-Paule (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-05-1928, idem, file 64. 22. “Letter from L. Poissant from Bourg-de-Thizy (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 06-03-1919, idem, file 31. His further activism for Bonnevay is obvious in his correspondence from 1928, 1932, and 1936, idem, file 64. 23. Mayeur, La vie politique, 242–59; Jean Vavasseur-Desperriers, La nation, l’État et la démocratie en France au XXe siècle (Paris: Colin, 2000), 83–85; Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 332–39. 24. Garrigues, Histoire du Parlement, 347. 25. For example: “Letter from V. Gérard from Paris to L. Marin,” 23-11-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239. 26. Idem; JO Débats Chambre, 23-09-1919, 4492–4512. 27. “Letter from V. Gérard from Paris to L. Marin,” 23-11-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239. (There is no proof of Marin’s response to Gérard’s letter.) 28. Such a discussion had even taken place not long before Gérard wrote his letter, cf. JO Débats Chambre, 23-09-1919, 4512. 29. “Letter from Mr. Guillaume from Paris to L. Marin,” 21-111919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239. 30. “Letter from J. Bagard from Toul (Toul, Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 18-11-1919, idem. 31. “Letter from E. Hannaud from Noviant-aux-Prés (Toul) to L. Marin,” 22-11-1919, idem.

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32. This was the general tenor of the congratulations dating from 1924 in file 235, for example: “Letter from the major of the 18th battalion of Algerian tirailleurs, Bardou from Metz (in Lorraine) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem, file 235. For more examples, see below. 33. This was the general tenor of the congratulations in file 237, for example: “Letter from C. Laurain from Paris to L. Marin,” 1002-1934 (on the letter it says 1933, which is a mistake from the letter-writer’s part), idem, file 237. For more examples, see below. 34. As referred to by: “Letter from General Auditor M. Blon from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem, file 235. 35. “Letter from Captain Rabineau from Clamart (in the Parisian suburbs) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem. 36. “Card from the bishop of Nancy and Toul (Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 28-03-1924, idem; “Letter from congregant A. George from Paris to L. Marin,” 30-03-1924, idem; “Letter from G.A., the first vicar of Paris, to L. Marin,” 31-03-1924, idem. 37. For example, “Letter from Mrs. Laplagne from Saint-Mamet-laSalvetat (Cantal, in the Massif Central) to L. Marin,” 02-041924, idem. 38. “Letter from J. Beaumont from Nancy to L. Marin,” 30-031924, idem. 39. Literally: un gage de sécurité et d’honneur pour le pays, referring to the Lorraine region or France? Cf. “Letter from R. Collin from Frouard (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 30-03-1924, idem. 40. “Letter from a former notary called Lalance from Nancy to L. Marin,” 08-04-1924, idem. 41. “Letter from Mrs. M. Barassin from Courbevoie (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 01-04-1924, idem, file 236. 42. JO Débats Chambre, 23-09-1919, 4512. 43. For example: “Letter from major Bardou from Metz (in Lorraine) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 235. 44. For example: “Letter from Mr. or Ms. Gavet (and his/her children) from Sommerviller (Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” idem. 45. For example: “Letter from E. Guillaume, a retired mailman from Pont-à-Mousson (Meurthe-et-Moselle), to L. Marin,” 29-031924, idem.

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46. “Letter from P. Fauvet from Nancy to L. Marin,” 01-04-1924, idem. He is mentioned as Professeur de l’Institut Commercial de Nancy by the Société industrielle de l’Est, Bulletin de la Société industrielle de l’Est (Nancy: Berger-Levrault and Co., 10-1923) 107. 47. “Letter from Mr./Ms. George from Pont-à-Mousson (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 235. 48. “Letter from Ms. A. Dubarry (from ?) to L. Marin,” 03-04-1924, idem, file 236. 49. For example: “Letter from V. Gérard from Paris to L. Marin,” 23-11-1919, idem, file 239; “Letter from J. Dupuy from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem, file 235. 50. “Letter from F. Lichtfonse from Paris to L. Marin,” 30-04-1928, idem, file 240; “Letter from Mrs. Barreaud from Mazières-enGâtine to L. Marin,” 18-12-1930, idem, file 235; “Letter from Ms. E. Roch from Paris to L. Marin,” 14-01-1931, idem; “Letter from priest Th. M. from Saint-Inglevert (Pas-de-Calais) to L. Marin,” 10-02-1934, idem, file 237. 51. “Letter from lawyer G. Schirr from Nancy to L. Marin,” 15-051924, idem, file 239. 52. “Letter from Paul Ingouf from Nancy to L. Marin,” 18-05-1924, idem. 53. “Letter from Clermont from Bourron (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 05-06-1924, AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP, file 29. 54. For example: “Letter from widow Dussolier from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-05-1924, idem, file 29. 55. For example: “Letter from Paul Tores from Gretz-Armainvilliers (Torcy, Seine-et-Marne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 12-05-1924, idem. 56. For example: “Letter from Ms. L. Dromville from Compiègne (Oise) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-05-1924, idem. 57. “Letter from F. Querrot from Lagny-sur-Marne (Torcy, Seine-etMarne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 15-05-1924, idem. 58. “Letter from M. Forest from Gretz-Armainvilliers (also in Torcy) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 12-05-1924, idem. 59. “Letter from A. Lawisky from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (still part of Fontainebleau back then) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-05-1924, idem.

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60. “Letter from widow M. Gaunard from Saint-Ouen-sur-Seine (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 13-05-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239. 61. Idem, 17-12-1919. 62. Lebovics, True France, 12–50. 63. “Letter from C. Baussan from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 08-031921, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 75; idem, 22-05-1924, file 45; idem, 06-08-1931, file 123; Baussan, C. contributor to the “Pages Littéraires,” La Croix, 20-11-1921. 64. “Letter from J. Duvaux-Pizel from Nancy to L. Marin,” 24-071926, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 234. The debate he referred to can be found in: JO Débats Chambre, 17-07-1926, 2969–73. 65. “Undated letter from Mrs. G. Pilliard-Bagge from Précy-sousThil (Montbard, Côte-d’Or) to L. Marin,” (July 1926), ADN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 234. It is unclear where she knew Marin from, whether she had ever lived in Meurthe-et-Moselle or perhaps had followed his courses in Paris. 66. “Letter from Mr./Ms. George from Pont-à-Mousson (Meurtheet-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 24-07-1926, idem. 67. “Letter from L. Goilliot from Nancy to L. Marin,” 23-07-1926, idem. 68. For example: “Letter from C. Lagier from Paris to L. Marin,” 24-07-1926, idem. 69. P.L. Dehainault and the Union Républicaine Démocratique de Lorraine (eds.), “Louis Marin et la Politique de Reconstitution,” Au Service du Pays 1, no. 6, 24-04-1932, 40. 70. For example: “Response from L. Marin to J. Jeandidier Jr. from Maron (Nancy),” 30-11-1931, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 169; “Response from the Commander of the Infantry’s Mobilization Center Nr. 52 to J. Jeandidier Jr. from Maron,” idem; “Letter from Mrs. Marchal from Frouard (Nancy), 02-05-1932, idem, file 241. 71. For example: “Letters from E. Bellet from Montereau and Dijon to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 1925–1931, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J, file 11. 72. Literally: … par votre haute clairvoyance su vous ranger aux cotés de bons et dévoués serviteurs de notre haut idéal qu’est le règne de la France éternelle, in “Letter from L. Dadé from Capdenac (in

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the Lot department, where he worked in a railway depot) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 04-03-1930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 22. 73. “Letter from priest Th. M. from Saint-Inglevert (Pas-de-Calais) to L. Marin,” 10-02-1934, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. 74. “Letter from Mrs. R. Pagnout from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins, Seine-et-Marne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 25-01-1934, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , file 28. Dumesnil advised her to write instead (qu’elle écrive). 75. “Letter from P. Vaudrey from Reims (Marne) to L. Marin,” 1302-34, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. He wrote that he and his wife belonged to the many people who did not entirely share his political ideas, but who were happy nonetheless with the choice made by Prime Minister Doumergue. 76. “Joseph Léon Henri Moisant, Légion d’honneur n° 38684,” in: Base de données Léonore, Ministère de la Culture, http://www2. culture.gouv.fr/LH/LH223/PG/FRDAFAN84_O19800035 v1255214.htm, consulted on 18-05-2018. 77. The then recent publications from Parisian writers on Richelieu were most likely no coincidence to Moisant’s mention, cf. Gabriel Hanotaux, Histoire du Cardinal de Richelieu. (Paris: Société de l’Histoire Nationale/Plon, 1932–1933); Auguste Bailly, Richelieu (Paris: Fayard, 1934). 78. Literally: Vous êtes de ceux qui honorent l’équipe ministérielle dont ils font partie beaucoup plus encore qu’ils ne reçoivent d’honneur en y entrant, in “Undated letter from J. H. Moisant from Paris to L. Marin,” (1934), AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. 79. “Letter from J. H. Moisant from Paris to L. Marin,” 08-01-1930, idem, file 235. 80. “Letter from J. Brion from Avignon to L. Marin,” 13-01-1931, idem. 81. “Card from G. Lefebvre-Carpentier from Paris to L. Marin,” 1703-1931, idem. 82. “Letter from Ms. E. Roch from Paris to L. Marin,” 14-01-1931, idem. 83. “Letter from Mrs. Barreaud from Mazières-en-Gâtine to L. Marin,” 18-12-1930, idem. 84. “Félicitations à l’occasion des élections législatives,” (1928), ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 64. For example: “Letter from the chair of the Cabinet of the Court of Appeal in Lyon to L.

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Bonnevay,” 24-04-1928, idem; “Letter from L. Fonbonne from Theizé (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 29-04-1928, idem; “Letter from G. Boucher from Sainte-Paule (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-05-1928, idem; “Undated card from E. Marpaud from Bourg-de-Thizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” (1928) idem; “Undated card from B. Delaye from Charbonnières-les-Bains (Lyon),” idem. 85. “Félicitations à l’occasion des élections législatives,” (1932), idem. 86. “Undated card from F. Odin from Villefranche-sur-Saône to L. Bonnevay,” (1932), idem. 87. For example: “Letter from E. Brès from Saint-Péray (Ardèche) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-05-1936, idem, file 37. 88. For example: “Letter from distiller J. Cherpin from Chamelet (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 29-04-1936, idem, file 64. Apart from expressing his admiration for Bonnevay and congratulating the “fervent republican” for his reelection, Cherpin thanked the deputy for the help he had offered in his dispute with the State Administration of Taxation. 89. For example: “Letter from widow E. Sanlaville from Poule (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 20-01-1932, idem, file 24/II; “Letter from B. Bajard, master-shoemaker from Nantes in the Loire-Atlantique (but originally from Saint-Just-d’Avray in Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 05-05-1932, idem, file 64. 90. “Félicitations Ministre d’Etat, 1934 (Ministère Flandin),” AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 238. Examples: “Letter from J.E. Cagné from Sionviller (Lunéville, Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 21-11-1934, idem, in which he stated that comme ministre d’Etat […] vous pourrez exercer une certaine heureuse influence dans les affaires du pays et sur notre néfaste politique où vous agirez avec le plus de competence, le plus d’habileté possible. As his “devoted servant for life,” Gaston Tidrick, an apparitor living in Villers-lès-Moivrons (in the canton of Nomény, and thus in Marin’s district of Nancy), wished Marin “the best of courage to correct them all” (“them” referring other, allegedly less honest politicians), cf. “Undated letter from G. Tidrick from Villers-lèsMoivrons to L. Marin,” (1934), idem. Another “compatriot,” P.

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Friche from Nancy, congratulated Marin for his important position in the Ministère de trève. Votre présence est une garantie pour le maintien de la paix intérieure. This congratulation was followed by an expression of gratitude for Marin’s (former and anticipated) interventions for putting one of Friche’s friends forward for nomination in the Légion d’honneur, cf. “Letter from P. Friche from Nancy to L. Marin,” 10-11-1934, idem. 91. “Félicitations Élections Législatives, 1936,” idem, file 242. 92. Ducret, Le Secrétaire pour tous, 74. 93. See the aforementioned difference in interpretation between Eck, “Louis Marin” and Lebovics, La vraie France. 94. Assemblée Nationale, “Marin. Base de données des députés.” 95. Referring to notre pays lorrain was a recurring phenomenon, with examples from 1919, as well as from 1932, and 1936, cf. “Letter from E. Chavegrin from Paris to L. Marin,” 18-11-1919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239; “Card from C. Jean from Saint-Dié (Vosges) to L. Marin,” 02-05-1932, idem, file 241; “Letter from F. Badé from Dieulouard (Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 27-04-1936, idem, file 242. 96. “Card from F. Hamant from Nancy to L. Marin,” 21-11-1919, idem, file 239. 97. “Letter from A. Chaudron from Housséville (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 23-11-1919, idem. 98. “Draft letter from L. Marin from Paris to the Fédération des Commerçants & Industriels Mobilisés Français,” 06-01-1921, idem, file 170. 99. “Card from A. Litaize from Mirecourt (Neufchâteau, Vosges) but still an enfant de Bruyères (Épinal, Vosges) to L. Marin,” 29-031924, idem, file 235. 100. “Letter from P. Jeandon from Bruyères (Épinal, Vosges) to L. Marin,” 11-01-1923, idem. 101. Assemblée Nationale, “Marin. Base de données des députés.” 102. “Letter from M. Grisouard from Strasbourg (Alsace) to L. Marin,” 30-03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 235. 103. For example: “Letter from Ms. M. Ory from Metz (Moselle) to L. Marin,” 13-05-1924, idem, file 239. 104. “Letter from judge H.R. from Sarreguemines (Moselle) to L. Marin,” 14-05-1924, idem.

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105. “Letter from L. Humblot from Montfort-sur-Meu (Ille-etVilaine) to L. Marin,” 03-04-1924, idem, file 235. 106. Guieu, Gagner la paix, 237–45. 107. See the aforementioned “Letter from L. Humblot,” 03-04-1924. 108. “Letter from C. Huart from Paris (but probably originally from Marin’s constituency, as his letter can be found in the file called Compatriotes ) to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 235. 109. “Letter from L. Henri from Nancy to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem. 110. For a reference to the Marianne, see the aforementioned “Letter from Mrs. M. Barassin from Courbevoie (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 01-04-1924, idem, file 236. For a reference to the flag and cross, see the aforementioned “Letter from Paul Ingouf from Nancy to L. Marin,” 18-05-1924, idem, file 239. For the Marseillaise, see: F. Lichtfonse below. 111. For example: “Letter from E. Harmand from Flirey (Meurtheet-Moselle) to Louis Marin," 17-05-1924, idem, file 239; and literaly: Il lui souhaite de trouver à la Chambre des collègues disposés à suivre une politique aussi saine que la sienne, in “Undated visiting card from H. Haffner from Épinal (Vosges) to L. Marin,” idem. 112. “Letter from F. Lichtfonse from Paris to L. Marin,” 30-04-1928, idem, file 240. 113. “Letter from T. Petitgrand from Hannonville-au-Passage (Briey, Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” 23-04-1928, idem. 114. “Letter from J. Picot from Gerbéviller (Lunéville, Meurthe-etMoselle) to L. Marin,” 09-08-1928, idem. 115. “Letter from M. Nicolas from Paris (but originally from Nancy) to L. Marin,” 23-04-1928, idem. Nicolas’ reference to the pays clearly referred to France instead of the Lorraine region, as he added et ses sujets (a reference to the French subjects) to his description. 116. “Letter from C. Handeville from Nancy to L. Marin,” 22-041928, idem. 117. For example, the aforementioned “Letter from judge H.R. from Sarreguemines (Moselle) to L. Marin,” 14-05-1924, idem, file 239; and “Congratulations from Ms. J. Muzet, a teacher in Brest (Finistère) and, next to her, a petite lorraine [qui] se réjouit des

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votes de sa petite Patrie, towards L. Marin,” 30-04-1936, idem, file 242. 118. “Letter from abbot Serrien from Forcelles-sous-Gugney (Nancy) to L. Marin,” idem. 119. “Letter from A. Bruant from Nancy to L. Marin,” 18-11-1919, idem, file 239. 120. “Letter from Paul Ingouf from Nancy to L. Marin,” 18-05-1924, idem. 121. “Letter from Mrs. Labrief on behalf of her husband from Nancy to L. Marin,” 26-04-1928, idem, file 240. 122. “Letter from A. Miller from Troyes (Aube, in the East) to L. Marin,” 27-04-1928, idem. 123. “Letter from Mrs. A. Estienne from Bouilladisse (Marseille, Bouches-du-Rhône) to L. Marin,” 03-05-1932, idem, file 241. 124. “Félicitations. Président de la Commission d’enquêtes,” 1930-31, idem, file 235. 125. “Letter from D. Bertrand from Bourg-de-Thizy (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay, 18-03-1913, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 31. (On 28-03, Bonnevay had scribbled his draft response on top of this letter.) 126. “Letter from J. Dory from Chiroubles (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 06-03-1932, idem, file 24/II. 127. ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, files 102, 103 et 107. 128. Idem, file 123. 129. For example: idem, file 45: “Lettres addressées à Groussau par de nombreuses congregations lui demandant conseils ou interventions,” part 3: “Correspondances concernant le Département du Nord” – “Congrégations Franciscains Français. Missions à l’étranger,” for example: the Dames du Sacré-Cœur from Blaugies (Belgium), 1927. 130. For example: idem, file 123: “Correspondance diverse: lettres provenant d’associations ou de particuliers demandant interventions ou soutiens,” 1921–1934. 131. For example: “Drafts of letters from H.-C. Groussau to P. Gasparri and F. Tedeschini,” June 1916–1918, idem, file 109. 132. This is also reflected in his role as the legal advisor of the DRAC, founded in 1924 and concerned with the Droits du Religieux Ancien Combattant.

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133. This is in contrast to Bernard Ménager’s conclusion that, from the moment when Groussau presided the parliamentary committee of the liberated regions in 1919, his image as a defender of the interests of le Nord superposed itself to his image as the defender of the Church; a shift that allowed him to leave the ghetto of the Catholic right wing, cf. Ménager, “Constant Groussau,” 315–27. 134. “Interventions pour des particuliers, par ordre alphabétique,” 1930–1937, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72J , files 16–32. 135. Monier, La politique des plaintes, 26–27. 136. For example: “Letter from C.F. Bailly from Paris (but originally from Tarare, Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 27-031907, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10J , file 35. Charles F. Bailly was a sculptor living in Paris, but stressed that he was born in Tarare, not far from Amplepuis, where he wished to be commissioned by the mayor to make a statue in honor of Barthélemy Thimonnier. (The latter was a tailor from the village, who had invented the sewing machine.) In his capacity as compatriote, Bailly counted on Bonnevay’s recommendation. 137. Examples can be found in AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP, file 29; ADSM , Fonds Dumesnil, 769F, files 59–63, and 72J , files 11–36.

CHAPTER 7

The Sacralized Deputy

Whereas, at first sight, the examples from the previous chapter (and especially Marin’s) seem to testify to the success of the elections on a broader departmental level, they actually show why the “experiment” with proportional representation had failed and was reversed. During the period under scrutiny, French citizens highly valued their personal connection with a député, his accessibility as an intermediary, and his readiness to help them obtain “justice.” Many letters showed the applicants’ admiration, not for a specific party, but for a person(ality), sometimes even to the point of veneration. Particularly when letter-writers appealed to a representative as their only hope after a long period of financial misery and a long process of failing requests at the local level, their language revealed their high expectations of and admiration for the deputy’s charitable intervention, framed as a benefaction or a deed of friendship. This chapter analyzes the specific contexts in which “ordinary” letter-writers developed such notions, ranging from closeness with the député to sacralization of his persona. In other words, the question at hand is in which circumstances the deputy was considered the citizen’s benefactor, protector, or even their idol. What brought other citizens to think of him as a friend when he was most likely not? And how did letter-writers who used such references cope with the aforementioned tension between representation of the nation and representation of their individual interests?

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_7

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The Deputy-Protector, -Benefactor, and -Friend a. Cher bienfaiteur/protecteur All four representatives played an important role as intermediaries between citizens and the state or local administrations, but Groussau’s correspondents experienced this mediating role and its impact in a different way than letter-writers to the other députés did. In contrast to Groussau, the others were frequently called a “protector” and, particularly in the case of Dumesnil, even a “friend” by citizens who were not his actual friends. Letter-writers who saw themselves as “devoted servants,” “loyal voters,” or “protégés” often blurred the line between support, admiration, and friendship. The differences between the four deputies (and especially between Groussau and the other three) can partially be explained by the different preservation and presentation of the sources. Groussau’s thematically ordered files contain requests from citizens who especially counted on his expertise as a deputy-lawyer (cf. Chapter 8). Marin’s correspondence files, in contrast, revolve around congratulations for his reelections and nominations into the government. These successes were often framed as a reward, not only for his work in the Chamber, but also for the services rendered to individual citizens, as discussed in the previous chapter.1 Letter-writers who had the impression that they had contributed to his victory logically adopted a more familiar writing style than citizens who asked Groussau for legal advice concerning congregations and education. Nuns sometimes counted him among the “benefactors” of their congregation, given his interventions for safeguarding their missions, whereas the other deputies were more often seen as someone’s personal “benefactor” or “protector” in their financial struggles.2 Therefore, when compared to other cases, the letters sent to Groussau seem the least clientelist in nature. Regarding even the most personal demands from enfranchised citizens from his constituency, Groussau’s ideology played a more important role in the letter-writers’ motivations than his geographical representation. Although the beginning of a constituent’s letter could sometimes appear to point at a patronage-like relation, this was usually compensated further along, through argumentations that were not rarely based on mixed references to the letter-writer’s faith, emotion, and political knowledge, hereby transcending a simple patron–client exchange. Along these lines, Léon Peulemeule-Leuridan, a

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farmer from Bois-Grenier (Lille) started the letter he sent on 30 April 1926 with the reminder that he had already counted on Groussau several times during the war and since, vu la mort de notre regretté M. Dansette. In other words, before his death on 30 March 1917, Jules Dansette (also deputy for le Nord affiliated to the Action libérale populaire 3 ) used to be Peulemeule’s go-to intermediary. At first sight, the letter-writer thus seems to have substituted one patron-protector for another to solve his very personal requests. This time, he needed an intervention from Groussau toward Marshal Pétain, in order to allow his second son to use his skills as a saxophone player during his military service, instead of letting his talent go to waste in a regiment of Moroccan Tirailleurs. Because this regiment did not have a military band, Peulemeule’s son had to leave his very expensive instrument in a depot. The farmer from Bois-Grenier mentioned the district he lived in, without explicitly linking it to his vote for Groussau. Instead, he appealed to the deputy’s empathy and possible leverage by contextualizing his request with personal, religious, and political details, showing his political knowledge. What he asked was a bienveillante intervention auprès de M. le Maréchal Pétain, who could transfer his son as a military musician to a Zouave regiment in Casablanca. In a postscript, Peulemeule explained that, even though he suggested contacting Pétain for this matter, it was up to Groussau to judge the situation himself. A scribble on top of the letter teaches us that the deputy indeed reached out to the “supreme commander in Morocco” (Pétain) on 14 May 1926. Apparently, Peulemeule had assessed the situation well himself. He knew that a large family like his, with multiple sons, would normally have benefited from advantages regarding their military service, advantages that had been withdrawn by a circular letter. Peulemeule had already proven himself to be an enterprising citizen toward the right authorities, but he missed the necessary leverage Groussau could offer as an intermediary between him and the army command in Morocco. To highlight his deservingness, the letterwriter stressed the grands services his son had already delivered (before his military duty) as a saxophone player and sous-chef of their local harmony, with which he used to add luster to their religious and municipal festivities. These would not be the same upon his son’s return from service, if he could not continue practicing there. Peulemeule thus seemed convinced that Groussau would attach importance to an individual citizen’s lot, and to the musical accompaniment of (religious) festivities in his district. The

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letter-writer expressed his thanks in advance, but did not offer anything in return. Among many others, this example shows a very complex mix of justifications, in which proper political knowledge as well as an accurate description of the supplicant’s personal concerns and needs formed the most preferred and effective combination. Although the result of Peulemeule’s request is nowhere to be found in Groussau’s archives, it can be called fruitful, because Groussau indeed fulfilled the role that was expected from him, which was that of an intermediary, although not in its most clientelist sense. In Groussau’s case, generally, broader values were connected to his expected interventions rather than just individual gain, even when (as in Peulemeule’s example) the request was a very personal one.4 Marin’s correspondents, in comparison, referred to his role as a protector or benefactor in two different situations. On the one hand, Marin’s nominations into the government raised expectations of his “protection” of the Lorraine region or the liberated regions in general, which was strongly linked to his aforementioned image as a “compatriot.”5 For example, when four Alsatians, who identified as Marin’s serviteurs d’Alsace, had learned about his “elevation into the rank of Minister of the Liberated Regions” in 1924, they decided to congratulate him, although his job would be a difficult one. In addition, they confessed to envy those who were fortunate enough to be entrusted to his protection.6 Although Alsace was a Liberated Region and thus fell within the new Minister’s competence, his correspondents linked his “protection” to his role as a representative of a more specific area and its individual inhabitants instead of to his ministerial mandate. Therefore, more commonly on the other hand, citizens counted on Marin’s very personal benefactions, for which his electoral successes were perceived as a reward. Mrs. Emmont was glad to be able to congratulate her family’s “protector” on the occasion of his reelection in 1928. Her husband seems to have contributed to this success by having gone to Nancy to vote. Her entire family, moreover, wished Marin good luck and good health as a reward for his protection.7 Nonetheless, not only Marin’s voters saw themselves as his protégé(e)s. This becomes apparent in the New Year’s letters he received, such as the one from Mrs. Joseph Bianchi (Votre Protégée) from Cons-la-Grandeville (Briey, Meurthe-etMoselle) on 30 December 1929. She addressed her Bien Cher Protecteur to express her profound gratitude toward him, together with her sincere

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wishes for his health, luck and everything his heart wished for. She hoped that God would bless and protect him, and give him a long life so that he could continue his “benevolent mission” for all those who implored his Puissante Protection. Similarly, in the letter she sent on 1 January 1930, widow Emile Heitz (votre très dévouée et reconnaissante servante) from Nancy conveyed her profound gratitude together with her best wishes for his luck and health. In her fervent wishes to Heaven, she expressed her hopes that Marin would accomplish everything he desired. This might potentially have referred to something the deputy planned to achieve in a more general interest.8 On the most personal, individual level, Marin’s protection was expected by aspiring teachers who had just taken or were about to take their exams in front of a jury. It seems that in these cases, his “benevolence” was not just perceived in terms of his help during their education, but also in the form of his influence on the exam jury. In July 1907, Suzanne Gaussères from Paris explicitly mentioned the dates on which she was going to take her exams for the certificat d’Études primaires supérieures. Passing these exams was “a small compensation” that would give her the “courage to work hard for the Brevet supérieur.” This almost sounds like moral blackmail, because Marin provided the courses for this Brevet in Paris. After having taken those finals too, she mentioned her exam date and number.9 Apparently, Gaussères was no exception. Between 1906 and 1909, the Gié sisters appealed to their “protector” in a very similar way. Lucie Gié’s letter from 6 January 1906 and both sisters’ letter from 17 January 1907 to Marin as the school principal even suggest that he had asked for their exam numbers himself. On 17 July 1909, one of the sisters and a fellow-student mentioned the names of their geology examinators. What did they expect? That Marin could and would really influence their exam results? He had indeed shown his haute protection as their “coach” and school principal, but it is unclear how he responded to their more clientelist expectations.10 References to the deputy’s benefactions or protection were thus not straightforward. They varied from a very individual (and sometimes apolitical) level to a broader level of regional or even national protection. Moreover, framing a deputy’s recommendations as benefactions or protection was not an exception linked to one specific député. The letters from Marie-Louise Gérardy (née Aubert), who worked as a teacher at Marin’s school and organized holiday camps for school children during the war, shows how common job recommendations by representatives

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actually were, at least shortly after the First World War and in certain branches such as civil service. In November 1918, Mrs. Gérardy was afflicted by what we would call a burnout nowadays.11 Because her condition persisted after her six-month-break, she aspired for a career switch from a maths and science teacher to a school inspector for physical education. In the letter she wrote on 29 May 1919, she informed Marin of having inspectors on her side. She just needed to win the support of the prefect and the municipal council. Although she stressed that Marin had to do his best to be convincing, she explicitly asked him not to recommend her in his capacity as a politician, but as her boss who knew her and who had seen her at work. Otherwise, as Mrs. Gérardy claimed, her application file would not stand out next to those of her competitors.12 Even though her correspondence belonged to Marin’s more private letters and clearly came from someone he knew well, it was not unusual for more distant “ordinary” citizens to ask a deputy for such a job recommendation too. However, the letter-writers did not always use the word “recommendation” to ask for his support. The multiple requests to Bonnevay, for example, to put in a “good word” or to offer his “high/great/kind/generous protection,” “sympathy,” “interest,” “efficient/kind support,” “kind intervention/attention,” or to support their application “with [his] great authority” all came down to the same question.13 Furthermore, the image of a deputy-benefactor or -protector not only took shape in the way the letter-writers addressed him explicitly as their cher bienfaiteur or cher protecteur. Many applicants also created this role by identifying themselves as his devoted servant, or by stressing their debt toward the député for his “charity” (in the sense of benevolence or generosity). Laudatory references to a representative’s bienfait(s) appear most frequently in Bonnevay’s archives, which can, again, largely be explained by how his passive correspondence has been preserved and is presented. Bonnevay seems to have meticulously kept all letters of thanks he received throughout his career (not only as a deputy) for his interventions regarding the acquisition of pensions, a military leave, a posting or transfer, etc. Such recommendations were typically described as benefactions, benevolent interventions, support, or protection. It was, in fact, a very common phenomenon throughout his entire political career. Even right before Bonnevay was elected as a deputy in 1902, a man called Dutramble thanked him for his “immense benefactions” and “high protection.” These appear to have revolved around a pension that the

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man had indeed the right to claim, for the bread of his old days and a little on the side for his health. Bonnevay’s network of local contacts must have already been strong enough by that time, because the letter-writer clearly valued his influence. Through the expression of his expectations, Dutramble created a very clientelist relation with the deputy-to-be, especially in combination with the promises he made in return. He was very open about the effect of Bonnevay’s “deed of charity for an old man,” which had won him over and would make him vote for his benefactor. Furthermore, he would encourage his friends and acquaintances to vote for him too. As important, if not more important, however, were the prayers Dutramble claimed to reserve for his benefactors. Although these were less concrete and did not belong to the world of politics, in the eyes of Dutramble they were a valuable gift in return.14 Other letter-writers even solely recurred to promises of prayers or good work ethics to compensate for the député’s recommendation (for a job or a promotion). When the deputy’s previous job recommendation had been successful, the threshold for asking his support for a promotion was lowered. Although it seemed only logical to take that next step in their career and ask for support, many supplicants still tried to reinforce their argument by adding a promise. These promises all required efforts from the citizen who hereby tried to reward the representative for his commitment. They stressed their clientelist relation in which the client tried to make sure his patron would not regret his intervention. Important to note, however, is that apolitical promises such as prayers (discussed in the next section) and good work ethics were not only made by citizens who lacked the option to reward him in a more political way. Even men who could have given their vote in return, opted for a promise of a good work attitude, and saw it as the best they could offer. For instance, Joseph Fouillet, who was nominated as a railroad worker in Saint-Vincent-de-Reins in October 1922, believed that the only thing Bonnevay expected in return for his recommendation would be good work ethics.15 Such a promise was not exclusively present in a certain period, but it was quite typical for Bonnevay’s passive correspondence, which can be explained by his continuously good connections with the employers of the railroad company and the post offices. Indeed, most letters of thanks for job recommendations were linked to either one of these sectors. Hence, already very early in Bonnevay’s career as a deputy, a man called Moncorgé from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) thanked the Député de la 2ème Circonscription de Villefranche, Rhône for his “kind

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recommendation” toward the postmaster. He promised the deputy that he would never regret “the favor” of his “great intervention.” In combination with the reference to his constituency, this may of course have implied the letter-writer’s vote. Still, more importantly, or so it seems, Moncorgé would give proof of his profound gratitude by showing his “good attitude” and his “dutifulness” at the job he had obtained thanks to Bonnevay. In the close of his letter, he reiterated his gratitude, to which he added common expressions of devotion and respect.16 In the same vein, in March 1906, Philippe Chabas from Lyon thanked the deputy for his “kind support.” He referred to Bonnevay’s recommendation toward the railway company P.L.M., which had employed him as a day laborer at the station of Lyon Perrache. In return, Chabas promised to do his absolute best to perform well at the job he was entrusted with. In the close of his letter, he identified as the deputy’s “respectful and grateful protégé,” and mentioned his father’s address, with which he subtly indicated that he originated from Bonnevay’s constituency.17 Félix Cortay wrote a similar letter on 10 May 1910 from La Clayette (Saône-et-Loire), where he worked at the local railway station. In 1908, he had entered the railway company in Lyon-Vaise as a loader thanks to Bonnevay’s recommendation. In this older letter to his cher Bienfaiteur, he had promised to keep to the straight and narrow path. Now, he was expecting a new intervention from the deputy, since he planned to enter the exam for a promotion as a facteur suppléant, a substitutebaggagemaster. To stress his deservingness, the man explained how glad he was to be in the good books of the Inspection (toward whom Bonnevay had already intervened), and added that he would do his best even more to satisfy his employers.18 Even though the promise of good work ethics seems to have emphasized Bonnevay’s role as a “patron,” as if he had employed the letterwriters himself, it did not imply a clear-cut clientelist trade-off between the deputy-patron/protector and the citizen-client/protégé. A letter was not the right medium to negotiate the return, but it allowed citizens to imply their promise instead. It is likely that the more clientelist exchanges were debated in face-to-face conversations, which are hard or even impossible to trace. To a certain extent, the archival material reflects these personal interactions, especially between Dumesnil and “his” constituents. (Chapter 2 mentions the written references to phone calls and requests formulated at consultation days.) For the most part, however, the exact phrasings of these oral communications remain hidden. Still, what the

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letters do show us is how self-evident citizens considered the député’s “protection.” Nonetheless, at the same time, they saw fit to respond with expressions of devotion or even servitude. This paradox between self-evidence and servitude is most common in Dumesnil’s archives. Dumesnil’s draft responses show that he sometimes reinforced the letter-writer’s impression that their relation was indeed one of a protector toward his protégé. This was particularly the case when he remained vague about the limits of his authority or about the source of the money he had obtained for the applicant in question. By not making it clear whether it had come out of his own pocket, he fueled the haze that surrounded his position. This vagueness, in turn, created new expectations for solutions to sometimes very personal issues. The most striking of examples in this respect is the case of Mrs. Dadé from Nemours (Fontainebleau). In her letter from 16 February 1931, Dadé addressed a cry for help as une malheureuse mère to Monsieur Dumesnil. (It is unclear if she knew she was writing to a député.) She immediately came to the point by describing her difficult personal situation. In the process of getting a divorce from her violent husband, she planned to leave Nemours once the Tribunal would grant her permission, because life had become increasingly unbearable for her and her young children (of 8 and 7 years, and 28 months old). She had already found a job in Paris, but she would not leave her children behind. Dadé praised her own courage for not abandoning them while she was so fragile herself (referring to a big surgery she had undergone two years earlier). It was difficult, however, to find cheap places in a children’s home in Paris or the surrounding area. Anticipating on the question of why she did not count on her (ex-)husband’s contribution for providing the housing and clothing for their children, she clarified that nothing would ever come from that. He was a brute, who would certainly get picked up and thrown in the madhouse for a night, “like they do with madmen,” she explained. Not much could be expected from him, according to Dadé, not even when a judgment would impose the payment of a maintenance allowance on him. He would simply not pay, and get thrown in prison for it. In conclusion, she had to find homes that would not be too expensive, so that she could provide for her children by herself. Therefore, she asked Dumesnil to help her find a place for all three of them.19 On 23 March 1931, Dumesnil responded that he would engage himself in placing her children in a home, as she had asked him to. This is

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a very remarkable reply, since neither did he have the duty nor the qualifications to put children in homes, especially not in a different department than the one he (partially) represented. With his very explicit promise, he thus blurred the limits of his role. Compared to the other archives, Dumesnil’s correspondence files testify the most to citizens’ expectations of interventions that exceeded his official duty, but it also appears that Dumesnil fueled these kinds of expectations himself. The copy of a letter he sent the same day to Bodereau, principal secretary of the prefect’s cabinet of the Seine-department (where Paris is situated), reveals that his letter to Mrs. Dadé indeed concealed the limits of his authority. He had to inquire Bodereau about a place in Paris or its surroundings that could house Mrs. Dadé’s children, because he did not have the power nor the knowledge to do as he promised. The summary of Bodereau’s response on 27 March, which Dumesnil had scribbled on top of the copy of his own letter, shows the secretary’s regret for having to bring bad news. The boarding school of the Seine was only accessible to inhabitants of Paris or at least of the department of the Seine. The right person to address in Dadé’s case would be the prefect of Seine-et-Marne or a certain office of charitable work.20 The letter she addressed to the deputy several months later shows that she had eventually succeeded in placing two of her children under the care of nuns, but that she had trouble paying them, even after Dumesnil’s wife had given her a secours of 50F when she had shown up at their door. In her update, Dadé tried to explain that her financial problems were not her fault, that she had done everything by the book, but that there were factors beyond her control, keeping her in this poor situation. At the moment of her writing, she was living and working in Ferrièresen-Gâtinais, as a hat’s tailor. This was in a different department (Loiret) although not very far from her previous hometown (a little over 20 km). However, since her husband refused to pay the pension of 300F that had been decided upon by the Tribunal of Fontainebleau, she had been unable to pay the nuns in full. She had already been waiting three months for his money, and her own wages were not sufficient: of the 94F she earned each week, she sent 25F to the nuns for the care of her two eldest children. (As proof, she enclosed her last paycheck.) The Mother Superior had already threatened to give the children back to her. To reinforce her request for help, Dadé stressed again how poor she really was, which also had to do with her poor health. When she was

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still living in Nemours, she received medical assistance from the municipality, but the mayor of Nemours had not taken the necessary steps toward the municipality of Ferrières-en-Gâtinais to ensure the continuity of this medical allowance after her moving. Consequently, she had to get through the week with only 3F left. Her lawyer, Maître Laisset, had told her that he would attach her husband’s salary for two months. However, he had to abandon that plan once he had found out that her husband no longer had a job in Nemours and seemed to have disappeared. Mrs. Dadé did not believe it was her duty to look for her husband, but what did she have to do instead? She expected a response from Dumesnil in the very near future, and was sure that he would deal with her case as soon as possible.21 On 20 July 1931, the député transmitted her letter to Léon Daunay, mayor of Nemours. Now that there was nothing Dumesnil could come up with that they could do—stressing that he had already occupied himself with her case multiple times—he asked the mayor if he could think of a possible solution. Could they not help her out or intervene toward her husband, Dumesnil wondered, still including himself in this choice of words. Daunay replied that he had already done what he could for her, and that he was not able to do anything more now that she had moved out of his town. Apparently, Dadé had also contacted Daunay directly, in a peremptory manner, to which he had responded that she should address the municipality of her place of residence first. They would do what was necessary to charge the municipality of Nemours. (Apparently, a transition period gave municipalities the time to adjust to citizens who had moved. Because not a year had passed since Dadé had moved, her medical assistance would still be at the expense of Nemours, but she had to apply for it in her new hometown.) Secondly, she should contact her attorney to get the judge’s decision executed. Helping a citizen on such a personal level required a case that was worthy of interest, which is why Dadé had highlighted her deservingness by stressing the factors she had no control over. The mayor—however calling her indeed a malheureuse—did not find it that interesting. The “husband was a drunk” indeed, Daunay remarked, “but nothing in their household seemed perfect.” Although it is not clear what exactly he meant by “not perfect,” he especially appears to have considered it an annoying case, one that he wished to brush aside by telling Dumesnil that he could send her a petit secours again; yet, this should be the last one.22 It is unclear if the deputy indeed granted her another relief, but the suggestion alone and the way in which

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it had been decided upon do not particularly make the attribution of such “last resort” allowances look very official. Unlike Mrs. Dadé, most other applicants seem to have known the rules and procedures to follow. Nonetheless, their expectations too (of the deputy as a benefactor) were quite high, especially after having seen their own attempt fail first, and succeed later after Dumesnil’s intervention. Contacting a deputy was a way to try to obtain financial support, alternatively as a “benefaction,” when applications on other, more official levels had already failed. When there was still a possibility to apply for more official funding, Dumesnil advised the applicants on the procedures to follow. Such was the case for Cécile Lefèvre from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (previously in Fontainebleau, but then in Provins, Seine-et-Marne), who addressed Dumesnil on 20 November 1934 as Monsieur le Ministre (when he did not have this mandate anymore). The reason for her writing was an “injustice” toward her, so she explained at the beginning of her letter. Her application for a military allowance to support her family in the absence of a breadwinner had been refused and she did not know why. She was a widow with three children and a male friend at her charge. The eldest of her children had five children himself, of which the eldest one was at the hospital. Her second son only lived with her for three days a week, because of his military service. She had given up on her application, and turned to Dumesnil pour me faire secourir, as a last resort. The deputy informed her that she should, however, appeal to the municipality before a certain date and explain her family situation and resources.23 There are traces in Bonnevay’s pre-war correspondence proving that he had sent money out of his own pocket, just like Dumesnil had done. C. Fromentin, a teacher from Les Olmes in Bonnevay’s constituency, thanked the deputy on 28 November 1906 for his “charming letter and the good that it contained.” Clearly, the content of Bonnevay’s letter (a donation) had kindled enthusiasm in Fromentin’s pupils, who promised to double their devotion.24 The deputy of Villefranche-sur-Saône not only sponsored local schools or associations, but also individual citizens in desperate situations. In a letter from February 1910, filled with spelling errors, though formulated in the suitable epistolary fashion, L. Guerpillon thanked the député for what he had done for his uncle, Jean Silvestre from le Bois-d’Oingt (in Bonnevay’s district). Guerpillon, a butcher from Paris—who made clear that he originated from Saint-Romain-dePopey (also in Villefranche-sur-Saône)—mentioned that, upon meeting his uncle after twenty-five years, the latter had shown him Bonnevay’s

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letter, containing une petite somme. This gesture did not seem to have greatly surprised Guerpillon, who claimed to have come to know the deputy for his devotion for the deprived.25 In another example from the same year, Mrs. Gardette from Lamuresur-Azergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) expressed her gratitude toward Bonnevay for the gifts (le dons [sic]) he had sent to her. It is unclear whether she knew she was addressing a parliamentarian, since she kept calling him Monsieur, plain and simple, throughout her short letter, which she ended with a rather informal Merci mille fois. In any case, it was not his representative position which she appealed to, but rather his role as their “great support and a friend of the poor.” In her eyes, Bonnevay’s unofficial deed of charity was a sign of what he stood for politically. Together with her small family (including her husband), she would pray to God to protect France and men like him, thus in the more general interest of the nation and its poor citizens. In addition, they promised to be his devoted servants. Overall, Gardette’s letter implied political and apolitical support for the deputy, who acted as a benefactor on the individual as well as on the national level.26 Before granting her the money, though, Bonnevay had asked Pierre Berthinier from Lamure-sur-Azergues—who knew Gardette and her children well—for more information, to find out if she was really deserving. Berthinier corroborated her family situation and ensured the deputy that his support would be “a well-placed charity.” Bonnevay thus seems to have given money outside of the official networks (foreseen by the Republic to channel clientelism). However, a scribble on top of Gardette’s letter suggests that he still tried to get an official secours for her from the Secretary-General (probably of the Prefecture of the Rhône), which he justified by pointing out her “extreme misery.”27 In another example from a few years later, Marie Perrier thanked the deputy for the 10F he had sent her. “Although it was not a big sum,” she said she was happy with it. However, she considered the money as a loan, which she intended to repay. As she was unable to do so herself, she hoped that Bonnevay could recommend her toward one of his acquaintances who was prepared to do une bonne œuvre (of charity).28 This expression was not only used in the sense of money, but also in a broader context in which the deputy acted as an intermediary between the citizen and the executive powers. On 15 March 1912, a man called Mollon (Votre três devoué [sic]) from Tarare in Villefranche wrote a message in which he explained (with spelling errors), that he had done his best, but that

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he was too “ignorant and incapable” to notice any mistakes in his letter toward the Minister of War. Bonnevay agreed to proofread his letter and send it to the Minister.29 A few pre-war letters thus show that Bonnevay had given donations out of his own pocket (at least as a first step) to applicants in highly miserable situations, besides being their intermediary toward executive powers. He nonetheless tried to be sure of the applicants’ deservingness. It seems that the deputy for the Rhône was more careful and choosy when it came to distributing money than Dumesnil was. The summaries of Bonnevay’s responses (scribbled down on top of most letters) at least suggest that he tried to be more transparent toward his correspondents about the boundaries of his competence than Dumesnil did. We see this in Bonnevay’s explicit disapproval of favoritism and bribery,30 his refusal of fictional patronage or membership of societies,31 but also in the way he ignored too overtly clientelist requests or expressions of gratitude, while focusing on the legal possibilities, especially when his hands were tied by the war conditions (cf. Chapter 4). Although the role of the deputy-protector or –benefactor was thus not straightforward but differed from one deputy to another, one common denominator, at least, was that députés of the Third Republic were clearly no distant superior benefactors. Hence, a deputy-protector was not the same as the “mythical benefactor,” described by Sami Suodenjoki for the case of the Governor-General of Finland at the turn of the twentieth century. The idealized image of a “mythical benefactor” was mostly applicable to monarchs and sometimes to other authorities as well that were quite distant from the population. Députés, however, formed an intermediary level between citizens and the executive. Because of their greater accessibility toward (and direct interactions with) citizens, parliamentarians were better informed about the problems of those whom they represented, and were definitely less “naïve” than monarchs were commonly perceived to be.32 Groussau, Marin, Bonnevay, and Dumesnil were all seen as representatives who knew how to act, attract attention (publicly or more discretely, according to the circumstances) and find a solution to the applicants’ (financial) problems. Even though literal references to the deputies’ actions as “benefactions” or requests for “protection” or a secours (a financial relief) may seem to suggest a certain passivity of the correspondents, the analysis of letters from individual “ordinary” citizens nonetheless reveals their agency. They took the initiative for contacting the deputy, making suggestions themselves for possible

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solutions to their problems, and by expressing their expectations, the letter-writers helped construct the deputy’s profile interactively. Even when this profile was that of a deputy-protector or –benefactor, and thus seemingly a clientelist one, the broader context of the citizens’ requests could range from charity on a very personal level to protection of the region and France as a whole. b. Cher ami/camarade Rural deputies like Bonnevay and Dumesnil were even perceived as peers, familiar with the reality of life in their constituencies. Yet, they had more legal expertise and leverage than “ordinary” people, which enabled them to enforce the rights of their protégés and fellow-citizens. At times, these interventions left such an impression of closeness, that a letter-writer was inclined to believe that a representative like Dumesnil was his “friend.” To be clear, the denomination camarade was very common among war-veterans and leftist politicians—socialists and communists— in national as well as international contacts; hence, it was not a typically French phenomenon. Members of the Section Française of the socialist International (SFIO) referred to each other that way, but socialists from other countries too were each other’s “friends,” “fellow-citizens,” or “comrades.” Moreover, socialist and communist activists among “ordinary” citizens equally identified themselves as such.33 Therefore, it should not surprise that historians use the same denominations for shedding light on a socialist representative’s attachment to his party and to left dogmatism versus his attachment to the Republic and being part of the state. The conference volume about SFIO-deputy Guy Mollet—un camarade en république (of the Fourth Republic to be precise)—and more specifically Marc Sadoun’s contribution to this volume, differentiate between a camarade (Guy Mollet) and a republican or citoyen (Léon Blum).34 This example shows how characteristic the use of references to friendship and comradeship seems to have been to the political left. My book does not focus on SFIO-members nor on communist députés. Still, several letter-writers from my own investigation creatively and discursively construed an in-group including themselves and their deputy-“friend” or—“fellow-citizen,” to show their support for the representative. As expected, such references were most common in the archives of radical-socialist Dumesnil, who was the more leftist one out of the

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four. Indeed, in Dumesnil’s case in particular, the lines between a friend, a comrade, a militant, or a mere fellow-citizen were very thin. Sometimes, these attributions were used interchangeably, which was especially the case for references to him as a friend and a fellow-citizen. Who was a true friend or who had been a true comrade, and who was “merely” a supplicant and/or supporter from his constituency? Dumesnil was called a comrade by an actual former companion in arms who knew the deputy from having served in the Air force together, but also by fellow-citizens who saw being a war-veteran as their common denominator with Dumesnil, and thus as a good icebreaker to begin their letter of request with. Aide-de-camp Georges Baujard from Paris rightly claimed the title of ancien camarade. At the time of his writing, on 12 August 1917, he worked as a translator for the “French Mission” toward the British Armies, but he used to belong to la C.30, Dumesnil’s flight unit. In the first place, Baujard’s letter was meant to congratulate the deputy for his nomination as the State Secretary of the Navy, which would enable him to show his continuous activity and his judicious approach for country and party. Aside from being a former brother-in-arms, Baujard was also a supporter of Dumesnil’s political group (to which he referred as notre parti). Secondly, he reminded Dumesnil of their personal conversation in the Palais Bourbon, when the deputy had promised “to try to do something” for him. In his capacity as an ancien camarade de la C.30, Baujard requested either a written response from the deputy or a new appointment in the Chamber, before he would leave for Le Havre again to continue his work as a translator. He said it would reassure his wife.35 Louis Brayelle, a constituent from Voulx in Fontainebleau, is an example of a citizen who tried to build upon his common ground with the deputy as a war-veteran, without having been his real comrade-inarms in the same regiment. The heading of his letter of 7 October 1932 already reveals which roles he expected the deputy to focus on the most in the context of his request: M. Louis Brayelle, ancien combattant à Voulx (Seine-et-Marne), à Monsieur J. L. Dumesnil, ancien combattant et député de son arrondissement. Monsieur le Député et cher camarade… Having read in multiple(!) newspapers that the government was planning to raise the retirement age for war-veterans, Brayelle was worried, because many “comrades” died between the ages of forty and fifty, while their wives could not make any claims to financial support for warwidows. The letter-writer expected war-veteran Dumesnil to vote against such a bill, as it would be very inhuman not to take all these years of

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suffering into account. Precisely this war experience made them much older. Men who were forty years old were physically fifty, according to Brayelle’s reasoning. He seems to have followed the updates concerning war-veterans very closely, and reminded Dumesnil of the bill his leftist colleagues Pierre Laval and Pierre Rameil had deposited in 1919. This bill allowed all P.C.D.F (i.e., pauvres cons de France as Brayelle called them) to retire, regardless of their age, which seemed only fair in his eyes. He presented himself as votre respectueux concitoyen (belonging to Dumesnil’s constituency), while adding his sentiments de confraternité de feu. Clearly, he did not only count on Dumesnil as his deputy, but also and even more so on his empathy as a former brother-in-arms.36 Given the topic Brayelle complained about, his reference to both his and the deputy’s war experience (and thus to their connection as comrades) is not surprising. Other types of requests—for a recommendation or financial support—more strikingly referred to the député as a friend. In the case of Louis Dadé, day laborer at the railways in Capdenac (Lot), this “friendship” was clearly one-sided. Whereas Dumesnil kept addressing him (throughout their correspondence of March–April 1930) as Monsieur or Cher Monsieur, Dadé saw the deputy as a “friend,” and considered himself to be one of his most loyal devotees. After having established a first contact, through which the citizen expressed his admiration, Dumesnil’s willingness to do his self-proclaimed “friend and devotee” a personal favor soon seemed self-evident. This interpretation of a député as a friend when he clearly was not—Dadé even felt the need to send a photo of himself, to remind Dumesnil of what he looked like—was more typical for the representative for Fontainebleau than for the other deputies. Even though they were not friends in real life, Dumesnil did feel the need to deal with his case when he was in London as Minister of the Navy and France’s delegate at the naval conference (which was not exceptional, as seen in Chapter 3).37 Dumesnil and his secretary commonly addressed their correspondents with a cordial Mon Cher Concitoyen, validating the importance of their (local) connection. The deputy-Minister did, however, not go as far as to reciprocate a false friendship, meaning that he did not encourage the letter-writer who called him mon ami by doing the same. Similarly, at first sight, L. Bouvier from Villecerf (Fontainebleau) looked like a friend of Dumesnil’s, since he addressed him as Monsieur J. L. Dumesnil et Cher Ami, in his letter from October 1932.38 In his

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response, however, the deputy kept a greater distance by using his standard form of address, followed by a more formal, businesslike answer. In contrast, in his written exchange with his local contacts (mayors from his district, for example), Dumesnil usually responded with Mon Cher Ami.39 The letter-writer from this case was thus not close enough to him to be called a friend. Nonetheless, in the closing formula of his response, the deputy for Fontainebleau made sure to reciprocate Bouvier’s promise of devotion. Whereas the latter identified as Votre tout dévoué Serviteur, Dumesnil expressed his dévoués sentiments. Furthermore, the rest of Bouvier’s letter confirms that, instead of being a friend, he was his supplicant or client, who asked for an intervention concerning an inheritance allowance and his retirement pension. In the same breath, he stressed the fierce and successful propaganda he had made for Dumesnil in the build-up to the most recent legislative elections.40 In Bonnevay’s archives too, there are letters of supplicants whose language changed from formal to more familiar over time. Throughout Bonnevay’s career, Hubert Thonnerieux, who worked at the P.L.M. railway company in Thizy or Saint-Victor-sur-Rhins, sent him letters of congratulation and request as an intermediary for others. In his letters from 4 January 1910, he addressed the deputy as Monsieur le Député, which he still did on 3 November 1930, although he then added cher Maître. A little over a month later, he used the more formal Monsieur le Ministre, even though Bonnevay had lost his portfolio almost nine years earlier. Apart from these different attributions, in both letters from 1930, Tonnerieux specifically highlighted the deputy’s role as a protector of the humble workmen. In 1934, he seems to have been unsure of which attribution would be most suitable, calling Bonnevay Monsieur le Ministre Conseiller Général, Député du Rhône, et Bienveillant Ami all at once. After many years of correspondence, he finally considered the deputy as his friend, while nonetheless still acknowledging the latter’s political authority on different levels.41 It is unclear if Bonnevay reciprocated these sentiments, because his full replies have not been preserved. Expressions of “friendship” were always a way to show political support and admiration for the deputy who had proven himself to be a defender of his constituents’ rights. The best example of this phenomenon is the letter E. Fouvre from Amplepuis (in Bonnevay’s constituency) addressed on 19 February 1920 to M[aît]re Bonnevay. In his form of address, the letter-writer appealed to Bonnevay’s role as a deputy-lawyer (analyzed in Chapter 8), although, in the remainder of his letter, he constructed the

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deputy’s image as that of a “good servant towards his voters,” linking it to “good Friendship.” Fouvre was especially surprised with Bonnevay’s “defense of the rights of his fellow-citizens,” with which he referred to the deputy’s intervention for him personally. This encouraged him to continue to count on the deputy’s help to fill in specific forms for claiming a certain pension he thought he had the right to receive. Given the many spelling errors in his letter, it is not surprising that he requested Bonnevay’s help to fill out his paperwork. In return, the deputy’s readiness to help his constituents with their applications could have easily been interpreted as something a friend would do. Bonnevay’s scribbles on top of Fouvre’s letter reveal that, at his instigation, the Minister of Pensions had started an investigation of the case. They do, however, not show how he addressed the citizen himself (as a fellow-citizen? as a friend?).42 References to friendship thus not only occurred in letters from local politicians to deputies, but also in letters written by “ordinary” citizens who wished to show their support for their representative. Similarly, letter-writers who identified themselves as the deputy’s “party members” were not necessarily politically active. Framing the success of a political group as the victory of “our list” over a common opponent (nos adversaires ) was simply another way of showing support for the deputy and his political friends.43 Moreover, the form of address could differ between citizens’ letters of thanks and their initial letters of request, indicating that the hegemonic epistolary style does indeed not define everything. Nor did the letter-writers recur to certain forms of address out of pure pragmatism. In his chapter about pauper letters to the Belgian Royal Family (1880–1940), Maarten Van Ginderachter gives an example of a letter from a woman who addressed the Belgian queen in 1926 first as “Dear Benefactress” and the second time as “Dear Mother.” He links this change to true gratefulness for the positive response to her application.44 The same goes for French citizens addressing “their” deputy. The letters of thanks were often more affectionate than the letters of request. Calling the parliamentarian their friend seems to reflect true gratitude and/or relief for finally having found a solution—sometimes after years of misery—rather than a purely tactical consideration. Therefore, instead of labelling the practice of writing upwards to a député as a clientelist (and thus an apolitical) act, we are looking at a different phenomenon, which appears to have connected clientelism to politics. The letters did not show a simple transaction of promises, but testified to a common belief in the deputy’s higher power, shared by many letter-writers. Being

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close to him gave them hope in desperate times. The example of supply clerk and bookkeeper Maurice Blavot from Chalmaison (in Seine-etMarne, but right outside Dumesnil’s district) shows the complexity of addressing such a distant higher power yet seemingly close friend. While approaching Dumesnil as a friend, Blavot also wished to acknowledge his high authority. This led to a strange construction in his letter from April 1933 about his unemployment. He addressed the deputy as Excellence Monsieur le Ministre et cher Ami, whereas Dumesnil himself recurred to a simple Cher Monsieur. The combination of an expression of great esteem (Excellence) and a supposed friendship (cher Ami) may indicate that the letter-writer only had a vague notion of the epistolary etiquette and/or the deputy’s actual duty. Hence, what we see in his letter might be the result of his attempt to solve this issue by trying out multiple attributions to get at least one of them right. At the same time, it is telling of the ambiguity of the representative’s role. Although Blavot wished to show his respect by putting him on a pedestal and acknowledging the authority the deputy previously had as a Minister, he also showed how accessible Dumesnil was despite his high position. Blavot’s choice was thus not purely tactical, nor was it merely a sign of a lack of knowledge. Instead, it reflected how he experienced the complex deputy-citizen relation through his exchange with Dumesnil, with whom he probably genuinely felt a certain connection. (He expected the deputy to help him receive tenure in his job.)45 Whereas Bonnevay and Marin were sometimes “overestimated” (addressed as a Monsieur le Ministre when they were not officially part of the government anymore), Jacques-Louis Dumesnil can be seen as “underestimated.” The latter was often still addressed as Monsieur le Député in a time when he had a ministerial mandate and epistolary etiquette would thus require calling him Monsieur le Ministre. Although René Bloch from Paris addressed Dumesnil on 4 May 1930 as Mon cher Député, his request was actually related to the deputy’s mandate in the government (as the Minister of the Navy). This was probably a conscious decision rather than a lack of knowledge, since he chose to write his request in his capacity as a Seine-et-Marnais, stressing their local connection and Dumesnil’s accessibility, instead of highlighting the latter’s more distant position. Bloch recommended one of his employees’ brother who was a mechanic and electrician (and whom he called ce bon petit Français ) for a job in the Naval Air force. Dumesnil sent him an information leaflet describing the different possible occupations to apply for, and promised

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that he would support the man’s application toward the Minister of the Air force.46 Similarly, in February 1931, Jean Daliès counted on Dumesnil to intervene in his favor toward the Minister of War. While he thus appealed to Dumesnil in his capacity as Minister of the Air force, he chose to address the deputy rather as Monsieur le Député and specifically as the Député de l’arrondissement de Fontainebleau. At the time of his writing, Daliès was a sergeant of a cavalry regiment, stationed in Fontainebleau, and he knew very well that Dumesnil was part of the government. He wished to get a job in an army canteen for which he was considered too old. Now that he had just turned forty, his corps could not recommend him for the job anymore. He believed that Dumesnil’s intervention would still give him a chance, regardless of his age. To strengthen his case, he explained that he had been serving in the army for twenty years already, was mobilized for the entire duration of the war, and consequently had been rewarded with a croix de guerre and a médaille militaire. In a copy of his response, Dumesnil said to have treated the case with urgency, and promised to update Daliès on the Minister of War’s reply.47 Again, these letter-writers’ stylistic “flaws” do not necessarily have to be qualified as a lack of respect or (political or stylistic) knowledge. Rather on the contrary, they seem to have displayed a conscious decision made by supplicants who appealed to the role they considered the most valuable to their request. Even citizens who expected Dumesnil’s support in 1930 or 1931 for a nomination in the Légion d’honneur—and thus appealed to his capacity as Minister of the Navy or Minister of the Air force in which he could recommend them toward the Minister of War—sometimes addressed him as Monsieur le Député. This implied their closeness and stressed the importance of their geographical link. In his replies, Dumesnil reinforced this sense of proximity, without reciprocating or confirming a relation of friendship. Some citizens involved family members of the député in their appeals for financial support. On a few occasions, they were even the first recipients of requests for money. Missionary bishop Antoine Fourquet from Canton in China appealed in June 1934 to the generosity of Bonnevay’s wife (Madame Laurent Bonnevay 6 place Carnot à Lyon / Madame). He requested a secours that would allow him to continue his missionary work, and suggested three possible ways to give him the “small offering” he asked for. He could not promise anything substantial in return, but was convinced that Heaven would reward her for her good deed. Since Fourquet’s letter was marked with a “/” in blue pencil, instead of containing

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the deputy’s usual scribble of a draft answer, Bonnevay and his wife most likely ignored this request.48 In Dumesnil’s case, some letter-writers saw fit to mention earlier encounters or indirect connections with the deputy’s family. There are some examples of requests or congratulations that had passed through his wife (Madame Dumesnil ) and exceptionally his sister (Madame de Brémond d’Ars ) and his niece (his sister’s daughter, Madame Odon de Couasnon), who all served as intermediaries at some point for “ordinary” women they seem to have known.49 Dumesnil’s wife even appears to have offered a temporary solution for destitute women, by giving them some of her (or her husband’s) own money. Such was the case for the aforementioned Mrs. Dadé (1931) who had received 50F upon presenting herself at the Dumesnils’ doorstep,50 or Mrs. Bozière (1930), who thanked Mrs. Dumesnil for “the content” of her letter, allowing Bozière to buy shoes for her daughters.51 Both women had taken two paths toward tackling their poverty. A first quick solution was needed to take the edge off, which could be offered in a very concrete way by Dumesnil, or in these specific cases by his wife. Yet secondly, a more profound solution was required, for which they requested Dumesnil’s advice, because of his connections and expertise. Dadé counted on his help to place her children in a home in Paris, whereas Bozière wondered how to proceed to obtain free medical care. Such concrete examples of appeals to Dumesnil’s family only popped up sporadically, but the way that Madame Dumesnil appeared on more than one occasion in her husband’s correspondence files suggests that she could break down barriers for poor women who would perhaps not easily contact a politician. E. Lanctin, for example, a woman who lived in Paris, thanked Madame Dumesnil and her husband (somewhere in June 1932) for their interest in her son. Encouraged by the positive reception of her previous letter, Lanctin asked Dumesnil’s wife to “do what was necessary” to favor her son’s application for admission to the J.-B. Say school, where the vacancies were limited. The deputy himself contacted his friend Pierre Bodereau, principal secretary of the prefect’s cabinet of the Seinedepartment, to express his support for the young man’s application, and asked to be updated on the result.52 Groussau, who seems to have lacked this local embedding, received more formal letters. Many of his correspondents were highly educated (as religious workers), who were more familiar with courteous rules of addressing a politician than many of Dumesnil’s sometimes barely literate

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letter-writers were. This links up with the absence of a highly clientelist relationship between Groussau and his letter-writers. Such a relationship seems to have been more persistent on the countryside,53 and on the leftist side of the political spectrum, where networks of radicals (with intermediaries on different levels) allowed to maintain a reciprocal system of individual favors. The deputies’ ability to render such services often triggered the applicant’s admiration, which could assume vast (almost religious) proportions, transcending the clientelism-politicization dichotomy. At times, the citizens’ co-construction and admiration of the deputy’s role as a benefactor and a protector escalated almost in a cult around the député, which may seem paradoxical to the denunciations of sectarianism discussed in Chapter 6 about the impartial deputy. Yet, both identities were not necessarily mutually exclusive. Rather on the contrary, when a politician crossed “party” boundaries to aim for what a letter-writer called “justice” (for a single citizen, a certain group or region, or for the greater good), the deputy could sometimes become an “ideology” on his own, at least in the eyes of the letter-writers who benefited from his interventions. This phenomenon should be interpreted in the context of France’s paradox of representation, i.e., the tension between the republican ideal of representation of the entire nation and its nonetheless very personal voting system. The role of the “deputy-cult” is a micro-level expression of this paradox. Who exactly created such a deputy-cult then? Did these letter-writers belong to the lower or higher social classes, and were they mainly voters or non-voters?

The Deputy-Cult as Political Religion a. The deputy-messenger, –angel, or –apostle Although sacralization of politics is traditionally linked to dictatorial regimes and their ritualized behavior, recent research into democratic political cultures recognizes tendencies of political religion outside totalitarianism, and analyzes how and why ordinary people appeared “to crave and create secular religions […] in all types of political systems.” Democratic regimes too functioned not in spite but because of their use of “emotions, irrational beliefs, charismatic leaders, symbols, coercion and even forms of violence.” The glorification of democracy (taking almost religious proportions) is usually said to be characteristic of post-World

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War II mass party politics.54 Therefore, the notion of political religion, at first sight, does not necessarily seem applicable to the French cases of this book. As discussed in the introduction, well-organized mass political parties did not exist in the French Third Republic, which gave individual deputies a great deal of freedom, both in the Chamber and in their written interactions with citizens. In and of themselves, however, and precisely in the absence of mass party politics, these written exchanges sometimes seem to have taken the form of a political religion, by sacralizing not the party but the individual deputy-savior. In the aforementioned exchange between Hubert Thonnerieux and Laurent Bonnevay (on 11 December 1930), Thonnerieux’s language attributed divine qualities to the deputy’s protective role. The letter-writer saw “the Providence of the modest, of the workmen” and “their Father” in the député whose intervention had “saved a young household of truly good French people, good citizens.” By generalizing Bonnevay’s deed (with the expression: comme toujours ) Thonnerieux referred specifically to the député’s intervention for Louis Clary (a railroad employee) and his wife Claudia Pirot, who both co-signed the letter. Thonnerieux placed them under the deputy’s “kind protection.” Apparently, Clary was in danger in Saint-Victor-sur-Rhins, where the climate was “hostile” toward him. Thanks to Bonnevay’s intervention, the railroad director had decided to transfer the man to another railway station, in Valréas (in the Vaucluse), while offering financial compensation for their moving.55 Thus, the greater the citizens’ fears and misery, the more admirable they considered the deputy’s personal intervention to be. In “times of great need,” as Mrs. J. Jommet, one of Marin’s former pupils put it in 1924, they could turn to their “Providence” (Marin) with confidence. She was proud to have worshipped the great, pure, and important person that he was, as if he were a saint (… vénéré votre si haute et si pure personnalité).56 Although Jommet’s worship was quite exceptional, her faith in the député in times of crisis is overall more generalizable. Because the future of the country was seemingly becoming all the more hopeless, the deputy’s committee work became more laudable in the eyes of his supporters. In this respect, especially Bonnevay and Marin’s work in the parliamentary committees investigating fraudulent scandals (as analyzed in Chapter 6) had an impact on citizens’ letters. Groussau’s role as the chair of the Committee of the Liberated Regions (1919–1936) also created expectations of a savior’s role, which could take almost divine proportions in the letter-writers’ view. Years after Marthe

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Fisener’s aforementioned heroic deed—i.e., smuggling a petition in the handle of her umbrella out of the invaded zone to Groussau during the war—the député du Nord still remembered what she had done, and decided to help her climb up the social ladder. In 1923, he recommended her to an industrialist of Roubaix, Pierre Toulemonde-Réquillart, who (in his turn) advised her to learn stenography-typewriting, promising her a job after her internship. Toulemonde-Réquillart’s “friends” (whose names are not mentioned in the letter) would pay for the costs of her education and housekeeping during her studies.57 Two years later, Fisener’s heroic deed came to serve a different purpose, in Groussau’s discourse during the parliamentary debates of 2 February 1925 on religious peace and the relations between France and the Vatican, while the Cartel of the Left wished to abolish the French Republic’s embassy to the Holy See again. The deputy for le Nord remarked that neither the abolishment of this embassy (in 1904, re-established in 1921) nor the Law on the Separation of Church and State had been responsible for religious peace. Appeasement could only be attributed to the union that had been developed during the war among all the French “without distinction between parties and beliefs.” To underline this point of view, the representative told his colleagues in parliament the story of Marthe Fisener’s resistance. He referred to the risk she had taken to inform him, and to his own consequent response: transmitting her information to the French government and the Holy See, and asking them for help. It was pope Benedict XV who had reacted the best, according to the deputy. Groussau praised the pope’s fast and helpful intervention in reversing the deportations. This way, the allusion to Fisener in the Chamber served as a means for defending his political opinions, and more specifically, his belief that the French embassy to the Vatican should remain.58 Shortly thereafter, Groussau sent the proceedings of this specific debate to Fisener, which triggered her demand for a nomination in the Order of the Légion d’honneur. She justified her request by declaring that she had indeed put her own life in danger, but that God had not wanted her dead, that she had merely done her duty, and that it had been a pleasure to serve her Fatherland and her compatriots. Therefore, she saw it as a humiliation to ask for the distinction, and hoped that Groussau would not consider it as an act of self-interest. Indeed, “one does not panegyrize oneself.” In addition, Fisener, who was socially and religiously engaged in her parish in Roubaix, legitimized her request by describing it as the proof of her obedience toward her superiors and as the ideal means for having

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more authority toward the people she approached in her parochial and community work. Although Fisener had already received support for her request, even from the “adversaries” of their ideas, she would only accept Groussau’s support, because he was, in her opinion, “the Great Ambassador” or Messenger of God: “His direct Vicar on earth.” Her war experience gave her a militant language: the war between “the French” and “the Germans” was extrapolated toward the domain of French politics, with the Cartel of the Left being the enemy of the Catholics, and thus being the adversary of religious peace. She derived these last words from the parliamentary proceedings of 2 February 1925, which Groussau had sent to her.59 Consequently, through her correspondence with the deputy, Fisener learned to politicize a request that was in its essence quite selforiented (meant to provide for a personal need), attaching broader values to it for the sake of the Republic. For her, the interests of the North, the entire Republic, and Catholic religion intersected. At the intersection, an important role appeared to be in store for Groussau. Her construction of the deputy’s image as the Messenger with a capital M was exceptional, whereas the derivative that was not necessarily religious (or at least not that explicitly) was rather common. Not rarely perceived as a literal messenger, a député was an intermediary who, because he had the right contacts and leverage, could convey a message of justice. Fisener realized that the deputy was not often present in his department, which complicated their personal contact, despite her great wish to be able to talk to him in person about the topic of religious peace. She hoped that Groussau would nonetheless find the opportunity to return to the North, because Paris was too far for her, and he would probably be too busy there anyway. It is unclear if he had responded favorably to her wish.60 On 23 June 1925, she wrote to him again, expressing her hope to hear him speak in front of their “poor parish” once the government would have decided to react favorably to his demand to do her “justice” (and nominate her in the Légion d’honneur).61 Even though this claimed right could not be obtained, Fisener’s trust in Groussau as the defender of their cause remained. In February 1928, she promised to pray for his electoral success, which she strongly related to the “triumph of our cause.” Even though, as a woman, she could not promise her vote, Fisener was convinced of the power of her contribution and the effort of the inhabitants of Armentières, who promised “a crusade of prayers and

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sacrifices, united with those of Lille and Roubaix” (all in the deputy’s department).62 In September of the same year, Fisener seized the opportunity of Groussau’s temporary stay in le Nord to ask him (again in writing, however) to send her a copy of the documents that she had passed onto him in 1916. A French-Canadian had shown interest in them, and the deputy for le Nord had the originals in his possession.63 It appears that Groussau’s stay in the North had been very brief, because Fisener did not seem to have gotten the chance to meet up with him. Indeed, a month later, she announced (in a letter sent to the deputy’s address in Versailles) that she had received his answer and the requested copies, except for one essential document that turned out to be missing.64 The last letter preserved in the Fisener-case, dating from 22 September 1929, makes clear that Groussau had not been able to nominate her in the Légion d’honneur, despite his efforts. By way of compensation, he suggested to arrange a compromise, offering his advice on how to obtain the Medal for French recognition. Convinced that she deserved the other, more prestigious distinction, Fisener decided to keep her documentation for another, more suitable time, which never came.65 Although she never reached her goal, her social-political agency cannot be ignored. In her interchange of ideas with Groussau, she became an increasingly politically educated citizen, who learned how to formulate requests to get the best response, and more concretely, to appeal to broader interests (such as justice) in her legitimization of a very personal demand (for a distinction). Years after her heroic deed, she learned to understand it outside of its departmental boundaries, in its broader political embedding, with its impact on a national and even an international level, in the image construction of a united France, with brave, patriotic and Catholic citizens, of which Groussau was the “Messenger.” Groussau’s correspondence with Fisener was an exceptional example of intensified politicized contact, which resulted from the war. Moreover, it is striking that she never thought of requesting voting rights considering her capacity as a highly politically engaged citizen, during as well as after the war. This can be explained by the religious framework that shaped her discourse and to which she seemed to attach equal if not more value than to the political framework. Even though she was familiar with the latter, it had let her and other Catholics down. Fisener’s language was very particular—at the same time political and religious—whereas her expectations of Groussau were not exceptional. Although defining the deputy as the

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Messenger of God was an unusual way of overemphasizing the deputy’s task as the voice of the Catholics, her actual expectations behind this role (viz., war decorations) were very common. Groussau, who chaired the parliamentary Committee of the Liberated Regions, was undoubtedly not indifferent to the grievances of Fisener and her compatriots from le Nord. This responsibility, which he had from 1919 until his death in 1936, increased his authority and encouraged inhabitants of his department to contact him to ask him to exert his influence on the government, in cases of war decorations that had to be attributed fairly and equitably. Such requests existed in the 1920s (unsurprisingly), but also still appeared during the 1930s. In general, Groussau’s correspondents usually did not promise a vote in return for his advice. This can partly be explained by the large amount of letters from people who could not vote for him: women, or men who did not belong to his constituency. Still, religious letter-writers not rarely promised to pray for his re-election and/or for good health for him and his family. By using a religious referential framework instead of the framework offered by political authorities, they distanced themselves from the republican regime that had aggrieved them by its “persecutory” laws aiming at the congregations.66 For them, the French Republic that, under the veil of democracy and liberty of conscience, had promulgated such laws, was not their benchmark. Religious references, little tangible in a laic state, on the contrary, seem to have held actual value and power for them. Catholic women truly believed in the power of their prayers, which outweighed their lack of electoral rights. The vote seemed a less powerful tool to compensate for the deputy’s help, compared to the rewarding possibilities offered by their religion. Although clergywomen were often well-informed about anti-clerical policies and the consequences thereof (especially through communications with Groussau as the expert on the matter), their elevated political knowledge did not coincide with an increase in democratic aspirations. It seems that the republican regime could not offer them more than what they had and what they could draw from other contextual frameworks.67 Among other examples, the announcement of the imminent death of Mother Joseph-du-Sacré-Cœur in January 1934 illustrates the importance attached to prayers very well. On 24 January of that year, Sister SaintAntonin of the congregation of the Filles du Saint-Esprit de Saint-Brieuc (in Côtes-du-Nord) wrote a letter on behalf of the Assistant-General, Mother Joseph-du-Sacré-Cœur, who was terribly ill and had already

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received the last rites. On her deathbed, she had asked the nuns to warn Groussau “of her state of suffering,” so that she could “benefit from his holy prayers.” In return, she promised to pray a lot for him once she would be in heaven, because she could not forget him. In addition, as a spokeswoman for all the Filles du Saint-Esprit, Sister Saint-Antonin expressed their hope that Mother Joseph would console them from their sadness concerning the national political situation. They strongly believed that their Mother Superior would be able to contribute “with her prayers in the hereafter” to the preservation of the député du Nord “among the Members of Parliament, as the worthy representative of Faith and of the honor of our Fatherland.”68 Although references to prayers may seem odd in the context of laicization, such a rhetoric was neither limited to Catholicism, nor was it alien to the political language of the time, referring to the practice of petitioning as addressing suppliques to an authority. Thus, by virtue of sending letters to their representatives, citizens became supplicants, soliciting (or praying) for an authority’s goodwill, support, or a favor. In the same vein, identifying as “a good Catholic” did not stand in the way of a self-representation as “a good Frenchman” who lived by the values of the Republic and fulfilled his citizens’ responsibilities. This becomes most apparent in a letter sent to Groussau by Henri Mahieu. The latter identified as an entrepreneur from Erquinghem-Lys (in the deputy’s constituency), and wrote his letter on behalf of his Belgian uncle-in-law. Mahieu seems to have stepped up as his uncle’s spokesperson because of the district he lived in, hoping that this would give more leverage to the demand. It is indeed likely that Groussau knew who the man from his constituency was, as he clearly also knew other important industrials and entrepreneurs from that area, even though, as an active representative in the Palais Bourbon, he resided in Versailles. In his letter, Henri Mahieu declared that his uncle by marriage, Achille Lussart, had been trying for years to be naturalized as a French citizen. All his efforts had been in vain, and nobody seemed to believe he would ever succeed, because his mother was French while Lussart himself had opted for Belgium. Mahieu wished to know if this claim to failure was true, and asked Groussau for advice on the matter. The letter-writer declared that, at the approach of each election, his 55-year-old uncle had tears welling up in his eyes, because he was not recognized as a French citizen and could not vote. Mahieu stressed how unfair this was, by mentioning that Lussart’s two brothers had died in the war and that Lussart’s son had met his end in France. To

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conclude, the letter-writer remarked that his uncle was “a good practicing Catholic, who had suffered so much for France,” but still could not be naturalized. While Mahieu’s main question was “is this true?” asking for Groussau’s opinion on the situation, he actually meant to say “how is this possible?” as he pointed out the unfairness of the situation and expected the deputy to do something about it.69 The conviction that an emphasis on someone’s strong faith would make up an important justification in times when the Catholic Church was disempowered by the republican regime might look like an error of judgment or a sign of ignorance regarding the regime’s laicization politics. Why else would Mahieu even want to refer to his uncle’s piety, if the latter’s misery and patriotism were more valid justifications in a laic Republic? Ignorance, however, is not the answer. On the contrary, letter-writers who followed a religious line of argument in their correspondence with Groussau were well-aware of what this deputy stood for. Thus, they did in fact display a certain degree of political knowledge that was needed to figure out what to ask to whom. Even though it is unclear what Groussau’s response was, Mahieu’s justification for his request is interesting in itself, as it merges two conflicting contextual frameworks in one attempt of legitimization. A clearly political framework (referring to French patriotism and suffering for France) is added to a religious one (of a good practicing Catholic) that would formally clash with the political one, although not in this informal letter. In addition, while the man’s geographical connection to Groussau seemed important at first, especially the deputy’s Catholic profile and his expertise in law were appealed to in this case. Such a combination of elements from different (political and religious) frameworks was undoubtedly not a purely tactical choice, but it also, and maybe primarily, reflected the values the letter-writer genuinely deemed important. Speaking of two entirely different frameworks is perhaps even irrelevant, because the députés’ political hobbyhorses were often imbued with the religious meaning their letter-writers attributed to them. Bonnevay’s engagement in parliamentary committees for insurances, and more specifically his chairmanship of the Committee of insurance and social precaution indicate his hobbyhorses that contributed to his image as a savior of people with financial problems.70 Yet, already before his election in parliament, Bonnevay was known as a fervent mutualiste. On his visiting card from 1902, Xavier Rimaud from Lyon expressed how glad

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he was to see such a “brave defender of the Republic” entering parliament. As the chair of a school society for Health Care and pensions in Lyon (and thus not entirely an “ordinary” citizen), he linked this defense to Bonnevay’s proven efforts for Health Care. Rimaud even called the deputy the “apostle” of Health Care.71 In addition, the chair of the Philantropic Union of the deaf-mutes from Lyon and surroundings described Bonnevay in 1910 as an auguste personnalité (and thus almost as “illustrious” as a Highness), whom they were proud of because he “triumphed over everything.” The letter-writer not only congratulated Bonnevay with his reelection, but asked him to become their member of honor. It seemed only logical, because the deputy was already their legal advisor (notre avocat-Conseil ), a role which will be further elaborated upon in the next chapter.72 In exceptional cases, triggered by crises, the letter-writers’ perception of Bonnevay’s role as a protector could snowball into an admiration of angelic proportions. The exceptional way in which A. Collon from Tarare begged Bonnevay to “fly” to their rescue (as if he were an angel) should be seen in the context of misery during the seemingly endless war. Their situation was so destitute that Collon stressed that if the député came to their aid, he would prevent two people (Collon and his wife) from taking their own lives.73 Bonnevay’s image as a deputy-protector was widely supported, but a citizen’s expectation of this role seldom took such great proportions. However, in his letter of request for a recommendation for the son of a winegrower who wished to be appointed as a gardener in the Parc de la Tête d’Or in Lyon, poet Pierre Aguétant literally used the word “cult” in 1937. He did so to express his worship “for the great Frenchman” Bonnevay was in his opinion, especially highlighting the deputy’s authority and leverage to get things done on an individual level.74 From 1926 onwards, but especially in the thirties, citizens idealized or idolized Louis Marin as a rescuer. More than in Bonnevay’s case, citizens’ admiration for Marin as a “savior” was linked to their expectations of his leadership in the interest of the region (Lorraine) or the country, and not just of their personal situation. Distrust in the unstable governments and in other deputies (among whom some were suspected to be crooks or impostors)75 led them to believe in Marin as a savior of the Republic and France. As we have seen in the previous chapters, a deputy was usually called in as the citizen’s representative toward local or national authorities who had shown themselves ignorant to the sense of urgency of their

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plea. The deputy was close enough to the citizen to know and acknowledge the severity of their situation, while at the same time being distant enough to have the necessary legitimacy to influence other authorities. In other words, in the majority of the cases, a député was literally a people’s representative, not just in the Chamber, but also behind the scenes in very individual situations, as a voice of the voiceless. Sometimes, a citizen considered a député like Marin even to be delegated by a higher power. On a nun’s postcard, sent in May 1932 to Marin on the occasion of his reelection, we see her wish that France would be saved by Jeanne d’Arc’s deputy, thereby referring to Marin. Although a striking phrasing, its timing is not that surprising. Marin had gained political legitimacy as chair of the Committee of Inquiry investigating a fraudulent scandal that had put the citizens’ trust in France’s politicians to the test.76 Not only a nun referred to “the Holy Jeanne d’Arc,” but Juliette Hoffmann did so as well. She was a teacher from Phlin, who showed her political engagement in election times and in her approval of Marin’s nomination into the government, via her cards and in her letters of congratulation from 1919 to 1934.77 She tried to stay on top of how her small village had voted during the legislative elections, and updated Marin on the results. On 2 May 1932, she wrote that she had followed the news about the election results on the radio, but she also seems to have known the voters personally, as well as their voting behavior. (It was a small village where only thirteen men had cast their ballot.) That year, she even won a bet off of two voters, because she had rightly guessed that Marin would be elected in the first round, whereas the others thought that he would only win after a second voting round. (That would be the first time in Marin’s legislative career.) Still, Hoffman claimed that she did not bother with politics, and used a religious metaphor to explain that she only wished for France to have “good shepherds.” Every day, she prayed to the Holy Jeanne d’Arc for this cause. As she was able to participate through her prayers, it did not come up to question her lack of voting rights. Although Hoffman denied it, politics concerned her greatly. Worried about the results for the rest of Marin’s political group in the second voting round, she deplored the inertia and silence (while it was time for action), and all the “pacifists” and “Pilates” in France, biblically referring to Pontius Pilate who had washed his hands of guilt.78 The bigger the concern about France’s politics on the national and international level, the greater the admiration citizens had for him. Moreover, Marin’s title of “Minister of State,” bestowing

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him with an honorable recognition of his exceptional work, also triggered his correspondents’ admiration, even to the extent of idolatry. b. The deputy-star and –godfather The nineteenth-century feminization of French clergy and piety, and thus of Catholic vocations and practices, seems to have entailed a strong connection between women and religion that was perceived as logical by nature. Religious sentimentalism grew through the expression of female emotions in prayers or tears. This connection between women and religion was especially characterized by the development of the culture of Mary as a model of a pure virgin and a devoted mother.79 In the twentieth-century letters that make up the basis of this book, we see that religious women did indeed include references to the pure ideal of the Virgin Mary or the power of their prayers in their discourse. For example, together with her postcard from Lourdes, on which she asked the Virgin Mary for blessings for the entire government, a nun sent consecrated flowers from “our Pyrenees” to Marin on 10 February 1934, right after his nomination as the Minster of Public Health. The bouquet had to represent her prayers, of which Marin was supposed to know the quality and intensity.80 Even though the deputy’s “kindness” appears to have been selfevident, also toward women, they not rarely felt obliged to offer something in return, if only in the form of flowers, New Year’s wishes, prayers or wishes for good health, or congratulations for reelections and nominations into the government. Seeing this was the case, their letters too fitted into the reciprocal system of personal favors. Congratulations from men as well as women were more often than not a form of recognition or reward for services rendered, whereas New Year’s letters usually contained expressions of gratitude for the deputy’s help in the past year.81 References to the ideal of motherhood were, moreover, not typically Catholic, but they equally appealed to the republican ideal image, which appears to have offered pious French women the chance to express themselves in a republican and a Catholic fashion at the same time. For example, Maria Rayer from Marbache (Nancy) included a reference to children in her admiration for Louis Marin. She addressed herself to “His Excellency, Mr. Minister of State” in a letter she wrote on 7 May 1936, to tell the député that she had made her children pray for him to be elected,

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because nobody else would be better suited for the duties consigned to him. According to Rayer, her little boy and her little nephew were so happy to have met Marin in Marbache and they were so proud that he had said “Hello my friends” to them, that the youngest had cut out Marin’s photo from a newspaper, to put it in his room.82 Rayer’s references to prayers and children stressed her mother role and lack of electoral power. However, similar to other female letter-writers, she genuinely believed in the importance of her contribution to society, which consisted of providing a good political education for her boys. The aforementioned Juliette Hoffmann from Phlin (Nancy) also attributed political awareness to small children and took credit for it as their teacher. Shortly after the elections of 1928, she wrote that her “five small pupils” hoped that Marin would come visit them so that they could congratulate him by giving him flowers more beautiful than the ones she claimed they had seen on his photo in the newspaper La Dépêche. Of course, this was her own way of congratulating the deputy for his reelection.83 Because Marin carefully kept the congratulation letters and cards he received after his reelection in parliament or his nomination into the government, multiple descriptions can be found of how his supporters had come to know about his successes and how they had experienced these events. His most fervent adherents did not only actively keep track of his movements, but also of how these were framed by the press. As “fans” of the député, some supporters meticulously followed his political steps in one or more newspapers. Such was especially the case for Marin’s former pupils, like Mrs. Jommet from Saint-Cloud (in the suburbs of Paris). After Marin’s nomination as the Minister of the Liberated Regions in 1924, Jommet wrote that, upon skimming through as many newspapers as possible, she had found a “rare harmony” of opinions. Regardless of their ideology, all newspapers seemed to express the highest respect and the highest esteem for the new Minister. This gave him “such unique glory,” that Jommet was all the more proud to call herself his former pupil, to share his ideas, and to have worshipped him.84 Letters of congratulation to deputies for their reelections in parliament or their nominations into the government were not just expressions of support for the deputy but they also showed the citizens’ political engagement and willingness to learn about the elections, which can be seen as a civic duty. Most letter-writers did not appear to have gone through such lengths as Jommet did to update themselves about their favorite representative,

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but some were creative nonetheless with the few means they sometimes had. That same year, another former pupil of Marin’s (with an illegible signature) confessed to the deputy that she read the newspaper every day, over the shoulder of her fellow-passengers in the Metro. “And what did I see this morning?” she rhetorically asked in her letter from March 1924. She had immediately recognized Marin’s photo, upon which she decided to move closer toward the person holding the newspaper. In a sense, she seemed proud to announce that this was how she had learned about Marin’s nomination, over which she expressed her great joy. Moreover, she tried to make a statement by explicitly not wanting to congratulate him for it, because she had been claiming for a long time that it was his due, that this “great distinction” was only a matter of justice. It was an original way of putting it, which interestingly shows how engaged she was in the whole process, without having bought newspapers herself to stay up-to-date.85 Aside from the printed press, the radio was also a popular medium to learn about the election results and ministerial nominations, especially for those who could not wait until the next morning to find out who won. (In addition, the radio sometimes broadcasted entire discourses and even Marin’s letter of protest against the resignation of the Laval government in 1936.)86 Both in 1932 and in 1936, it seems to have taken quite some time before the results of the first round of the legislative elections were known. There is evidence (from 1932) of Marin’s supporters who had kept waiting by the radio very late at night, on the day of the first election round, to finally learn about his victory. P. Lœillot, honorary notary from Pont-à-Mousson (a town in Marin’s constituency) explained on 2 May 1932 how he and Marin’s “friends” (i.e., political supporters from the city) had gathered at the pub to wait for the results together. Meanwhile, his daughter had joined her female friends at their place to listen to their radio together, “hoping for the desired result” as well. Despite the clear physical divide between the voters (at the pub) and the women (at home), both groups showed interest and involvement in politics of the time.87 Educated citizens (even those who could not vote) saw it as their duty to inform themselves about the elections in particular and politics in general. That same day, Mrs. P. le Clare (?) from Blonville-sur-Mer in the Calvados too had been waiting next to her radio until the news of the election results was diffused late at night. Since her letter can be found in the file of Compatriotes, she probably originated from Marin’s constituency.88 Widow Mathilde Gaunard from Fontenay-aux-Roses (in

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the suburbs of Paris)—whose letter can be found in the same file of compatriots—could not wait either for the newspapers of the next morning to learn about the results. She had arranged to be in Nancy on 1 May, where she had stationed herself in front of l’Est Républicain (the newspaper agency in Nancy) and heard about Marin’s reelection at one o’clock in the morning of 2 May.89 In 1936, the waiting period was again very tense for the supporters of the deputy for Nancy.90 Even though Marin remained popular in his district, many members of his political group had to go through a second voting round. This may help explain why explicit claims for female suffrage by unorganized French female letter-writers appeared almost only and anecdotally in Marin’s files from 1936. Given the political context of the time, his educated female correspondents were probably convinced that women’s suffrage would strengthen the position of the Republican Federation. Moreover, during the election campaign in 1936, Marin had opened the doors of his reunions to women who wanted to attend his speeches, which was praised by Mrs. Camille L’Huillier, a teacher from Nancy. She congratulated the deputy for the comforting tone and informative content of his speech at the Rex (a polyvalent room in Nancy), because “facing the present situation, the French woman needed so much consolation.” Her gratitude for Marin’s “obligingness and charming courtesy towards the Ladies present at this reunion” suggests that it was not self-evident (yet) to include women in electoral campaigning events like this one.91 On the one hand, this should not surprise, because of their exclusion from suffrage. On the other hand, it is surprising that such a topic only popped up in 1936, because Marin had been known as a feminist for longer. Yet, only as late as 1935, he founded the Women’s Section of the Republican Federation, which he chaired, whereas the radical-republican and radical-socialist group was already open to female members since 1924.92 Dumesnil’s archives, however, do not contain similar letters from women who referred to their presence at one of his electoral meetings. They usually formulated (personal) requests comparable to men’s. Patriotic sentiment and the fear for a new German invasion may have strengthened L’Huillier’s belief in the importance of female political participation. Although the exact content of Marin’s speech remains unknown, it is clear that L’Huillier supported his wish for “Lorraine to belong to the Lorrains, in anticipation of France belonging to the French,” implicitly including female French citizens in a fight against a common enemy.93

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A great deal has been written about France’s delay in granting women full citizenship. In this context, a political line of argument exists alongside a more philosophical one. Paul Smith explores the first line, linking the failure of women’s voting rights to the opposition of “the radicals,” who were dominant in the French interwar Senate and feared that a female vote would mean a “clerical” vote and thus a growing influence of the Catholic right wing.94 Smith remarks how paradoxical it is that the most “suffragist” political parties of the interwar period were those on the republican right (Alliance démocratique, Fédération républicaine, Parti démocrate populaire). There were some suffragist elements among the leftist radicals too, but they were subject to criticism from other feminists, because “radical women rarely criticized their male colleagues over the vote.” Moreover, the anti-clericalism of radical ideology made cooperation with Catholic feminists impossible.95 Other explanatory political factors for late women’s enfranchisement in France can thus be found in the characteristics of French feminism itself, in the context of which Christine Bard considers the plural form (feminisms) more appropriate. Similarly, Steven Hause and Anne Kenney describe French women’s movements as sharply divided, whereas Joan Scott shows, in her analysis of specific feminist key figures, that their legitimizing arguments could indeed vary from person to person, and even within the discursive spectrum of the very same feminist. In addition, Bard remarks that during the interwar period, most French women’s associations lost their pugnacity, as their key figures were getting older. These movements seem to have relied almost completely on their strong “leaders,” while lacking popular resonance, especially among (male) corporations which appear to have been afraid of active equality.96 Mainly focusing on a philosophical line of argument, Joan Scott takes Pierre Rosanvallon’s book Le sacre du citoyen as a starting point for explaining France’s delay in granting women full citizenship. This leads her to a valuable poststructuralist understanding of feminism in terms of the discursive processes “that produce political subjects,” making “agency […] of feminists possible even when it is forbidden or denied.” Rosanvallon argues that the Republic’s ideal of citizenship required an abstract notion of a rational, autonomous individual: a masculine prototype that could not include women. At the same time, however, this individuality implied uniqueness of each citizen, overruling shared characteristics that grouped them by class or sex for example. Consequently, feminists could contend that sex differences should not matter (i.e., a discourse of

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equality). However, in order to be able to justify why women should not only be represented through men’s votes and decisions, the specificities of women as a group needed to be highlighted (i.e., a discourse of difference and thus complementarity, stressing allegedly “feminine” values such as sobriety and charity). Republicanism and its conception of citizenship, the masculine embodiment of the so-called abstract and universal individual, thus contained contradictions that feminists tried to address in various and overlapping ways—combining arguments of equality and difference—in an attempt for women to be recognized as individuals who needed to be represented too. They refused to be women in the terms dictated from above, and at the same time, they spoke on behalf of those women. The ambiguities of the republican notion of the individual, its universal definition, and its masculine embodiment were thus at the same time carried into and exposed by feminist arguments. By making claims for and on behalf of women, they inevitably reproduced the sexual difference they wanted to eliminate, thereby undermining their own attempt to make women belong to the abstract and universal category of the individual. Scott verifies this philosophical point of view with descriptions of tactics of four feminists who seem almost incomparable, but who all shared the problem of (re)creating unavoidable paradoxes: even though they were not recognized as political agents, they presented themselves as such by taking part in these political-philosophical debates.97 But what about politically unorganized women? Scholarship generally acknowledges the First World War as a trigger for electoral change and for politicization of citizens, but what stands out directly after an analysis “from below,” is that only very few female letter-writers uttered explicit criticism on the lack of possibilities for women’s political (electoral) participation. In response to Marin’s first electoral victory after the war, Mrs. C. Théry from Paris (filed under Compatriotes in Marin’s archives) wrote that the deputy would not believe the impatience with which she had combed out the newspapers to find out about the election results. Her concerns for Marin were quickly reassured. Still, she could not help but regret having been unable to add her own voice to those of his voters. In that way, Théry was one of the first and very few “ordinary” female letter-writers to have actually expressed some criticism of the lack of enfranchisement.98 Several years later, Mrs. C. Lefort from Paris, who congratulated Louis Marin for his reelection in 1924, included a literal request for votes for women in her letter, in the form of a (rhetorical)

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question: Accorderez-vous enfin le droit de vote à mon sexe? Je l’espère. It was clear that Marin would have her vote in that case. In addition, she proved her interest in his popularity in the district where she came from, by claiming that she had been able to guess that he would be reelected. Similar to Hoffmann’s aforementioned bet, Lefort’s guess was proof of her electoral knowledge and interest. Her brother-in-law had told her how many electors were so “attached” to the deputy. Remarkably, as the non-voter of the family, she passed on the congratulations of two voters, her husband and brother-in-law, the latter having “at least been able to vote for you.” Since she hoped to see Marin being nominated into the government as the Minister of Education, she was probably one of the many teachers in his correspondence files.99 Lefort’s example was an exceptional complaint about the lack of women’s suffrage, which is surprising, because female letter-writers who wished to thank or compensate the deputy for a favor were not able to offer their concrete support in return. They could not use a reference to their vote as leverage in their communications. Instead, they could only express how good the député had been to them personally or to a larger community. This was often followed by the expression of their profound gratitude and/or their hopes, joy, or prayers for his reelection. In June 1926, for example, Manon Cormier, a female lawyer from Strasbourg, wrote a letter of congratulation to Marin, even though she was convinced that her wishes would go unnoticed in the mass of congratulations he would receive “from all sides” (for his nomination as the Minister of Pensions). The way she stressed how good he had been to her in Strasbourg (referring to a job recommendation and/or Marin’s support of her career as a court lawyer) highlighted the lack of possibilities to thank him otherwise.100 Women’s frustration with the inability to actually reward him remained mostly implicit, until a few remarkable letters, all dating from the year 1936. On 23 January 1936, Olga Popovitch—who probably knew Marin through her anthropology studies at the École du Louvre, from which she later graduated (in 1937 or 1938) and where Marin taught ethnology classes—expressed her admiration for him and thanked him for saying “what half of the people thought.” She regretted that women were still not allowed to vote.101 A few other examples are also linked to his reelection in 1936. One would expect such letters to appear directly after the First World War, claiming voting rights as a reward for their courage and patriotism. Such “early” criticism can be found in the aforementioned

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letter from Mrs. C. Théry (from 1919) and the one from Lefort (from 1924), but these were two exceptions that did not even refer to their war experience. As long as women did not have voting rights, the only way to “help” Marin seems to have been “pious thoughts,” as Mrs. L. Pannet put it on her congratulations card.102 In April 1936, however, Hélène Lebon from Nancy proudly announced that she had offered him a “bouquet of votes” that Sunday morning. She actually managed to contribute in a concrete way to Marin’s electoral victory of 1936, by having driven several crippled friars to the polls, who would otherwise have stayed at home. “This is the only way for us, young French girls, to serve our country,” as women did not have the vote yet, she remarked.103 With her creation of the in-group of nous, les jeunes filles françaises, she implicitly highlighted the forgotten position of unmarried women, who could not even contribute to politics through their influence on the voting behavior of a husband. In Marin’s passive correspondence from the mid-thirties, we thus see some late subdued criticism from below, based on the lack of female political (electoral) agency. At the same time, there were still coping mechanisms, such as hopes, prayers, and this “bouquet.” Lebon’s case shows the limitations women had to face in the political sphere, but also their creativity in tackling the problem. After his success at the legislative elections of 1936, Marin made several appearances in his district, where he seems to have had a star-status. While Albert Grillot from Lemainville (Nancy) described how the deputy was applauded when he appeared on a hotel balcony, a teacher from Nancy mentioned people cheering to congratulate Marin in the streets. The correspondence files that revolved around the election times show that Marin was in his constituency in these periods, and used to stay there for a while after the elections to receive his constituents’ praise. Teacher Grillot did not want to join in the cheering, because, as the “old troublemaker” he considered himself to be, he felt like his voice would get lost amidst the roaring crowd. He preferred to write down his congratulations, which allowed him to motivate them. Given the growing fear of German invasions, the letter-writer praised the clairvoyance of the deputy who had been the only one of the entire personnel du régime to have had the courage to oppose the Treaty of Versailles. The pedestal on which he put Marin created a sharp contrast between the “pernicious policy” of a failing regime and the only member of this regime whom he considered to have been right all along but who was ignored.104

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Still, the idolization of a député is somewhat surprising, as it is rather expected to occur in interactions with presidents or royals, who found themselves at a greater distance from the citizens. Indeed, in his 2015-book, Carl Bouchard describes some characteristics of “fandom” displayed by French citizens toward President Woodrow Wilson between November 1918 and June 1919. Maarten Van Ginderachter, moreover, observes a Belgian royalty “beyond us” and “among us.” In other words, he sees a “mixture of banalization and sacralization reflected in the letters of request” sent to the Belgian King Leopold II and Queen Elisabeth after the First World War. In that period, “a more personal relationship between citizen and royal family seemed to replace the hierarchical pre-war one.”105 The relationship between French citizens and their députés in the twentieth century, however, was not that hierarchical to begin with, as the French parliament was not a mere “republic of comrades.”106 The representatives indeed formed some club of likeminded men, belonging to the same social class. However, as became clear in Part I, the Palais Bourbon was accessible to the public, and “ordinary” citizens were able to get in touch with their députés at personal meetings as well as through correspondence. As intermediaries between citizens and governing authorities, parliamentary representatives were (and are) more approachable. In addition, as mediators between citizens and local administrations, they were often well-informed about the actual living conditions in their localities, which was especially true for Dumesnil. Despite some indications of Marin’s perceived star-status (especially in 1936), he was still considered approachable. The balance sometimes even tipped over to the other side, when he was treated as “family” instead. A citizen’s admiration and devotion for the deputy did not always find its expression in the creation of the role of the deputy-star or –idol, but also in the way some citizens treated Marin as a godfather; literally as the godfather of their child. In 1928, Antonin Marin, a farmer from Rochegude (Drôme), who was not related to the deputy, decided to give his new-born son the name Louis, “for a keepsake” of Louis Marin’s “eminent personality,” and as a token of his gratitude toward the representative.107 This seems to have marked the beginning of a new “trend,” because in 1933, Marin started making a list of his godchildren, born between 1929 and 1933, to which he kept adding new names later on. By 1938, he appears to have been the godfather of 34 children of deserving poor compatriots.108

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Furthermore, Marin was seen as “family” by his former students of the Rue des Fossés Saint-Jacques (of whom the majority worked as teachers in Paris). They called their reunions fêtes de famille to which they invited Marin. More specifically in 1924, right before his nomination as the Minister of Liberated Regions, his former pupils had organized a réunion familiale. It appears that Marin had given a speech at the reunion, since M. Forni assured him that no official discourse would have an audience that was so moved like they had been at his conférence familière. She wished that all his declarations in the Chamber would be received so enthusiastically. In sum, Marin’s former students looked up to him, and were proud that a ministerial portfolio was bestowed upon their mentor, protector, and “family” member.109 Despite the fact that women’s support for the deputy technically did not really matter, especially Bonnevay’s and Dumesnil’s female correspondents often considered it important to at least stress that they originated from his constituency. Sometimes, this was combined with a literal promise to spread the word of the deputy’s kindness and hence to influence the voting behavior of men from their family or village. Or as widow Batty Rochas from Poule (in Bonnevay’s voting district) put it in 1912: “The only thing I can do is proclaim your value in doing favors, and praise your kindness and devotion for anyone who asks for it.”110 Such was the case for widow Dussolier from Fontainebleau as well. She contacted Dumesnil on 14 May 1924 in her own name and on behalf of her daughter Germaine, despite having limited writing skills herself. Although they were “just two poor people,” as she said so herself, they wished to congratulate the deputy for the large majority with which he had won the elections. His “great and noble heart deserved it,” to which Dussolier claimed she could testify, because thanks to the deputy, her daughter had a job. In addition, her daughter’s boss was so happy with her, that he had even given her a raise. Therefore, everywhere the letterwriter went, she sung Dumesnil’s praise, à la plasse [sic] de mon pauvre Mari. Her letter can be found among the correspondence of the deputy’s militants, and Dussolier’s husband had probably been a militant himself. After his death, his widow continued the family’s support for the député. She could not put it into practice in the same way her husband had done, but spreading the word of Dumesnil’s good deeds seemed concrete and powerful enough to her.111 Consequently, on one hand, female letter-writers only had limited options for promises in return, as they could not offer the deputy their

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own vote. Being widowed limited them even more, as they could not promise the vote of their husband anymore. On the other hand, however, these restrictions increased the creativity and variety of their justifications. Women had coping mechanisms, found creative solutions, supplementing references to themselves with broader references, including male family members in the same discourse. At times, this led to strange grammatical constructions, because these communications were works-in-progress, answering paradoxes with paradoxes, testing which discursive elements would be the most effective. Along these lines, widow Perrin from Ternand (in Bonnevay’s voting district), thanked the deputy on 29 March 1906 “for your big heart and great protection.” (Her son had been declared unfit for military service.) “We will do anything to keep you on 22 April [viz., at the elections] because we need you too badly. You are a protective tree to our country, and I will need you next year [for a renewal of the declaration].”112 Perrin wrote the letter for her son and included other male family members in her discourse about her own expectations. Mrs. Giraud from Saint-Vincent-de-Reins (also in Villefranche-sur-Saône) promised Bonnevay on 3 June 1916 that: “If you need us, I will always be at your service, just like my husband had always been up till now, because I will always remember the Great Service you had rendered to me in a time of need.”113 Usually, the votes of male family members were more subtly implied. Léonie Sapin from Lamure-sur-Azergues thanked Bonnevay in April 1910 for “this great favor,” which she allegedly did not expect, and which appears to have been about a recommendation for a breastfeeding subsidy. Sapin stressed that the only thing she could do was send him a thousand expressions of gratitude “for all the favors and the effort” in their interest (i.e., for her nuclear family). She assured him that their entire (extended) family had experienced the greatest joy upon hearing the news of his reelection, which implied that all her male family members were Bonnevay’s voters.114 This phenomenon of clientelism-by-proxy was neither exceptional, nor was it characteristic of the correspondence files of one particular député. However, especially Bonnevay and Dumesnil’s female supplicants seem to have commonly expected such clientelism-by-proxy, or they simply counted on the deputy’s help on equal grounds as the men from their department. Asking for the vote was therefore not something that came up. Still, it is striking how natural it seemed that the deputy would listen to them, as spokespersons for their male relatives or family as a

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whole, but also for themselves. French women who engaged in writing letters to parliamentarians may have been under the impression that they already had an equal chance to make their opinion count, through the same informal channels used by men. Especially in the correspondence of these locally tied députés, we see such phenomena: women wrote on behalf of their son or father, or for themselves, and expected the same treatment. The rurality of the districts of both deputies can probably largely explain the lack of demands for enfranchisement. In these close communities, a male vote could be interpreted as a family vote: the entire family supported a certain deputy, and each member could have had (through word-of-mouth) some influence on the political orientation of their friends and neighbors. France’s very personal electoral system of district voting, moreover, made citizens feel like they actually knew “their” representative. Furthermore, Bonnevay pleaded for measures in favor of both sexes, supporting health care and social housing. As long as women felt socially relatively equal to men—both working on their family farms, having access to the same communication channels—they probably did not feel the need to protest for political rights, until the economic and political crises of the thirties brought about an increased pressure on their personal and familial situation. In sum, the possibility of interacting with a parliamentary representative and even having a certain influence on how he fulfilled his role may explain why the deputies’ female correspondents did not stand on the barricades for voting rights, not even after the war was over. It could be argued that the practice of writing upwards, especially toward an idolized or even sacralized individual député, may have carried so much (religiouslike) meaning in times of crisis that it obscured the political significance of the vote in the experience of those who did not have access to it anyway.

Notes 1. It was the general tenor of many letters in the following files: “Voeux et félicitations adressés à Louis Marin, 1917–1936,” AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, files 235–242. For example: “Letters from A. Chaudron, a retired stationmaster of the Compagnie de l’Est from Housséville (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 01-04-1924 and 24-071926, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, files 234 and 235. 2. For example: “Letter from Mother Superior L. Dechaille of the Congrégation d’Education Chrétienne d’Argentan (written from

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Paris) to H.-C. Groussau,” 31-10-1921, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45; “Letter from nun Tally, Fille de la Charité, from Bethlehem (Palestine) to H.-C. Groussau,” 28-02-1926, idem. 3. The name Action Libérale may be very confusing, because Jules Dansette, co-founder and vice-president of this political group focused on social measures while promoting protectionism, contrary to what we would consider as liberalism today, cf. Assemblée Nationale, “Jules Dansette,” in Base de données des députés français depuis 1789 (Paris: Assemblée Nationale, Updated in 2019), http://www2.assemblee-nationale.fr/sycomore/fiche/(num_ dept)/2127. 4. “Letter from L. Peulemeule from Bois-Grenier (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 30-04-1926, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 9. 5. For example: “Letter from H. Colin from Stains (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 10-02-1934, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. 6. “Letter from M. Dell, Ch. Dell, Ph. Leidner and A. Leidner from Neuf-Brisach (Colmar, Haut-Rhin, Alsace) to L. Marin,” 10-041924, idem, file 235. 7. For example: “Letter from Mr. and Mrs. Emmont from the Chemins de fer de l’Est to L. Marin,” 24-04-1928, idem, file 240. 8. “Letter from Mrs. J. Bianchi from Cons-la-Grandeville (Briey, Meurthe-et-Moselle) to L. Marin,” ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26 J , file 36; “Letter from widow E. Heitz from Nancy to L. Marin,” 01-01-1930, idem. 9. “Letter from Ms. S. Gaussères from Paris to L. Marin,” 02-071907, idem, file 490, followed by some undated letters from her. Marin’s responses have not been preserved. 10. “Letters from L. and G. Gié from Paris to L. Marin,” 1906–1909 (for example: 06-01-1906, 17-01-1907, 02-08-1908 and 17-071909), idem. 11. “Letter from M.-L. Gérardy from Paris to L. Marin,” 30-111919, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26 J , file 490. 12. Idem, 29-05-1919. 13. These were not specific for a certain period of Bonnevay’s mandate. See for example: “Letter from J. Trichard, originally from Poule (Villefranche-sur-Saône), to L. Bonnevay,” 05-11-1904, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22; “Letter

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from C. Francisque from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-11-1904, idem; Letter from B. Grataloup from Tizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1906, idem; “Letter from P. Chabas from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 21-031906, idem; “Letter from C. Philibert from Thel (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 08-06-1906, idem; “Letter from Ms. J. and A. Thonnérieux from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 2003-1908, idem; “Letter from J. J. Cholet from Roanne (Loire) to L. Bonnevay,” 27-12-1910, idem; “Letter from T. Mondelin (Mrs. Barbin) from Cours-la-Ville (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 15-08-1914, idem, file 65; “Letter from Mr. Brun from Tarare (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 0902-1920, idem, file 23; “Letter from F. Papot-Libéral from Marseille (Bouches-du-Rhône) to L. Bonnevay,” 18-01-1922, idem, file 24/I; “Letter from the Poizat brothers from Cours (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 14-07-1932, idem, file 24/II; “Letter from P. Dalbepierre from Châtillon d’Azergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 18-08-1934, idem, file 25/I; “Letter from P. Aguétant from Paris to L. Bonnevay,” 04-12-1937, idem, file 35. 14. “Letter from Dutramble from Chambost-Allières (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 11-03-1902, idem, file 22. 15. “Letter from J. Fouillet from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 26-10-1922, idem, file 24/I. 16. “Letter from Mr. Moncorgé from Ranchal (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-06-1902, idem, file 22. 17. “Letter from P. Chabas from Lyon (but originally from PontTrambouze in Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 21-031906, idem. 18. “Letter from F. Cortay, first from Lyon-Vaise, and later from La Clayette (Charolles, Saône-et-Loire)—but originally from Ranchal—to L. Bonnevay,” 03-08-1908 and 10-05-1910, idem. 19. “Letter from Mrs. Dadé from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 16-02-1931, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 22. 20. “Copy of the letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mrs. Dadé from Nemours,” and “Copy of the letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to Bodereau, Directeur du Cabinet du Préfet de la Seine, Paris,” 23-03-1931, idem, file 22.

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21. “Undated letter from Mrs. Dadé from Ferrières-en-Gâtinais (Montargis, Loiret), formerly from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” written between 03-07 and 20-07-1931, idem. 22. “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Daunay, containing the response Daunay had written on the same piece of paper,” 20 and 28-07-1931, idem. 23. “Letter from widow C. Lefèvre from Montereau-Fault-Yonne (Provins) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 20-11-1934, idem, file 26; “Draft response from J.-L. Dumesnil to C. Lefèvre,” 05-12-1934, idem. 24. “Letter from C. Fromentin from Les Olmes (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 28-11-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22. 25. “Letter from L. Guerpillon from Paris (but originally from SaintRomain-de-Popey in Bonnevay’s constituency) to L. Bonnevay,” 05-02-1910, idem. 26. “Letter from Mrs. M. Gardette from Lamure-sur-Azergues to L. Bonnevay,” 07-1910, idem. 27. “Letter from P. Berthinier from Lamure-sur-Azergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 29-06-1910, idem. 28. “Letter from Ms. M. Perrier from Claveisolles (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-03-1912, idem, file 23. 29. “Letter from Mr. Mollon from Tarare (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 15-03-1912, idem. 30. Bonnevay declined money that had been sent to him, cf. “Correspondence between J. Berchoux from Ternand (Villefranche-surSaône) and L. Bonnevay,” 19-03-1932, idem, file 24/II. 31. “Correspondence between A. Martin, Chair of the Chamber of Commerce of Tarare, and L. Bonnevay, who later described the man as a ‘Great Philantropic Industrialist,’” 19-10-1911, idem, file 31. 32. Suodenjoki, “Whistleblowing from Below,” 289. 33. See for example: Jean-Claude Dubois, Pour toi mon camarade… Les combats d’Albert Moser, ouvrier, socialiste et pacifiste (1896– 1976) (Paris: Connaissances et Savoirs, 2010). 34. Marc Sadoun, “Guy Mollet et Léon Blum, le camarade et le citoyen,” in Guy Mollet: un camarade en République, ed. Bernard Ménager et al. (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1987), 1–16, especially 13.

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35. “Letter from G. Baujard from Paris to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 12-081917, AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP, file 29. 36. “Letter from L. Brayelle from Voulx (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 07-10-1932, AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 769F , file 61. Dumesnil’s answer is unknown. His secretary sent Brayelle a confirmation of receipt, cf. “Letter from the secretary of J.L. Dumesnil to L. Brayelle from Voulx,” 14-10-1932, idem. Dumesnil did not seem to have discussed it in the Chamber either, but he might have addressed it behind closed doors, as a member of the Committee of Finances, for example. 37. “Correspondence between L. Dadé from Capdenac (in the Lot department) and J.-L. Dumesnil,” March and April 1930, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 22. 38. “Letter from L. Bouvier from Villecerf to J.-L. Dumesnil,” ?-101932, idem, file 20. 39. For example: “Draft letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Daunay, the mayor of Nemours (Fontainebleau),” 20-07-1931, idem, file 22. 40. “Letter from L. Bouvier from Villecerf to J.-L. Dumesnil,” ?-101932, idem, file 20; “Draft response from J.-L. Dumesnil to L. Bouvier,” 19-10-1932, idem. 41. “Letter from H. Thonnerieux from Thizy (Villefranche-surSaône) or Saint-Victor-sur-Rhins (Roanne, Loire, but next to Thizy) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1910, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22; “Letter from H. Thonnerieux from Saint-Victorsur-Rhins, 03-11 and 11-12-1930, idem, file 24/I; Idem, 14-081934, file 25/I. 42. “Letter from E. Fouvre from Amplepuis (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 19-02-1920, idem, file 23. 43. “Letter from J. Bagardette from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 1811-1919, idem, file 64. “Letter from L. Billet from Thizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) as an intermediary for A. Guèpe towards L. Bonnevay,” 03-12-1910, idem, file 22. 44. Maarten Van Ginderachter, “Public Transcripts of Royalism. Pauper Letters to the Belgian Royal Family (1880–1940),” in Mystifying the Monarch. Studies on Discourse, Power, and History, ed. Jeroen Deploige and Gita Deneckere (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 228. 45. Letter from M. Blavot from Chalmaison to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 2904-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 20.

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46. “Letter from R. Bloch from Paris to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 04-051930, idem. 47. “Letter from J. Daliès from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 12-02-1931, idem, file 22; “Draft response from J.-L. Dumesnil to J. Daliès,” 13-03-1931, idem. 48. “Letter from A. Fourquet, missionary bishop in Canton (China), to L. Bonnevay,” 26-06-1934, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 37. 49. “Letter from Miss M.-T. Boissin, a nurse living in Paris, to Mrs. M. de Brémond d’Ars,” 12-06-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 20 and a “copy of J.-L. Dumesnil’s response,” 28-061933, idem. Marie-Thérèse Boissin, a 59-year-old nurse, needed help to maintain her disability pension, as she feared its suspension. She had already contacted Dumesnil’s niece (Marcelle de Brémond d’Ars’ daughter, Nicole de Couasnon), who, in turn, asked her aunt (Dumesnil’s wife) for help (cf. file 15). The latter then engaged her husband to intervene toward the Minister of Pensions, but apparently, this intervention did not avert the threat. In her letter to Mrs. de Brémond d’Ars, she claimed to be hesitant to appeal to Monsieur votre frère once again. Dumesnil addressed himself directly to her, asking her for further information about her pension and why she thought it would be suspended. 50. “Undated letter from Mme Dadé from Ferrières-en-Gâtinais (Loiret), formerly from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” written between 03-07 and 20-07-1931, idem, file 22. 51. “Letter from Mme Bozière from Issy-les-Moulineaux (just outside of Paris) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 07-05-1930, idem, file 20. 52. “Undated letter from E. Lanctin from Paris to Mme Dumesnil,” (1932), idem, file 26, followed by “Correspondence between J.L. Dumesnil and P. Bodereau,” 07-1932, idem. 53. Marnix Beyen suggests this as a possible explanation, in Beyen, “Clientelism and Politicization,” 24. 54. Joost Augusteijn, Patrick Dassen, and Maartje Janse, “Introduction: Politics and Religion,” in Political Religion beyond Totalitarianism. The Sacralization of Politics in the Age of Democracy, ed. Joost Augusteijn, Patrick Dassen, and Maartje Janse (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 1–11 (and especially 6–7). I would

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like to thank Maartje Janse for our inspiring conversations on the topic of political religion in democratic regimes. 55. “Letter from H. Thonnerieux from Saint-Victor-sur-Rhins (Roanne, Loire, but next to Thizy) to L. Bonnevay,” 11-121930, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 24/I. 56. “Undated letter from Mrs. J. Jommet from Saint-Cloud (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” (1924), AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 236. 57. “Letter from Marthe Fisener from Roubaix (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 14-11-1923, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 108. 58. JO Débats Chambre, 02-02-1925, 495–496. 59. “Letters from M. Fisener to H.-C. Groussau, 11 and 23-021925, ADN, Papiers Groussau,” J 474, file 108. 60. Idem, 23-02-1925. 61. Idem, 23-06-1925. 62. Idem, 13-02-1928. 63. Idem, 15-09-1928. 64. Idem, 15-10-1928. 65. Idem, 22-09-1929. 66. The term persécutrice is commonly used in French research on the matter, to showcase the public reception of the laws by the Catholic press, for example, cf. Baubérot, Histoire, 90; Jean-Marie Mayeur, La séparation des Eglises et de l’Etat (Paris: Les Editions Ouvrières, 2005), 47. 67. The most telling examples in this respect can be found in the “Correspondence between M. Fisener from Roubaix (Lille) and H.-C. Groussau,” 1923–1929 (especially on 11 and 23-02-1925, and 13-02-1928), ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 108. 68. “Letter from Sœur Saint-Antonin of the congregation of the Filles du Saint-Esprit of Saint-Brieuc to H.-C. Groussau,” 24-01-1934, idem, file 46. 69. “Letter from H. Mahieu from Erquinghem-Lys (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 30-01-1928, idem, file 15. 70. In 1902, he was a member of the Committees of agriculture and insurance companies. In 1906, he was a member of the Committees of work, insurances and general administration. In 1910 and 1914, he presided the Committee of insurances and social precaution, while he continued to be a member of the Committee of general administration, cf. Assemblée Nationale, “Bonnevay.

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Base de données des députés.” See also: Charcosset, “Entre solidarité et clientélisme,” 469–83 on Bonnevay in the context of his solidarity networks. 71. “Undated visiting card from X. Rimaud from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” (1902), ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 63. 72. “Letter from J. Gravillet, chair of the Union Philanthropique des Sourds-muets de Lyon et de la Région to L. Bonnevay,” 01-051910, idem. (Bonnevay refused on grounds of being too busy). 73. Literally: Oh mon cher protecteur, volez a notre secours, in “Letter from A. Collon from Tarare (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 23-01-1917, idem, file 71/I. 74. Literally: Je mets dans ces lignes toute la chaleur de mon culte pour le grand Français que vous êtes et que nous aimerons tant dans vos chères et belles campagnes, in: “Letter from P. Aguétant from Paris to L. Bonnevay,” 04-12-1937, idem, file 35. 75. For example: “Letter from Ms. E. Roch from Paris to L. Marin,” 14-01-1931, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 235. See also: Chapter 6. 76. Jeanne d’Arc references, cf. “Undated postcard sent from Beaune (Côte-d’Or) from a nun (who did not mention her name) to L. Marin,” (1932), idem, file 241. 77. “Cards and letters from J. Hoffmann from Phlin but in 1934 from Malleloy (both in Nancy) to L. Marin,” 1919–1934, idem, files 237–241. 78. “Letter from Ms. J. Hoffmann from Phlin (in Marin’s constituency in Nancy) to L. Marin,” 02-05-1932, idem, file 241. 79. Zancarini-Fournel, Histoire des femmes en France, XIXe-XXe siècle, 116–17. 80. “Letter and flowers sent from Lourdes to L. Marin,” 10-02-1934, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. 81. This was the general tenor of many letters in the following files: “Voeux et félicitations adressés à Louis Marin,” 1917–1936, idem, files 235–242. 82. “Letter from Ms. M. Rayer from Marbache (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 07-05-1936, idem, file 242. 83. “Undated card from Ms. J. Hoffmann from Phlin (Nancy) to L. Marin,” (1928), idem, file 240. 84. “Undated letter from Mrs. J. Jommet from Saint-Cloud (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” (1924), idem, file 236.

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85. “Letter from Mrs. …aloness? from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-031924, idem. 86. References to such radio transmissions can be found in: “Félicitations—Lettre à M. Laval,” and “Félicitations—Elections Législatives,”1936, idem, files 235 and 242. 87. “Letter from P. Lœillot from Pont-à-Mousson (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 02-05-1932, idem, file 241. 88. “Letter from Mrs. P. le Clare (?) from Blonville-sur-Mer (Lisieux, Calvados) to L. Marin,” idem. 89. “Letter from widow M. Gaunard from Fontenay-aux-Roses (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” 15-05-1932, idem. 90. “Letter from L. Adt from Jeandelaincourt (Nancy) to L. Marin,” 28-04-1936, idem, file 242. 91. “Letter from Mrs. C. L’Huillier from Nancy to L. Marin,” 0203-1936, idem. 92. Siân Reynolds, France Between the Wars. Gender and Politics (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), 168. 93. “Letter from Mrs. C. L’Huillier,” 02-03-1936, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 242. 94. Smith, Feminism, 67–76; See also: Thébaud and Bard, “Les effets,” 158–59. 95. Smith, Feminism, 74–75; Paul Smith, “Cécile Formaglio, ‘Féministe d’abord’: Cécile Brunschvicg (1877–1946),” Clio. Femmes, Genre, Histoire 43 (2016): 291–92; Formaglio explains Brunschvicg’s identité floue, and the issue of reconciling feminism (that was supposed to be neutral) with radicalism, in Cécile Formaglio, “Féministe d’abord”: Cécile Brunschvicg (1877–1946), Archives du féminisme (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2014), 235. Chrisine Bard and Bibia Pavard refer to Brunschvicg’s adherence to the radical party as a “program of infiltration,” because Brunschvicg hoped to be able to influence the place where it all happened from within, cf. Christine Bard and Bibia Pavard, eds., Femmes outsiders en politique, Parlement[s]: revue d’histoire politique 19 (Paris: Harmattan, 2013), 12. 96. Hause and Kenney, Women’s Suffrage, 214; Joan Wallach Scott, Only Paradoxes to Offer: French Feminists and the Rights of Man (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004); Françoise Gaspard, “Christine Bard, Les filles de Marianne, histoire des féminismes,” Clio. Femmes, Genre, Histoire 1 (2005), http://clio.

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revues.org/542; Christine Bard, ed., Les féministes de la première vague (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2016). 97. Scott, Only Paradoxes, 2–18, with case-studies starting from p. 19. 98. “Letter from Mrs. C. Théry from Paris to L. Marin,” 24-111919, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 239. 99. “Letter from Mrs. C. Lefort from Paris to L. Marin,” 17-051924, idem. 100. “Letter from Ms. M. Cormier from Strasbourg to L. Marin,” 2306-1926, idem, file 234. 101. “Letter from Ms. O. Popovitch from Paris to L. Marin,” 23-011936, idem, file 235; Paul Vitry (ed.) “Élèves ayant obtenu en novembre 1937 et mai 1938 le titre d’ ‘ Ancien Élève de l’École du Louvre,’” Bulletin des musées de France 10, no. 8 (1938): 25. In the fifties, Popovitch became the curator of the Fine Arts Museum of Reims. 102. “Undated letter from Mrs. L. Pannet from Marson (in Marne, but originating from Pont-à-Mousson, in Marin’s district) to L. Marin,” (1936), AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 242. 103. “Letter from Ms. H. Lebon from Nancy to L. Marin,” 2704-1936, idem. Marin’s personal archives, preserved in Nancy, contain proof of their “relationship” having become more friendly after the introduction of female voting. Marin’s outgoing correspondence from the fifties testifies to his familial sentiments and even affection for her. Even though he never used the pronoun tu, he addressed her cordially as Ma bien Chère Hélène, or Ma chère petite Hélène, cf. “Letters to Hélène Lebon,” ADMM , Papiers Louis Marin, 26 J , file 43/I. 104. “Undated letter from Albert Grillot from Lemainville (Nancy) to L. Marin,” (1936), idem, file 242; “Letter from Jean[?] from Nancy to L. Marin,” 02-05-1936, idem. 105. Bouchard, Cher Monsieur le Président, 95–99; Van Ginderachter, “If Your Majesty,” 81–82. 106. As it was called by Robert de Jouvenel, La république des camarades (Paris: Grasset, 1914). 107. Literally: En souvenir de votre emminente [sic] personalité [sic] et comme gage de ma reconnaissance, je viens de donner le prénom de Louis à mon nouveau-né, in “Letter from A. Marin from

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Rochegude (Nyons, Drôme) to L. Marin,” 06-05-1928, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 240. 108. “List of Marin’s godchildren,” 1938, ADMM, Papiers Louis Marin, 26 J , file 36. 109. For example: “Letter from G. Evremond-Lucas from Paris (also on behalf of his wife) to L. Marin,” 29–03-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 236; “Letter from M. Forni from Paris to L. Marin,” 29-03-1924, idem; “Undated letter from Mrs. J. Jommet from Saint-Cloud (in the suburbs of Paris) to L. Marin,” (1924), idem. 110. “Letter from widow Rochas from Poule (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 19-10-1912, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J, file 23. Bonnevay had recommended her for a job in a tobacco shop, a position that was reserved for the poorest. 111. “Letter from widow Dussolier from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 14-05-1924, AN, Fonds Dumesnil, 130AP, file 29. 112. “Letter from widow Perrin from Ternand (Villefranche-surSaône) to L. Bonnevay,” 29-03-1906, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J, file 22. 113. “Letter from Mrs. Giraud from Saint-Vincent-de-Reins (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 03-06-1916, idem, file 23. 114. “Letter from L. Sapin (Mrs. Desbat) from Lamure to L. Bonnevay,” 25-04-1910, idem, file 22. Bonnevay’s reply helps understand Sapin’s surprise. Apparently, Bonnevay had confused her address with that of Mrs. G. Desbat.

CHAPTER 8

The Deputy-Lawyer

Possibly as a side-effect of having chosen the best preserved correspondence archives for this book, the selected representatives happen to belong to the 28 to 29 percent of deputés of the early twentieth century who had successfully completed their legal studies.1 My analysis, however, does not intend to revive what sociologist Laurent Willemez calls “the functionalist myth” of the République des avocats, which masks both the diversity of social backgrounds in the Chamber and the heterogeneity within the group of deputy-lawyers itself.2 The advantage of studying the correspondence files of four députés with a degree in law is precisely the opportunity to reveal the various ways in which citizens made an appeal to a deputy-lawyer and attached meaning to this specific function. We shall see that, despite their shared educational background, the four parliamentarians acted differently upon the expectations linked to their role, while the letter-writers’ expectations, to begin with, varied depending on the deputy they contacted. Even though Willemez has already dismantled the “Republic of lawyers” as a historiographical myth, he still calls it a “realistic” myth of which he retraces the roots to the 1820s–1840s, when non-notable députés with a law degree made claims for legitimate representation. As lawyers, such deputies could present themselves as educated eloquent men, capable of enlarging the significance of individual cases by placing them into a more general framework of universal values. They opened © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_8

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the debate of what representation should be, while the people whom they represented lived in an increasingly “judicialized” society. In line with Maurice Agulhon’s thesis on the politicization of the countryside during the Second Republic (1848–1852), Willemez explains its “judicialization” as a generalization of needs of rural people, which led to their “politicization,” since it would have encouraged their understanding of what it was to be represented and to be a good republican. This theory on France’s early politicization of the countryside leads us to wonder if citizens’ letters to députés from the Third Republic would still reveal an urban–rural divide when it comes to the perception of and interaction with a deputy-lawyer. If so, how should we understand such differences?3 During the Third Republic, the deputy-lawyer’s legal expertise and rhetorical style were of course still a valuable form of legitimization toward other parliamentarians, but his background was also highly valued by “ordinary,” unorganized citizens. They counted on his legal knowledge, either to give them accurate information about the necessary steps to take in their situation, or even to actively defend them. The expectations of such an active defense could take two forms: an individual and a more general one. Some citizens expected a personal defense of their very individual case (concerning pensions or war decorations, for instance), whereas other citizens counted on a more general change of justice (that would undeniably also benefit them personally). Standing with one foot in both worlds, the legislative power and the judiciary, the deputy-lawyer was considered to have the opportunity to directly influence the legal system which “ordinary” citizens did not always perceive as a “just” system. The role of the deputy-lawyer thus refers to its most literal interpretation, i.e., a representative as a member of the bar, next to a broader and vaguer sense of a deputy as a representative-defender of (a specific group of) citizens, and in general, as a guardian of justice. It was not against the rules to combine paid lawyer work with a seat in parliament.4 Although it is not always very clear to what extent the deputy-lawyers still worked as paid attorneys, the literal references to this job are the most visible in Laurent Bonnevay and Jacques-Louis Dumesnil’s passive correspondence. Letter-writers appealed to their help in very individual cases, hoping for a personal intervention. Henri-Constant Groussau rather seemed to belong to the second type: the guardian of justice, at least in the eyes of a particular group. Groussau was most often called in to defend (or even enhance) the rights of French Catholics (and the Catholic clergy in particular) and/or strive for justice for the Northern part of France, hit by the

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First World War. Did the letter-writers’ perception of this role change over time, and if so, how?

From Religious to Regional Defense? The role of a deputy-lawyer was strongly connected to his role as a committee member, because parliamentary committees were seen as the places where the deputy could denounce the lack of justice for very specific groups of people. Alphonse Truffaut of the flax spinning factory Truffaut-Buisine in Willems—in the arrondissement of Lille, but outside Groussau’s constituency—addressed Groussau on 8 July 1910, because he considered the député du Nord capable of defending his interests in the parliamentary Committee of Health Services (Commission de la mutualité). To stress the relevance of such a personal intervention, Truffaut explained that it was “a unique case that could, however, be generalized.” According to him, the Health Care Association of Saint-Martin (referring to the church of Saint-Martin d’Esquermes in Lille), which he chaired and of which the doctor was a Catholic, had been aggrieved by the socialist municipality’s attitude toward him. Whereas another health care association had received an annual subsidy of 400F, his was left without a grant. Implicitly, Truffaut insinuated that it was a matter of ill will of the municipality, due to his religious conviction. Not only Groussau’s participation in the committee, but also his Catholic engagement were thus of great importance for the letter-writer. The local political level being deficient, “while the country became all the more mutualiste,” Truffaut hoped that the Chamber of Deputies would make “a law compelling the municipalities to sponsor the mutualistes ” regardless of their political and/or philosophical orientation. If a municipality would fail to live up to its duty, it was the deputies’ task to take control. To justify his demand and to mark the importance of this particular case, Truffaut ended his letter by contextualizing his suggestion in a broader perspective. He explained that the goal of his letter was to attract Groussau’s attention “to the injustices that were committed in the small villages, making those who defended the ideas of justice and equality suffer.” The overall widely used tactic of attributing more general values to a very individual story proved to be successful, because Groussau promised to take care of it.5 It is impossible, however, to find traces of Groussau’s intervention concerning the funding problem in the plenary debates, probably because the parliamentary holidays started quite soon

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after the day of writing. Still, it is likely that the deputy took action, but on a less publicly visible level. In general, a deputy’s interventions can be considered effective, whether they brought about a concrete result, such as money, or a more abstract but nonetheless important recognition and attention. It was sometimes enough for the deputy to listen to the problem, in a faceto-face conversation, or by reading and replying to a letter in person. The line between this sounding board or advisory duty and an attorney’s job could easily be blurred in the letter-writers’ perceptions. To protect their image, however, the representatives central to this book avoided intervening officially and publically in lawsuits. Still, “behind the scenes,” their legal advice and juridical expertise in religious matters (Groussau) or family/neighbor disputes (Bonnevay and Dumesnil) were not rarely appealed to by “ordinary,” individual citizens. They did not always know the boundaries of the acceptable and possible roles a député could fulfill during his mandate as a representative. Therefore, the letter-writers’ expectations concerning the image and functions of parliamentarians were not always in line with the actual tasks they executed or should execute, and/or with those receiving most attention in recent historiography. In the case of Groussau, who was known as a defender of the Catholic clergy (and by extension of the Catholic French citizens’ freedom to practice their religion), clergymen and -women from across the country addressed their requests concerning their statutes and properties to him, using a language of disruption between anti-clerical radicals and Catholics. While Groussau was framed as the savior of the latter group, he was seen, at the same time, as a deputy who transcended party politics. A series of letters about the church of Séris in Loir-et-Cher may help explain this paradox. Father J. Christophe from Séris and the bishop of Blois (also in the Loir-et-Cher-department) requested Groussau’s help in 1912–1913 to safeguard the church’s sanctuary from being demolished for “public benefit,” more specifically for road safety. Because the sanctuary crossed the building line, the street narrowed at that point. The threat of literal demolition made the consequences of the Law on the Separation of Church and State very real to those concerned. Consequently, in their request for concrete action, the bishop and priest used an even more polarizing language than was usually the case in letters from other religious workers who relied on the deputy for advice. Although the law stipulated that the State Council could decide upon the religious properties’ reassignment by decree, the case of the sanctuary of the church

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of Séris was so particular that its demolition had to pass through parliament by a bill, drawn up by the Minister of the Interior on behalf of the President of the Republic. In July 1912, the Minister of the Interior, radical-socialist Théodore Steeg, deposited the bill that denied the sanctuary’s “artistic” value and granted the municipality permission to proceed with its demolition. In his attempt to prevent this from happening, the bishop of Blois sent a letter to Groussau on 8 September 1912, in which he tried to refute the municipal council and the government’s line of argument. According to him, the project was prompted by religious hate, as there was another way to broaden the street than by breaking down the historical monument (i.e., the sanctuary) predating the road. A house across the church did not range with the older houses in the street either, hence narrowing it as well. The reason why the municipal council aimed at the church instead could be found in its “sectarianism” and “anti-religious passion,” according to the bishop. To amplify on the impact, he recurred to bodily metaphors, translating the “barbaric demolition” and “decapitation” of the physical church into an attack on the “molested” Catholics and the Church as an institution.6 Father Christophe picked up this thread, providing Groussau with the necessary information about the “mutilation” of their church, through letters written in 1912 and 1913 but also at a private audience in the Chamber on 29 May 1913. In his correspondence, Father Christophe included a floor plan of the church and a postcard with a photo showing how it was situated on the road and faced the house that did not range with the street either. As this house belonged to an anti-clerical member of the municipal council, Gentils Huguet, this council would in no way agree to sacrifice part of it to broaden the road. Huguet’s neighbor Rossignol, former mayor of Séris, in contrast, would offer part of his front yard for free to safeguard the church. Although the priest had already contacted right-wing patriot Maurice Barrès, he now counted on Groussau’s help, probably instigated by the bishop. As were most of Groussau’s correspondents, the priest was encouraged by the deputy’s public defense of religious rights and his expertise in legal matters. Moreover, in this particular case, Groussau’s role as a member of the parliamentary Committee of General Administration complemented the others, as it allowed him to take concrete action. Groussau’s preliminary notes for the Committee’s meeting in February 1913 reveal a summary of father Christophe’s main arguments. The

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deputy had ticked them off in the priest’s letter of 9 November 1912 and intended to bring them forward during the Committee’s meeting. (His discourse, however, appears to have been unsuccessful, because Huguet’s house had been legally built that way.) In addition, father Christophe’s letters make clear that they could not count on their own député, radicalsocialist Eugène Treignier, who was at the same time municipal councilor in Séris. The suggested solution for the road issue appears to have been his idea. The letter-writer did not understand why the government would go along with it. Surely, they “had better things to do than to pit people against each other.” These last words became reality. The quick succession of governments made the case sink into oblivion for some time. The timespan of this case, from November 1912 to July 1914, covers seven successive governments, all of a left majority. This explains Treignier’s written parliamentary question to the (new) Minister of the Interior and radical of the Left, Louis Malvy, on 3 July 1914, which was actually a reminder to further pursue the outcome requested by the municipal council of Séris. A week later, Malvy deposited the new bill, which hardly differed from the one of 1912. Groussau thus had not succeeded in his defense, but the First World War soon buried the case. It did not seem to have popped up again afterward. Leaving aside their lack of concrete results, this series of letters offers a good example of how citizens paradoxically, through and despite their polarizing and ideology-driven language, still laid claims to impartiality and the interest of the nation (like Marin’s examples from Chapter 6). Clearly opposing two distinct political groups—their religious in-group toward the anti-clerical other—they portrayed themselves as the voice of reason and the general interest, while “the other” was said to only play political games and was even framed as corrupt. The whole situation turned father Christophe into a politically engaged citizen who followed the debates in the Journal Officiel. When it struck him in March 1914 that Groussau had been so unusually silent in the Chamber, he was worried, and found out through the deputy’s son that he had been ill and needed surgery. The priest interpreted Groussau’s health problems as a result of his devotion to their grande cause, and promised to pray for the deputy’s recovery in the first place and his reelection second. He would even dedicate the Tuesday Mass, when it was Annunciation Day, to Groussau, so that the Holy Mary would speed up his recovery and give him “more very long years to defend France and

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the Catholic cause.” In his last letter, the priest thus explicitly linked their particular case and ideology to the defense of the entire nation.7 The war brought a halt to the further development of this case, but did the conflict also change Groussau’s image as a deputy-lawyer for the clergy’s rights? As seen from Marthe Fisener’s point of view (discussed in the previous chapter), Groussau’s mediation in her personal interest (the war medal) was intertwined with his defense of the occupied territories and of their religious rights. After the First World War, letters from religious workers testified to their renewed expectations of their legal status, next to their continued expectations of Groussau’s engagement for Catholics in general.8 In these communications, Groussau not only appeared as a correspondent of the high clergy, such as bishops, but he was also a point of contact for members of religious orders who needed concrete advice on the legality of their actions on the ground. Even though Groussau’s role as a defender of the Liberated Regions was more visible on the public level, his role as a defender of Catholics, and the French clergy in particular, continued to manifest itself, but often in a counseling role behind the scenes. His interventions and advice were mostly requested when the juridical situation had become more complex. Since the war had contributed to this increased complexity, it created a more urgent need for the advice of authorities. This explains why, even though the law on the Separation of Church and State was already promulgated at the end of 1905, the attempts to overturn prohibitions or impediments particularly characterize the letters written in the twenties and thirties. These were animated by the wish to obtain equity, not only because of the clergy’s contributions to humanitarian help during the war—in the light of events, they considered it just to demand new rights—but also because of the inequality between clerics and laics, leading to differences in juridical interpretations that did not exist before. In this context, following the expropriation of the Catholic boarding school of Loos-lès-Lille (in the department of le Nord) at the mayor’s initiative, abbot Bourgeois asked in his letter of 28 July 1920 for an elucidation based on a comparison between laymen and clergy. Since every industrial who had fallen victim to the war conditions was authorized to demand reparations (dommages de guerre) for their properties, Bourgeois wondered if it would also be possible for a religious congregation (under the guise of an association constituted ad hoc) to become the legal owner of its goods again, and to claim reparations for them.9 What may

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seem like a naïve assumption at first shows in fact how good the abbot’s knowledge was of the different nuances of the laicization laws, as well as of Groussau’s capability to make use of the interpretational haze and look for loopholes. Indeed, a religion was allowed—culturally and behind the scenes—to function as an institution, whereas socially and publicly, it had to take the form of an association.10 Bourgeois must have been wellaware of this nuance as he tried to involve Groussau in turning it to the school’s advantage. Letter-writers who were outsiders of the French Republic, such as abbot Bourgeois, often seem to have been well-informed about the laws that had put them in their outsider’s position, even before they asked the deputy for more information. In addition, the député’ s advice helped educate their case further, as they learned how to maximize the outcome of their requests, in order to best serve their (personal or congregational) interests. Taking Marthe Fisener as an example again: she recycled citations from parliamentary debates (sent to her by Groussau) and succeeded in politicizing her language, referring to political struggles and abstract values to make her personal demand for a decoration more relevant at a more general and national level. Even though her war correspondence was originally meant to help the évacués du Nord, she approved of its later use in Groussau’s defense of Catholicism’s position in France (cf. Chapter 7, under the deputy-messenger). Also for most other interwar letter-writers, Groussau was expected to remain the consultant of French religious citizens, and even of the French congregants established in Belgium or Spain. They had gone in exile, not because of the war, but because of the regulations of the law on the Separation of Church and State. In the early 1920s, congregations were hopeful for a loosening of the rules, because many religious orders had offered humanitarian help during the war. Moreover, the relationship of the Republic with the Catholic Church had improved. Carefully, several priests, friars, and nuns therefore searched for possibilities to expand their activities and gain official recognition for them, or at least to be left at peace while doing so. Groussau’s religious correspondents often appear to have been too optimistic, though, because the regulations remained strict, despite the changed context. Therefore, wearing religious clothing could cause suspicion and minimize the congregation’s chances to escape control, which is not what they wanted if they were (still) engaging in teaching activities. This explains the hesitation and feeling of shame of the Fidèles Compagnes de Jésus , nuns from Paris, who wanted to speak to

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Groussau on 7 December 1923 in the Palais Bourbon, but rescheduled, because they did not dare to proceed in their religious clothing.11 This anecdote about the nuns’ perception aside, there was indeed a real threat for congregants who wished to continue or resume their educational activities, like the Ursulines of Pau in the French Pyrenees. After a long period of exile in Spain, they had returned to France in 1920 with high hopes, thanks to the appeasement policy of the Union Sacrée. To the investigating officer who had shown up shortly after their arrival, they declared to have left Spain because of “difficulties of life” there. In their old country house in Pau—owned by “a legal civil association” who had bought it from the liquidator in 1905, and sublet part of it back to the Ursulines—the younger nuns would be able to take care of their old and disabled co-congregants more easily. As the officer seemed pleased with their statement, which merely referred to their small-scale caring activities, he promised to leave them alone. After several years of being left at peace, tolerated by the mayor, the municipality, and the inhabitants of Pau, the Ursulines hoped to be able to start taking up some private teaching activities again, for which they asked Groussau’s advice in two letters dating from August 1924. Despite his specialty, the deputy of le Nord was not the first politician they had thought of contacting. Instead, the congregants had already appealed to Joseph Garat’s support, not in the first place because he was a deputy of their department of the Basses-Pyrénées (now called the Pyrénées-Atlantiques) in the Basque Country, but especially because his sister was one of the nuns. At their request, Garat had offered them his “service” and help. As the nuns were sure of his affection for his sister, they did not doubt Garat’s goodwill, regardless of the latter’s radical-toradical-socialist orientation. However, they put question marks over his political influence.12 Would he be powerful enough to save them from the “danger” they envisioned? The radical deputy did not seem to have been so sure about that himself, as he had advised the Ursulines to take all the possible precautions and contact Groussau, whom he considered “the most authorized guide concerning interests of Religion.” In a second letter to Groussau, the Mother Superior of the Ursulines (Agnès de Jésus) acted as an intermediary for the bishop of Bayonne (a city, also in the Basses-Pyrénées, of which Joseph Garat was the mayor). The bishop wondered if it would not be a good idea for their congregation to submit a request for approval after all. He wanted to know Groussau’s opinion on the matter and used the congregation, and its

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Mother Superior in particular, to voice his concern. Yet, the nuns not merely acted as the bishop’s messengers, but added their own opinions and fears: the Mother Superior, at least, thought it would be wisest to follow Garat’s advice to stay out of the picture. She thus expressed her (or their) own pragmatic view on everyday politics and her (or their) preferred tactics, instead of following the bishop’s lead. Furthermore, Agnès de Jésus put in a good word for Joseph Garat, instead of expecting the latter to stand up as their competent spokesman. Because of Garat’s conflicting ideology, the Mother Superior felt the need to recommend him toward Groussau, by stressing his religious background, depicting him as a child of an admirable Christian mother of a large nuclear family. This description should convince the deputy for le Nord of the integrity of his radical colleague, who was a worthy interlocutor.13 In sum, at times, the tables of intermediate interaction turned, when politically unorganized letter-writers stepped up as enterprising citizens, aware of their power to choose between deputies and to appoint those who could represent their interests the best in public and/or private contexts. Groussau replied by strongly advising the Ursulines against submitting an official application for recognition, because, through the documents they needed to send for this purpose, they would supply the information that could be used in legal action against them, and that would eventually rob them. A precedent of refusal of the Dominicans of Nay’s application (in the same department) confirmed this. Therefore, the deputy for le Nord endorsed the advice the nuns had received by “some” (Joseph Garat and/or the municipality of Pau?) that the best decision was indeed to start wearing secular clothing—only if this was absolutely necessary— and pretend nothing was wrong. However, even then, they would need more guarantees to keep off the danger. With this advice, he walked on thin ice, since it was illegal. Furthermore, Groussau added that he would meet Garat at the Palais Bourbon the week after, and promised to discuss the matter with him. Even though their political ideology lay far apart, Groussau admitted to have always had sympathy toward his fellow-deputy.14 This example testifies to the perceived importance of Groussau’s expertise in law, and his role as the lawyer of congregants, not only in public, but also as their secret intermediary out of plain sight. The underestimation in historiography of his role as the Church’s defender during the interwar period (cf. Chapter 6) is thus understandable, because his contacts with congregants often amounted to private advice, such as

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keeping low profile. This attitude during the interbellum is comparable to his strategy from before the Great War, when he tried to adjourn public discussions that would lead to the laicization laws. Already early in his career, Groussau was known as “the great defender of the Catholic causes,” among almoners, abbots, and other religious workers.15 He owed this image to his interventions, instigated by requests of religious citizens concerning the laws on the Separation of Church and State and the liquidation of the congregations. His political engagement and expertise concerning the rights of religious workers must have attracted the attention of certain citizens. Already in November 1903, Procurator-General of the Congregation of the Mission of the Lazarists, E. Villette, wished to receive some information from Groussau, about the liquidation of congregations, and more specifically about the planned change of use for a building of the Lazarists. Originally, Villette considered talking to Groussau in the Chamber, but— deeming a discrete place to be more opportune—he had not followed through. However, he still wished to meet Groussau as soon as possible, because the government’s plans to repurpose their motherhouse greatly worried him. Groussau replied that he had seen Bienvenu Martin, one of the two rapporteurs of the proposed bill concerning the new use of congregation buildings becoming state property. He thus knew at first hand that this proposed bill had not been examined in the parliamentary committee yet. In order to be able to talk about this discretely, he suggested to meet up on Tuesday 15th, at the motherhouse of the Lazarists in Paris. During that conversation, the deputy advised Villette to write a mission statement elaborating on the goal of the Lazarists and the use of the building, so that he could give it to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs (probably because their foreign missions could ensure their survival) and the Direction des Cultes of the Ministry of the Interior. In his following letter, Villette uttered his regret “to be reduced to powerlessness,” and expressed his concerns about the future of his congregation. His worries were revived after having read an article in Le Temps, which seemed to indicate that the decision had already been made. In attachment, Villette added the article and his statement, containing the information he considered useful to Groussau in preparing his defense. By explaining that the discussion would not start earlier than February, the deputy tried to reassure the man. However, at the beginning of January 1904, the latter wrote a new message, informing Groussau about a promise from another député (whose name he did not mention) “to

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search for a means to avoid the topic being scheduled, and consequently to avoid any public discussion” on the matter. This encouraged the decision of the Lazarists to indeed “manoeuver” in this direction, hoping for Groussau’s precious help. The deputy replied that this was “of course, the best of manoeuvers.”16 The Speaker’s words during the parliamentary session of 2 February 1904 do indeed prove Groussau’s contribution to the postponement of the proposed bill. It had only been scheduled on condition that there would be no debate: a peculiar but not an exceptional procedure, which allowed Groussau to boycott the agenda, since he had signed up as a discussant. Before this specific parliamentary session, six bills in local interest had already been adopted without any debate, but the bill of the two rapporteurs—radical-republican of the Yonne-department, Bienvenu Martin, and radical-socialist of the Nièvre, Alfred Massé—referred to by Villette, could not pass unconditionally, which necessitated an adjournment of the discussion. The postponement seems to have been infinite, as the bill did not appear on the Assembly’s agenda anymore.17 The survival and liberty of action of French congregations were threatened regardless: on 23 February 1904, Emile Combes, Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior and Cults, wished to schedule a discussion on the bill concerning the prohibition of teaching congregations. Groussau reacted the same as he did before, by trying to put off the public debate. He requested the Chamber not to give a ruling on the matter, because the Committee of Education had not finished its work yet.18 Even in 1905, postponing the discussion in parliament seems to have been the preferred and suggested strategy, i.e., by Villette, who asked Groussau to plead for their cause, especially in front of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Théophile Delcassé, himself.19 Among Groussau’s archival material, some responses of the Ministries in question (especially the Ministry of Public Education) can be found, which is also undeniably a matter of image construction.20 What Groussau chose to preserve, and the way he chose to present his correspondence, sometimes with excerpts from the press or the debates, kept in thematic files, contributes to his self-presentation as an engaged expert for causes of the French of le Nord. At the same time (and more notably), his files represented him as a defender of Catholics residing in different parts of the country, congregants living in exile, and military chaplains offering support in war zones. Groussau’s continuous defense of the military chaplains (e.g., Franciscans in Morocco) established a link between

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him and Albert de Mun (deputy of Finistère, Bretagne), at least in the chaplains’ perception. Even though the latter was more far-right, while Groussau fitted in the republican framework and accepted the regime’s institutions, Groussau was nonetheless considered to be Mun’s successor when it came to the defense of French almoners, even when Mun himself was still active.21 Since 1908, (aspiring) military chaplains appointed Groussau to be their intermediary toward the Minister of War, who, in turn, had an influence on the General in the field, enabling Franciscans to give French soldiers in Morocco moral assistance. As they recognized the advantages themselves, the army officers generally seemed supportive of the chaplains’ presence, whereas it was often the Minister of War who needed to be persuaded of the importance of facilitating the almoners’ missions. As an example, a French chapel in Casablanca was said to be necessary to balance out the Spanish “ecclesiastic jurisdiction” there.22 The Minister of War was literally too distant to realize those needs in the field. In addition, the chaplains’ position had become unclear because of the laicization laws. Since the Separation of Church and State, the French government could neither “assure,” nor “protect” (i.e., sponsor) the almoners’ services anymore, but in the light of liberty of conscience, the Franciscans would be free to go to Morocco to visit the soldiers demanding their support. It was thus up to the military commanders to decide upon the conditions and locations of the services, depending on their necessity. This clarification came quite late (in 1911), in a letter from the new Minister of War, Maurice Berteaux, in response to Groussau’s question whether General Picquart’s (Berteaux’ predecessor between 1906 and 1909) decisions and permissions would be overturned.23 Despite the Minister’s supposed neutrality on the matter, the chaplains still felt the need to convince him of the importance of their work, not only in its concrete terms, as moral support for the soldiers, but also more abstractly as an expression of French influence abroad. The deputy of le Nord took up the task to inform the Minister of the names of the Franciscans who were or who would shortly arrive in Morocco, stress the interests of their mission, and thereby safeguard their jobs and the required facilities.24 In 1910, for example, at an almoner’s request, the deputy supported the creation of a chaplain’s post in Casablanca. Additionally, after the instauration of the French protectorate in 1912, Groussau tried to safeguard the position of the French

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military chaplains, who were said to still be needed on the spot for religious healing of the French soldiers who stayed behind. Similarly, military chaplains were also put into action at the front during the First World War, and even after the conflict, Groussau was supposed to defend the almoners’ presence during the demobilization. Although most of them did not know Groussau personally, and none of them could vote for him, they knew about the “eloquence he drew from his feelings of faith and patriotism.” Furthermore, his “public homage to the generous devotion of the French priests,” and his “erudition and eloquence at the tribune” in the interest of “the French influence” (through support for establishing churches and religious workers in Morocco) were wellknown too.25 The Franciscan who used this politicized discourse to urge Groussau to action, and who was thus most aware of the ins and outs of politics and parliament, was Father Bonaventure Cordonnier. As Groussau’s most important contact among the military chaplains, he acted as a spokesperson for the Franciscans toward the deputy for le Nord and thus as extra intermediary level.26 Even in 1930, Cordonnier praised the député for “still standing on the barricades as the valiant and tireless defender of the Catholic liberties,” while French politicians and officials did not seem to care. He noticed this lack of interest during the award ceremonies at the schools in Rabat, where French officials had given a banal and neutral speech, whereas their Moroccan colleague had appealed to religious and moral grounds. After all these years of experience in Morocco, Cordonnier now realized he had less respect for “those who came to civilize(?)” than for “those whom they came to civilize(?).” His letter including those question marks showed Cordonnier’s critical attitude toward the French regime, by genuinely questioning the whole “civilizing” mission propagated by the French Republic.27 Although his view on French foreign politics and education policies had thus developed and changed, his opinion of and trust in Groussau remained unshakable. Each parliamentary representative had his own specialty to which citizens could appeal, and which was difficult to overturn in their perception. According to abbots, nuns, friars, and almoners’ judgments and viewpoints, Groussau’s image as a defender of the Catholic Church was not easily replaced by his duty as a defender of le Nord (which he represented in the Chamber) and the liberated regions (which he represented in the special parliamentary Committee).

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“Frenchness” and Naturalization Even though Louis Marin had successfully completed his legal studies, he did not pursue a career in law. His correspondents seem to have been well-aware of his interests, because they did not appeal to him for legal defense. They must have known that his expertise revolved around ethnological rather than legal studies. Demands for advice on obtaining the French nationality as well as complaints about the situation of the French in Alsace did occur, but these were right up his alley, because they can be seen as a combination of ethnic questions and requests for legal advice. Marin was not the only député citizens contacted to ask for help with naturalization cases, but the difference lies in their legitimizations, which Marin’s correspondents most often geared toward his ideology and expertise.28 It should not surprise that “Frenchness” in Marin’s case contained more ethnographic references and was particularly framed as getting rid of everything that looked or sounded German. Mr. A. Hartman, for example, a retired teacher from Nancy who originated from Alsace, explained on 20 May 1915 why he thought that the bill deposited in the Chamber by André Honnorat (radical left, Basses-Alpes) was such an excellent idea. If the bill passed, it would allow him and all other French people to Frenchify their foreign sounding name. Hartman himself had already dropped the second “n” in his last name, at least in his correspondence. However, if the law were voted, he would use the opportunity to change his name into something meaningful. The one he had in mind was Hardyon: “Hardy” was meant to refer to the English word “heart,” and “on” to “homme.” Therefore, it had to display that he was an homme de cœur et de courage. According to him, the majority of Alsatians were Français de cœur with a foreign name and thus with a confusing label, that could get them into unpleasant situations. Having been in such situations multiple times already, he described it as “horror for a good Frenchman to have to wear a German sign.” Not only the names of Alsatians should be allowed to be Frenchified, also all German toponyms in Alsace should become French, Hartman pleaded. Everything in the Alsace-Lorraine region that reminded them of “the horrible domination of the Boches” needed to disappear. If Marin considered his letter—which was meant to represent the opinion of “many Alsatians”—to be relevant to Honnorat, he could pass it on. Hence, Marin was not a deputy-lawyer in the literal sense of being an attorney in an individual lawsuit. Instead,

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he was framed as a defender of notre cause alsacienne in parliament and thus a representative of part of the population.29 Nonetheless, he helped individual citizens with their naturalization too, as was the case for sworn broker André Lacoste from Mauritius, who had moved to Paris. In his letter from 10 February 1934, Lacoste first of all reiterated the gratitude he had already expressed a few days prior, for the deputy’s “great support,” meaning the recommendation of his application for naturalization as a French citizen, “which had finally come to a good end.” Secondly, he congratulated the deputy for his nomination into the government. This was not just a way of returning the favor. He also actually expressed his support for Marin, who seems to have confided in him during an “audience.” At least, that was how Lacoste interpreted the conversation they had a year before. He reminded Marin of his complaint about “the weakness of the public opinion,” and reassured the deputy that the tables had now turned. Confident that notre France had found its way and its destiny again, he praised the bons Français who would partake in this revival. There was no doubt that he counted Marin among them.30 A naturalization, however, was not enough to become a true French citizen, which is what Marie Hantz from Nancy realized and complained about in her letter from April 1936. The deputy was known as a defender of women’s suffrage, which “ordinary,” unorganized women only rarely requested in the letters they addressed to him (cf. Chapter 7, under the deputy-star). In the case of Marie Hantz, a combination of her recent naturalization and her awareness of the content of Marin’s political program seem to have triggered her expectations to be able to do something with her newly acquired French nationality. Despite her German name, Hantz emphasized that she had become française de droit, while she already was française de cœur. This made her hope that she could soon deposit her own ballot in the box. Although she left no doubt about wanting to vote for Marin, it also became clear that it would be a deliberate choice. She praised the deputy’s impartial and just ideas that had marked his speech in front of the Republican Federation in Nancy, of which she had read the account. Luckily, she wrote, many of his compatriots shared these ideas. This made her hopeful for a better future for France, where Marin (“deputy of our department”) could see his patriotic aspirations fulfilled. Hantz considered herself a patriot and a complete French citizen too; these identifications only had to be recognized in the near future.31

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French women did not get the vote until 1944 (and in practice even until 1945), and thus officially had no say in the rules they had to live by. Nonetheless, in their private correspondence with a deputy, they expected their voice to carry the same weight as the voice of their male counterparts. It seemed self-evident to them that the deputy would apply himself as diligently to their cases as to those of (future) Frenchmen. Regarding Dumesnil, for instance, citizens seemed to consider it more important to know the deputy or to have met him in person, than to be able to offer him their vote. Therefore, it is not surprising that some requests about naturalization addressed to Dumesnil came from women who wrote on behalf of their husbands. In October 1932, Mrs. Antoine Pawlik acted as an intermediary for her Polish husband, a brickmaker who lived in France since 1923, whereas Mrs. Lattard corresponded with Dumesnil for almost a year and a half (1930–1932) on behalf of her husband. In the case of the Lattard family, who did not live in Seine-et-Marne, but in the Rhône-department, it becomes clear that her link to Dumesnil’s family was the most important reason for her to turn to him. (Her parents lived in Larchant and befriended the deputy’s mother. Lattard remembered having spent afternoons in Mrs. Dumesnil’s garden and having played tennis with his sister, this sister’s daughter and late son.) Mr. Lattard, who had the Swiss nationality since his move to Geneva in his childhood, spoke French and was most likely literate enough to contact the deputy himself. However, he was going to address his contacts at the Prefecture of the Rhône, while his wife secretly asked Dumesnil to support his application, to surprise him.32 What citizens considered to be reasonable, logical, or just, was strongly related to how they perceived themselves as citizens. Right after the war, male and female religious workers saw their chance to identify themselves explicitly as good French citizens who held high the values of the Republic that framed them as outsiders. As already briefly referred to in Chapter 7 about the “sacralized deputy,” Jeanne d’Arc was a “French” as well as a “Catholic” symbol through which those who, in theory, did not meet the requirements for being a good republican citizen, could still appropriate this French citizenship. In this context, religious worker A. Dommerguer, who was nominated in September 1921 by Minister of Justice Bonnevay as an honorary chaplain of the Parisian prisons, identified as a good Frenchman. He thanked Bonnevay for this unexpected honor, of which he claimed to be worthy, because he had devoted himself for 31 years with love to his duty as a priest and a “man of mercy in a

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house of suffering” (i.e., in the Parisian women’s hospital-prison SaintLazare). In his opinion, mercy was the “compassionate supplement to Justice,” and was therefore “as French as Justice itself.” By making it his job to show compassion, Dommerguer considered himself to be a good Frenchman and the opposite of a German, because Germans (“and Nietzsche more than others”) “with their geometrical minds” saw mercy as a weakness, according to him. “Us Frenchmen,” on the contrary, were proud of this noble quality to be at the same time compassionate and brave à la mode de Jeanne d’Arc, to whom he compared himself. She was the ideal French citizen in his view, because she embodied the “French” values of compassion and bravery. At the end of his letter, Dommerguer apologized for his writing style, that was not very “administrative,” as he called it, admitting that he did not know how to write in such a style. He probably deemed his apology necessary because he wrote to a Minister.33 A deputy without a governmental mandate was usually more accessible, and letters to députés often had traits of letters to patrons, friends, or Ministers, or all of them combined. Most letters in the studied files did not comply with what Dommerguer would call an “administrative” writing style, although they nonetheless contained some standard expressions, as seen in Chapter 3. The form of address did not necessarily reveal what the letter-writers might have thought was the deputy’s most important role. Those who saw their cher Maître in Marin were his former pupils, who referred to his teaching activity and not to his background in law.34 In comparison, some notaries and attorneys addressed Bonnevay as a Maître in their letters to him, which is not surprising given their shared background.35 More remarkable in his case is the appearance of this same form of address in applications for his recommendations. Those requests came from “ordinary” citizens, who did not have a career in law, such as Benoît Grataloup, installer at the railway station of Saint-Victor in Thizy, and Hippolyte Nicollet, mailman from Chambost-Allières (as well as the aforementioned E. Fouvre from Amplepuis and Hubert Thonnerieux from Saint-Victorsur-Rhins).36 In the letter he wrote in January 1906, Grataloup did not necessarily appeal to Bonnevay as a lawyer by calling him M[aîtr]e. The man just did not seem to have been a confident writer, as he used multiple titles to refer to the deputy. He only wanted to make sure to cover all of Bonnevay’s fields of expertise and influence, by addressing him as M[aîtr]e Bonnevay conseiller g[énér]al, Député du Rhone [sic], sécraitaire [sic] de la chambre des députés, Monsieur le Député.”

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Indeed, it was this combination of roles and connections that could give Bonnevay the leverage to make a recommendation count, although the letter-writer in this case especially needed Bonnevay’s local networks, and more specifically his influence on the manager of the P.L.M. railway company. Some other letter-writers too, like Nicollet, only seemed to think of Maître as a formal stylistic element, as the most suitable way to address the deputy, but not as the role that they necessarily expected him to embody the most. Somewhere in May 1928, Nicollet wrote a letter to Maître Laurent Bonnevay, Député du Rhône à Paris to appeal to the latter’s “kind intervention” (and thus to ask for a recommendation) toward the regional postmaster in Lyon. Here, the attribution of Maître did not refer to Bonnevay’s membership of the bar at all.37 Several other letters, in contrast, which addressed Bonnevay differently (i.e., without a literal reference to his background as a lawyer) revealed that the supplicants who wrote them in fact really counted on him as their attorney. At least some citizens expected Bonnevay and Dumesnil to take on their lawsuit, which both of them tried to pass onto colleagues, as it ran counter to the ideal of an impartial deputy addressed in Chapter 6.

Lawsuits and Conflicts of Interest Both educated as lawyers, Bonnevay and Dumesnil were contacted for legal advice, but in other domains than Groussau, such as in family or neighborhood quarrels and accidents. However, they refused to act as an official attorney for citizens of their district, to avoid conflicts of interest. This decision to pass lawsuits onto colleagues was positive for all persons concerned: the député was still engaged (yet, out of the picture) by giving advice to the lawyer whom he had appointed or recommended to replace him. That way the client would have a maximum chance of success with their sometimes delicate case. The deputy, in return, could count on support from the grateful lawyers he had recommended. Very early in Bonnevay’s career as a député, Clovis Chavanis (who already seemed well-known in 1902 as the deputy’s right-hand man in Ranchal) advised him against intervening as a lawyer for a destitute female laborer. Nonetheless, according to Chavanis, Miss Doujoux deserved “justice.” While she was already poor, she had fallen victim to intrigues that had pushed her into even deeper misery. Despite her alleged deservingness of support, Bonnevay did not take the matter into his own hands, but passed it onto a colleague, Maître Bœuf in Villefranche. Chavanis,

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who acted as the intermediary between the deputy and the woman on the one hand, and the deputy and attorney on the other, admitted in his letter of thanks that he had purposely left out the last part of Bœuf’s communication to the deputy, in which the lawyer asked Bonnevay if he would not prefer to plead himself. No matter how just Chavanis thought the case was, he clarified that he did not want to see the deputy getting caught up in it, because its outcome could discredit him (i.e., toward the voters). Yet, the case turned out successful, which was what Bonnevay wished to remember about it. This becomes clear from his summary about the situation, featured in his correspondence file about l’histoire, l’opinion et les mœurs sous la Troisième République. First, he highlighted how far Miss Doujoux had walked, with only 2F in her pockets, to find help. Secondly, he mentioned that he had appointed a lawyer who made her win a lawsuit awarding her damages of 300F.38 In such personal legal cases, both Bonnevay and Dumesnil used to recommend one or two lawyers from the area to take up the citizen’s defense. Bonnevay, for example, referred personal cases such as divorces to René Nouvellet, a lawyer from Lyon, or to Louis Laval, an attorney from Villefranche, who were very thankful that the deputy-confrère provided them with work.39 Dumesnil usually referred his supplicants to Jean Susini (in the first place), or a certain Hecquet (in the second), both legal advisors from Fontainebleau. A good example in this respect is that of Georges Dadé, a mechanic from Égreville (Fontainebleau), whose stray dog had caused a fatal car accident. The driver of the van that was implicated in the accident, merchant Drouard from Nemours (Fontainebleau), had managed to avoid the dog crossing the road, but in doing so, he had run over a person who did not survive. Dadé feared that the insurance company would come after him, since Drouard held him responsible as the dog’s owner. He thus appealed to Dumesnil, because he did not consider himself to have the intellectual capacities nor the means to properly defend himself against an insurance company. On behalf of the député, Dumesnil’s secretary sent Dadé an excerpt from the civil code, stating that an animal owner was responsible for the damages caused by their animals. Therefore, she/Dumesnil advised the man to find eyewitnesses who could testify that the accident was somehow not the dog’s fault. The deputy recommended either Susini or Hecquet to counsel him.40 For some disputes, the député can thus be seen as the primary (yet unofficial) legal advisor, who offered important information and then

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referred to his colleagues. Still, he also stayed on top of some lawsuits behind the scenes. Because he knew the lawyers and even addressed them as “friends,” the deputy could easily inform himself about the progress of a certain case, and maybe even exert some pressure to obtain a quick outcome. It seems unlikely, however, that citizens were really aware of this particular network. Rather than for his contacts with a certain attorney, they wrote to him on the assumption that he could take care of their case instead. Raymond Blanchard from Château-Landon (Fontainebleau) contacted Dumesnil, requesting him to intervene toward the Chair of the Court of Melun, because he had not been entirely compensated yet for a car accident, a case in which Susini had taken up his defense. Did Blanchard know the influence Dumesnil could exert on his lawyer? Or did he expect Dumesnil to take over as the influential deputy-lawyer he was? Probably the latter, because the man suspected Susini to be too busy, and hoped that the deputy would be able to obtain a satisfying result on shorter notice. The député encouraged Susini to “do what was needed” in order for Blanchard to “obtain satisfaction as soon as possible.” However, Blanchard did not seem to have told him the whole truth. His lawyer explained to Dumesnil that the man had recently been declared bankrupt and was in debt. Therefore, part of Blanchard’s compensation had to be used to pay off his debts, without making his wife the victim of this misery. As he was trying to deal with these payments, Susini asked the deputy to tell Blanchard to trust him, which Dumesnil did. In sum, the parliamentary representative did not take on legal cases of his correspondents himself, but he sometimes acted as an intermediary between the supplicant and the attorneys he befriended.41 In addition, he employed his colleague Jean Lemaire, avocat à la cour d’appel de Paris, at his subsequent cabinets of the Navy and the Air force, and counted on him afterward to be a legal advisor for his supplicants. Such was the case for Odile Bonté, who wished to contract a loan from the Caisse agricole.42 Even more so than Dumesnil, Bonnevay seems to have remained involved in some lawsuits by continuing to offer his help; yet, always behind the scenes. In 1902, he advised widow Musset on how to throw off the yoke of her brothers from Villefranche-sur-Saône, who had her at their beck and call. She highly valued Bonnevay’s personal responses (without the mediation of a secretary) and the letter he had dictated to her. Although it remains uncertain what this letter was about exactly, it is clear that Musset had decided for herself not to be bossed around by her brothers anymore. She had, however, been unable to find the words

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and strength to actually free herself. The deputy offered her these words quite literally, by saying what she should write.43 In another case, much later in Bonnevay’s career, in June 1932, baker G. Dagain from Ternand (Villefranche-sur-Saône) informed the deputy about the outcome of his lawsuit, while thanking him for the effort to help him with it. The man was sure he owed a large part of his success to the deputy. Unfortunately, his letter of thanks does not reveal whether he attributed this success to Bonnevay’s influence on the Court of Appeal of Lyon, or to his advice, which had paid off.44 In any case, if the letter-writers deserved (legal) support, both Bonnevay and Dumesnil thus made sure to offer it behind the scenes, outside the lawsuit, and let another lawyer defend the applicants in court. During wartime, lawsuits were even more delicate and precarious to the deputy’s image. Communications concerning a few particular cases from this period created alternative roles for the deputy, such as Bonnevay’s role as a disappointed father figure toward Marius Tricaud, who had deserted for four months of the war. In his letter from October 1915 (sent from the warfront and thus from before his desertion), Tricaud informed Bonnevay of how they had managed to win the day against the Boches. Although he had contracted an injury, he still seemed motivated to avenge his friends. The familiar tone of this letter (signed: votre petit Poilu) gave Bonnevay the opportunity in March 1916 to act betrayed when learning about Tricaud’s desertion. Whereas the man’s first letter had made him proud, the next one disappointed him. By asking how he could have done such a thing, Bonnevay expressed his fatherly disillusion. He hoped that the man would have the right attitude and would ask in court to be allowed to go back to the front to make up for his mistake. The case of Tricaud, who initially asked Bonnevay on 6 March 1916 to defend him as his lawyer before the court-martial, nuances the image of clientelist exchanges between citizens and deputies. Bonnevay could not openly defend the man, and therefore passed his case onto a colleague. This allowed him to reprimand the man instead. Rather than a clientelist exchange, their communication was a matter of moral guidance, although Tricaud appears to have been so burdened by his guilty conscience and by bearing the stigma of a coward that he wanted to go back to the front himself anyway. He accepted the deputy’s fatherly advice and even asked him for forgiveness. Although Bonnevay had not taken on his defense, the man was still grateful, because the député seemed to have forgiven him. (At least he had responded to Tricaud’s letter.) As a token of his gratitude

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for Bonnevay’s kindness, the man sent dried lilies-from-the-valley to the deputy from the warzone he was mobilized in.45 Regarding a different lawsuit that took place during the last months of the war, Bonnevay appears to have been much more personally involved in an “ordinary” citizen’s defense. Although important records are missing from the correspondence files, it becomes clear that widow MontibertGoujon from Lamure-sur-Azergues received help finding a compromise with the insurance company of her husband’s employer (Colin from SaintNizier-d’Azergues). Her husband was a farmer who had died at work and left her with financial problems. For this particular case, Maître F. Bal was appointed as her attorney by the Bureau of Legal Assistance. Since the Bureau had given him an empty case file, it was impossible for him to defend Montibert properly, especially since she had not responded to his request for information. Bonnevay explained the case to him. Because of the gaps in the source material, it is unclear whether he provided the information at Bal’s or someone else’s request, or at his own initiative. The information he transmitted reveals that the employer of the deceased had only contracted the insurance policy at his own expense, which meant that a payment to the widow could not be enforced and would consequently be a deed of charity. The insurance company had already given 1200F to Bonnevay to pass onto Mrs. Montibert as a compromise. Therefore, it was the deputy’s turn to ask the lawyer for advice on how to proceed. As it did not seem likely that the widow could get much else out of it, Bal thought that the best way to go about it would be to agree with the transaction of the money. He was sure she would accept the offer, since she was poor. Indeed, in her letter to Bonnevay, Mrs. Montibert said that she agreed with the settlement of 1200F, because the attorney and the deputy himself had advised her to do so. Instead of counting on her lawyer to wrap up the case, she asked Bonnevay to take care of the deal between her and the insurance company, apparently not knowing that the deputy was already in possession of the money and was expected to complete the transaction. Why was Bonnevay so involved in this particular case? Was the widow perhaps related to Lazare Goujon, socialist party member since the foundation of the SFIO? Back then, Goujon was not yet appointed as the mayor of Villeurbanne (Lyon), nor was he a député yet, but Bonnevay probably knew him already as a doctor from his area. How well he knew Mrs. Montibert-Goujon, however, remains unclear. His language did not

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reveal a close connection, but it is certain that he knew Montibert’s particular situation very well, so well that (off the record) he acted as a legal mediator for the different parties involved in this case. He not only gave information to her attorney, but came into possession of the money for the settlement. While he advised the widow to accept it but to use it sparingly, he recommended the insurance company to suggest installments instead of paying out the entire sum at once, fearing that she would squander it all in no time. (Apparently, Bonnevay had discussed the issue with E. Poncet, a farmer from Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues, who called the deceased mon excellent Montibert, mon loyal serviteur.)46 Whereas Maître Bal clearly counted on the deputy’s knowledge as a lawyer, the insurance company counted on his expertise concerning (life) insurances and social precaution in the Chamber, in public debates as well as in parliamentary committees, and especially as the chair of the Commission d’assurance et de prévoyance sociales.47 Hence, although it would seem improper for a deputy to become so tied up in a juridical case, it was logical to be called in by insurance companies (behind the scenes) as an expert and mediator in the field. In addition, Bonnevay was not just expected to intervene in difficult ongoing legal cases, but also to give advice on how to avoid a lawsuit. Together with this role as an advisor and an expert, several other roles coincided. The perception of Bonnevay’s multilayered image surfaces most obviously in the letter of E. Desmur, textile factory worker from the village of Cours. On 1 September 1908, the letter-writer contacted Bonnevay to ask him whether it would cause (legal) problems to publish as postcards photos of a protest against the municipality of Cours dating from 27 August 1908 (Fig. 8.1). Unfortunately, it is unclear to which part of the mayor’s policy the protests were addressed. Photography did not seem to have been Desmur’s main activity, as he linked his name to the blanket and flannel factory of the Poizat brothers, an important employer in the neighborhood and in the region’s textile industry. He merely seems to have taken the photos out of political interest, and perhaps also with the intention of making some money from their publication and diffusion. In his request for advice, Desmur, first of all, recognized Bonnevay’s most important role, being that of a deputy who represented a very specific district. His form of address contained an exceptionally detailed description of the boundaries of this representation: Monsieur Bonnevay, Député de la 2 e Circonscription de Villefranche à Lyon, Monsieur le Député. In the close of his letter, the man identified

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Fig. 8.1 “Protest against the municipal council of Cours on 27 August 1908.” Photos taken by E. Desmur (factory worker from Cours, supporter of Bonnevay and adversary of the mayor) and sent as postcards to L. Bonnevay on 22 and 27-09-1908, Archives Départementales du Rhône, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J, file 22; (public domain)

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himself as “one of your many admirers.” From the beginning and close, in combination with the overall composition of the letter, we can derive that the man had good knowledge of Bonnevay’s political orientation and sphere of influence, which he clearly supported. Secondly, on the postcards he sent Bonnevay at the end of the month to thank him for his reply, Desmur more obviously acknowledged the deputy’s role as a lawyer, again through his form of address, this time being Mr. L. Bonnevay, Avocat. Given the type of information he had received, this was indeed an appropriate way to address Bonnevay. Desmur wanted to be entirely sure that the municipality could not find any reason to take legal action against him for selling these politicized postcards. After Bonnevay’s reply that Desmur could go ahead, because the public distribution of the photos was not at all dangerous or defamatory, the latter sent the député the actual postcards, thanking him for his advice (Fig. 8.1). Thirdly, Desmur not only appealed to Bonnevay as a deputy-lawyer, but also and more implicitly to his local ties as a general councilor, who must have known notre célèbre Maire. Here, the letter-writer referred to the so-called infamous new mayor Philibert Corneloup, whom he suspected of wanting to try anything to forbid the publication and diffusion of the postcards. That is why the man wished to be absolutely sure he could not be sued, appealing to deputy-lawyer Bonnevay, since they both knew what kind of a person Corneloup was. To draw the lines between “we” versus “him,” and thus of their in-group, excluding Corneloup, Desmur stressed the difference in ideology between the mayor and the deputy, while siding with the latter.48 Clearly, Bonnevay and Dumesnil’s role as deputy-lawyers was determined locally and individually: those who appealed to this function usually belonged to their constituency and contacted them with a very particular case that was not always easily generalizable. Correspondence between L. Dagneaux from Bois-le-Roi (in Dumesnil’s voting district) and Dumesnil, dating from February–March 1930, reveals the deputy’s unofficial juridical engagement in a delicate personal situation. Dagneaux wished to know how the legal last will of his brother (who had died recently in a car accident) could be revoked on grounds of the latter’s mental illness. The deceased, who had been declared one hundred percent disabled because of manic psychosis (contracted during the war), disinherited the letter-writer and another brother in favor of their eldest brother. Dagneaux asked Dumesnil for very specific information about the official

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diagnosis of his brother. In his reply, the deputy gave him legal advice on what to expect, but also agreed to discuss the situation in person. Thus, even more surprising than the citizens’ expectation that the député would intervene in such a personal situation (which did not have anything to do with politics) is the representative’s responsiveness to it. Requests for his unofficial interventions in juridical “misunderstandings” were, in other words, effective. In case he could solve their problems out of the public eye, Dumesnil tried to intervene himself by using his legal knowledge and his influence on local politicians (a mayor and/or the department’s prefect). That way, he could, at short notice, help some desperate citizens who were clearly from “his” district. Paul Périgault was one of these seemingly lost causes, who won in the end, thanks to the deputy’s intervention. The man had had an accident during his job as a driver for Hermant in Fontainebleau, and was about to lose his driver’s license, which in turn would lead to his dismissal. However, the accident was not his fault, so his father explained in a letter to Dumesnil; he had only avoided a greater accident (viz., running over a cyclist), by breaking the traffic rules. Still, Paul Périgault had to present himself at the Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne, on 29 June 1933, for the withdrawal of his driver’s license. Therefore, his father, Léon Périgault, asked Dumesnil (on 17 June) if he could use his power to avoid this from happening. He clarified that he was Dumesnil’s voter in Fontainebleau, which he had been for five years already, just like his son. That was supposed to explain why he took the liberty to ask the député for this favor. Léon Périgault wished that he would have been capable to do this in person (in Fontainebleau), but he was driving through Moselle at that moment for his work.49 In a letter from 30 June 1933, the SecretaryGeneral of the Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne wrote to the deputy that he had dropped the case, because of Dumesnil’s intervention.50 The deputy’s influence cannot be attributed to a portfolio in the government, because he did not have a ministerial mandate in the examples above. Furthermore, Dagneaux and Périgault’s requests did not have anything to do with the député’s previous governmental work, nor with politics in general. Nevertheless, Dumesnil seems to have been prepared to contribute to a solution when being called in to solve juridical cases, by investing himself personally in trying to unravel the matter behind the scenes. Since delicate cases like Dagneaux’ often appear to have been discussed on his consultation days, it is impossible to describe the actual steps the deputy had taken, based on what is left in his correspondence

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files.51 What these files do tell us is that Dumesnil often intervened in juridical cases, though not officially as the citizen’s lawyer. Bonnevay sometimes refused to be a party to similar cases, when he was unable to reconcile them with his conscience (especially during the war).This different approach becomes clear in a comparison between two similar requests for help concerning accusations of milk fraud. In Dumesnil’s case, Raymond Billard from Bougligny asked the deputy (in 1930) when he was planning to hold his jours de réceptions in Larchant, as he wished to talk about a matter that had been causing him trouble for days. The letters that followed from their appointment at the townhall in Fontainebleau indicate that Billard’s wife had to appear in court on suspicion of milk fraud (i.e., selling milk diluted with water). To help his constituent, Dumesnil intervened toward the Procureur de la République à Fontainebleau, asking him to treat the case favorably, on grounds of mitigating circumstances.52 The example to compare this response to comes from Bonnevay’s war correspondence files. Marie Gerboud (Mrs. Devenoille) from Saint-Romain-de-Popey (in Bonnevay’s constituency) reached out to him on 1 January 1916 to explain why the inspector had caught her and her son on 24 December 1915 on the verge of selling diluted milk that was supposed to be transported to Lyon. Gerboud claims that this mistake had been caused by an inadvertence of her son, who had used the milk pots she had cleaned the night before, without realizing that they still contained some water residue. As their fraud had been unintentional, Gerboud hoped for Bonnevay’s benevolence and support, to back up her statement toward the anti-fraud services of Lyon. Below her signature, the mayor’s delegate, Cornus, vouched for her goodwill, stating that she should be supported. Nonetheless, Bonnevay apparently did not want to get involved, as he decided to respond with a plain and simple acknowledgment of receipt (accus[é] de réception pure [sic] et simple).53 The war can partly explain his reticence. This was the period during which Bonnevay made clearer than ever that he could not give preferential treatment to people from his constituency (cf. Chapter 4). He could not simply recommend constituents for military leave and postponements of military service. In the same vein, allowances were subject to strict regulations too. In sum, whereas Dumesnil seems to have responded favorably to most requests coming from his constituents, Bonnevay appears to have been more careful in his treatment of appeals of which he could not be completely certain that they were morally justifiable. Nevertheless, the

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personal involvement of both deputies in these personal cases (behind the scenes) was remarkable. Although the letter-writers’ expectations concerning their député’s engagement in their lawsuit may come across as unrealistic or completely out of place, the responsiveness of the deputylawyer or –legal advisor (co-)created and fueled these expectations.

Notes 1. Le Béguec counts 28.89% in 1906 and 28.55% in the Chamber of 1919, cf. Gilles Le Béguec, “Prélude à la République des avocats,” in Les immortels du Sénat, 1875–1918, ed. Alain Corbin and JeanMarie Mayeur (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 1995), 81–82. 2. Laurent Willemez, “La ‘République des avocats’. 1848: le mythe, le modèle et son endossement,” in La profession politique, XIXeXXe siècles, ed. Michel Offerlé (Paris: Belin, 1999), 201–29. 3. Agulhon, La République au village, as referred to by Willemez, “La ‘République des avocats,’” 228–29. 4. Pierre, Traité, 1914, 439: 342 bis: Il est inutile de dire qu’aucune incompatibilité n’existe entre le mandat de député et la profession d’avocat. 5. “Letter from A. Truffaut from Willems to H.-C. Groussau,” 0807-1910, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 38. 6. “Letter from the bishop of Blois to H.-C. Groussau,” 08-091912, idem, file 64; “Projet de loi portant désaffectation partielle de l’église de Séris (Loir-et-Cher),” Impressions: projets de lois, propositions, rapports, etc., Chambre des députés 2192, 12-07-1912. 7. “Letters from father J. Christophe from Séris to H.-C. Groussau,” 09-09-1912 to 22-03-1914, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 64; “Undated note from the parliamentary office to H.-C. Groussau,” (02-1913), idem; “Preliminary notes from H.-C. Groussau for the meeting of the Committee of General Administration,” 06-021913, idem; JO Débats Chambre, 03-07-1914, 2695; “Projet de loi portant désaffectation partielle de l’église de Séris (Loir-et-Cher),” Impressions Chambre 334, 10-07-1914. 8. This nuances the evolution of Groussau’s role as described by Bernard Ménager, cf. Ménager, “Constant Groussau,” 315–27. 9. “Letter from abbot E. Bourgeois from Loos-lez-Lille (Nord) to H.-C. Groussau,” 28-07-1920, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45.

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10. Baubérot, Histoire, 93. 11. “Letter from N. Audrain, Mother Superior of the Fidèles Compagnes de Jésus from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 07-12-1923, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45. 12. In French historiography, this deputy-mayor of Bayonne is most well-known for his complicity in a major corruption case of 1934 (the Stavisky affair), cf. Paul Jankowski, Cette vilaine affaire Stavisky: histoire d’un scandale politique (Paris: Fayard, 2000). 13. “Letters from Sœur Agnès de Jésus, Mother Superior of the Ursulines of Pau to H.-C. Groussau,” 08 and 13-08-1924, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 45. 14. “Draft response from H.-C. Groussau from Versailles to Sœur Agnès de Jésus from Pau,” 15-08-1924, idem. 15. “Letter from G. Beguès, almoner of the Visitation in Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 09-11-1913, idem, file 36. 16. “Letters from E. Villette from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 04 and 10-11-1903, 17-12-1903, and 04-01-1904, idem, file 38. 17. JO Débats Chambre, 02-02-1904, 221. 18. Idem, 23-02-1904, 478. 19. “Letter from E. Villette from Paris to H.-C. Groussau,” 16-021905, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 38. In the end, the Lazarists formed one of the authorized congregations, thanks to their international missions, and thus to their representation of France abroad, cf. Jérôme Bocquet, “Les lois anticongréganistes et leurs effets au Levant,” in Le Grand Exil des congrégations religieuses françaises. 1901–1914, ed. Patrick Cabanel and JeanDominique Durand (Paris: Éditions du CERF, 2005), 388; and Baubérot, Histoire, 80. 20. For example: “Letter from the Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts to H.-C. Groussau,” 26-09-1931, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 123. 21. “Letter from A. Franton, probably from La Rochelle (CharenteMaritime) to H.-C. Groussau,” 27-02-1912, idem, file 42. 22. “Letter from vicar-general Barthe from La Rochelle (CharenteMaritime) to H.-C. Groussau,” 17-02-1912, idem. 23. “Draft letter from H.-C. Groussau at the Chamber of Deputies to Maurice Berteaux, Minister of War,” 26-04-1911, idem. “Reply from Maurice Berteaux, Minister of War to H.-C. Groussau in Versailles,” 05-05-1911, idem.

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24. For example: “Letter from Father B. Cordonnier residing in Berrechid (Morocco) to H.-C. Groussau,” 16-03-1908, idem; “Letter from vicar apostolic De Simard de Pitray(?) from SaintSulpice-et-Cameyrac (Gironde) to H.-C. Groussau,” 17-01-1914, idem. 25. “Letter from Father B. Cordonnier residing in Berrechid (Morocco) to H.-C. Groussau,” 16-03-1908, idem; “Letter from abbot C. Combes from Nemours (Fontainebleau) to H.-C. Groussau,” 10-07-1909, idem; “Letter from V. Paumier residing in Settat (Morocco) to H.-C. Groussau,” 16-04-1913, idem. 26. “Letters from Father B. Cordonnier either from Marseille (1908) or from a place in Morocco (Rabat, Oujda or Casablanca, 1908– 1910), or Chalon-sur-Saône (1912–1913) to H.-C. Groussau,” 1908–1913, idem. 27. Idem (from Rabat), 04-07-1930. 28. Groussau’s Catholic ideology, for example, was highlighted more prominently, cf. “Letter from H. Mahieu from Erquinghem-Lys (Lille) to H.-C. Groussau,” 30-01-1928, ADN, Papiers Groussau, J 474, file 15. 29. “Letter from A. Hartman from Nancy to L. Marin,” 20-05-1915, ADMM, Papiers Marin, 26 J, file 474. 30. “Letter from A. Lacoste from Paris to L. Marin,” 10-02-1936, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 237. 31. “Letter from Ms. M. Hantz from Nancy to L. Marin,” 27-041936, idem, file 242. 32. “Letter from Mrs. Pawlik from Salins (Provins, Seine-et-Marne) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 23-10-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 28; “Letters from Mrs. Lattard from Tassin-la-Demi-Lune (Lyon) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 25-07-1930 to 06-01-1932, idem, file 26; “Draft letters from J.-L. Dumesnil to Mrs. Lattard and to the consecutive Minister of Justice,” 04-10-1930 to 18-01-1932, idem. 33. “Letter from A. Dommerguer from Paris to L. Bonnevay (as Minister of Justice),” 18-10-1921, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 37. 34. For example: “Letter from Ms. L. Benéton from Brive-la-Gaillarde (Corrèze) to L. Marin,” 18-04-1924, AN, Fonds Marin, 317AP, file 236; “Undated card from nun Marie Germaine, headmistress of

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L’Immaculée in Toulouse (Haute-Garonne), to L. Marin,” (1932), idem, file 241. 35. For example: “Letter from J.-B. Vercherin from Lamure-surAzergues (Rhône) to L. Bonnevay,” 24-12-1912, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 23; “Letter from L. Rollet from Lyon (but in Donzère, Drôme at the time of his writing) to L. Bonnevay,” 10-04-1922, idem, file 24/I; “Card from A. Peiron (from ?) to L. Bonnevay,” 08-01-1932, idem, file 24/II. 36. “Letter from B. Grataloup from Tizy (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 04-01-1906, idem, file 22. 37. “Letter from H. Nicollet from Chambost-Allières (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 05-1928, idem, file 24/I. 38. “Letters from C. Chavanis from Ranchal (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay, summarized by the latter” 02-08 and 28-09-1902, idem, file 31. 39. “Letters from R. Nouvellet from Lyon to L. Bonnevay,” 21-05, 09-07 and 26-10-1928, idem, file 24/I; “Letter from Louis Laval from Villefranche-sur-Saône to L. Bonnevay,” 19-04-1934, idem, file 25/I. 40. “Letter from G. Dadé from Égreville (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 26-05-1932, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 22, “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil’s secretary to G. Dadé,” 15-06-1932, idem. 41. “Letter from R. Blanchard from Château-Landon to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 31-03-1930, idem, file 20; “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil (from London) to J. Susini,” 14-04-1930, idem, “Letter from J. Susini from Fontainebleau to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 15-041930, idem; “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil to R. Blanchard,” 23-04-1930, idem. 42. JO Lois et décrets 62, no. 64 (15-03-1930): 2852: Lemaire as attaché au cabinet of the Navy; JO Lois et décrets 63, no. 28 (02-02-1931), 1364: Lemaire as sous-chef du cabinet of the Air force; “Letter from J.-L. Dumesnil’s secretary to O. Bonté from Amponville (Fontainebleau),” 13-05-1933, ADSM, Fonds Dumesnil, 72 J , file 20. 43. “Letter from widow Musset from Lamure-sur-Azergues (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 14-10-1902, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22.

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44. “Letter from G. Dagain from Ternand (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 09-06-1932, idem, file 24/II. 45. “Correspondence between M. Tricaud from Les Olmes (Villefranche-sur-Saône) and L. Bonnevay,” from 01-10-1915 to 05-05-1916, idem, file 23 (containing the dried flowers mentioned above as well). 46. “Letters from F. Bal from Villefranche-sur-Saône to widow Montibert-Goujon from Saint-Nizier-d’Azergues,” 03-09-1918, idem, file 76; “Letters from F. Bal to L. Bonnevay,” 30-09 and 1910-1918, idem; “Letters from widow Montibert to L. Bonnevay,” 24-10 and 02-11-1918; “Letter from M. Beroud from Cublize to L. Bonnevay,” 11-10-1910, idem; “Letter from E. Poncet from Saint-Nizier d’Azergues to L. Bonnevay,” 26-10-1918, idem; “Letter from the head of the insurance company La Préservatrice from Paris to L. Bonnevay,” 28-10-1918, idem; “Draft responses and copies of letters from L. Bonnevay to F. Bal, E. Poncet, M. Beroud, and widow Montibert,” 15, 22, 27 and 29-10-1918, idem. 47. Assemblée Nationale, “Bonnevay. Base de données des députés.” 48. “Letter and postcards from E. Desmur from Cours (Villefranchesur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01, 22 and 27-09-1908, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 22. 49. “Letter from L. Périgault, temporarily residing in Basse-Yutz (Moselle) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 17-06-1933, ADSM , Fonds Dumesnil, file 28. 50. “Letter from the Secretary-General of the Prefecture of Seine-etMarne to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 30-06-1933, idem. 51. “Correspondence between L. Dagneaux (Bois-le-Roi, Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 22-02 and 01-03-1930, idem, file 22. 52. “Letter from R. Billard from Bougligny (Fontainebleau) to J.-L. Dumesnil,” 16-08 to 05-12-1930, idem, file 20. 53. “Letter from M. Gerboud (Mrs. Devenoille) from Saint-Romainde-Popey (Villefranche-sur-Saône) to L. Bonnevay,” 01-01-1916, ADR, Fonds Bonnevay, 10 J , file 69/I.

CHAPTER 9

Conclusion to Part II

Only by breaking down the deputy’s image into the categories interactively constructed by and with “ordinary” citizens can the different aspects of the actual practice and grassroots perception of representation be brought to the surface. Although not every facet is equally applicable to each député, as it was not equally supported by all layers of the population either, such nuances help understand the mechanisms behind the paradoxes of the regime. Central to Part II was the paradox of representation of the nation: theoretically and ideally, the deputy had to represent the nation in its entirety, but in reality, he was the sole representative of a specific district (apart from the period of departmental list voting between 1919 and 1928). This paradox was not something citizens were merely subject to in their capacity as voters abiding by electoral laws. It was the result of interactions between députés and “ordinary” men and women. Voters and non-voters directly or indirectly clarified what representation meant to them, by appealing to different aspects of the deputy’s image. Although the four studied representatives were all seen as impartial and republican parliamentarians, protectors of their supplicants, and expertintermediaries (especially as lawyers, but also as members of parliamentary committees), the perceptions citizens had of these shared “standard” roles differed from one député to the other. The interpretation of Marin’s image as a deputy-savior and its escalation into a “cult” was frequently linked to his successes in parliament © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0_9

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and the government (in the interest of the Lorraine region) as well as to his role as a tutor or coach. Dumesnil’s image as a benefactor, in contrast, often turned into that of a deputy-friend who tried to solve his constituents’ very personal issues. Although Bonnevay’s “benefactions” for his individual constituents seem to have been relatively similar to Dumesnil’s, the deputy for the Rhône was not that frequently mistaken for a friend. His protective and advisory role was more broadly linked to his defense of a certain class (of poor working people) and their (health care) organizations, which could on rare occasions escalate into his image as an “apostle” or “angel” of this class. Groussau’s case was quite different, as he mainly derived his role as a deputy-savior from his legal expertise concerning religious matters and his consequent defense of the rights of French Catholics to practice their religion. Clearly, citizens did not merely acknowledge the official roles of the députés they contacted, such as committee work, ministerial mandates, or the combination of national and local mandates in the cases of Bonnevay, Marin, and Dumesnil (as deputy-general councilors). They especially referred to one or more roles that could help them justify their own personal question. What illustrates the discrepancy between the député’s official and perceived responsibilities the best is the case of Groussau. His passive correspondence helps nuance his interwar image, which the existing historiography, so far, has derived from institutional documents. These public sources show an evolution from his fervent defense of Catholicism to a focus on his representation of the northern department and the liberated regions in general.1 His correspondents, in contrast, kept combining and attributing both roles to legitimize their requests. Until Groussau’s death, most letter-writers who contacted him still highly valued his expertise in legal-religious matters, and his defense of congregants in particular. Moreover, the deputies of all four cases often seem to have responded to the letters in ways that exceeded their mere representative task. This, again, testifies to the negotiated aspect of their roles. The letter-writers’ co-construction of a député’s image paradoxically helped extend it beyond mere parliamentary representation while at the same time narrowing it down to representation on a very individual level, of highly specific cases, which may explain why there was no remarkable difference between men and women’s perceptions of the deputy. Indeed, the majority of letters were individual requests for help, information, or recommendations, as well as letters of thanks for past support, although some correspondents

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literally voiced their expectations of the representative to speak up in parliament. Furthermore, many supplicants (usually implicitly) recognized the deputy’s committee work, as they counted on his experience with and first-hand knowledge about a specific subject. They also appealed to his expertise when they called in his help as a deputy-lawyer or -legal advisor. However, although the four deputies were all (theoretically) lawyers, this role was interpreted very differently for Groussau and Marin than it was for Bonnevay and Dumesnil. The latter two were actually called in to represent citizens in lawsuits. Even though they passed such cases onto colleagues of the bar to avoid conflicts of interest, they nonetheless remained personally involved, if only to keep up-to-date. Both Bonnevay and Dumesnil’s correspondence was also most closely linked to their official geographical representation of a specific district. Marin’s geographical link was important to his contacts as well, but it took rather regionalist proportions. Together with nationalist selfpresentations, regionalist references were used to appeal to a shared ideology, although not in its strict sense, since these notions were not framed as a party line. On the contrary, letter-writers who legitimized their requests through regionalist and nationalist constructions attributed an impartial or detached image to the deputy. Generally, “ordinary,” politically unorganized citizens of the French Third Republic seem to have valued the parliamentary regime and national unity, which they thought would be strengthened by the deputies’ impartial attitude, especially in the turbulent interwar period. The meaning of this detachment, however, was not straightforward at all: it could be interpreted in terms of transcending party boundaries or geographical boundaries, but not necessarily both at the same time. More specifically, a député with a strong local or regional connection could be perceived as impartial when he had proven himself to be the defender of the interests of individual citizens who could not vote (or had not voted) for him, or the defender of certain rights that could not be linked to a specific “party” line. As the chair of a political group that strengthened its “party discipline,” Marin was nevertheless perceived by several correspondents as an impartial deputy, who was supposed to act in the interest of the “Fatherland.” Whereas Marin himself struggled to combine his parliamentary activity with his visibility in his constituency, his correspondents generally did not oppose protection of the nation to protection of their region, department, a certain group of people, or even an individual person. In their letters,

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they combined several levels of representation without problematizing the complexity of their construction. Some contradictory perceptions of the “impartial” deputy were even a form of legitimization of their views, as was the case for the far-right letter-writers who contacted Marin. Through and despite their polarizing, ideology-driven language that went against republican universalist ideals, they made claims to impartiality and the interest of the nation. Whereas xenophobic correspondents still framed their discourse as republican, those who valued parliamentary democracy sometimes suggested that a strong leader should step forward regardless. In sum, citizens did not just undergo such paradoxes of the regime, but co-created them interactively. Some of Marin’s correspondents chose to ignore his defense of a stronger parliament, by stressing his power as a leader and savior of the nation, a role that they recognized in his work for the government. Similarly, Groussau’s correspondents usually chose to ignore the effects of the separation of Church and State. In their justifications of their demands, some letter-writers linked good Christianity and Christian values to good (republican) citizenship, seemingly without realizing the contradictions this created. Overall, moreover, female letter-writers appear to have consciously chosen to disregard the fact that they were not officially represented by any of the députés. Citizens’ decisions to ignore the gender divide, the separation of powers, or the separation of Church and State did not mean that they were actually politically ignorant. Rather on the contrary, many letter-writers seem to have had enough basic knowledge about the deputy’s profile to know what arguments could work for him. It is true that a deputy like Groussau could see the value of religious justifications, while Marin did indeed have important and relevant ministerial portfolios during his interwar career. Juggling between these different references and levels of representation, while also balancing between the perceived self-evidence of the député’ s favor and their own servitude as a reward, French men and women writing letters to parliamentarians not only practiced epistolary skills in a clientelist context. More importantly, they built political knowledge, while working with paradoxes that they co-created, and gained awareness of their place in society in the process.

Notes 1. Ménager, “Constant Groussau,” 315–27.

General Conclusion

The ongoing present-day proliferation of mass digital platforms on which politically organized and unorganized individuals from all social and cultural backgrounds alike can easily voice their opinions, has caused a recent upsurge in scholarly interest in comparable practices prior to this digital era. Current trends in modern political history are particularly drawing the attention toward mass petitioning in what we might call a pre-democratic time, referring to electoral discrimination of certain groups of men and women.1 This means that our knowledge of institutionalized processes of inclusion and exclusion, which had long been central to political theory and histories of democracy,2 has been enriched by a focal shift toward less formal and more interactive interpretations of political representation. By involving both voters and non-voters, the practice of petitioning sheds light on alternative and negotiated aspects of democracy, as well as non-violent forms of resistance from below to a regime that failed these letter-writers. In remarkable contrast with the mass petitions from the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British and North-American cases featuring in recent historiography,3 petitions with a multitude of signatures did not seem to have been the norm in the French pre-democratic twentieth-century context. Here, resistance from below was voiced rather via single-authored suppliques to parliament, and even more commonly, via their letters to individual parliamentary representatives, which constitute the focus of this book.

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0

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By engaging in writing letters to députés —a practice that was well embedded in French Third Republican political culture—“ordinary” men and women created an alternative, informal, and more direct version of democracy for themselves, that seems to have echoed the regime’s universalist claims better than its flawed institutional democracy could. Indeed, instead of showcasing anti-parliamentary or anti-republican sentiments, the studied letters testify to their authors’ negotiated interpretations of justice, equity, equality, and other values related to French republican citizenship. Even in their most clientelist expression, citizens’ claims required knowledge of the political framework in which these claims could be met most effectively. More controversially, perhaps, it could even be argued that the practice of letter-writing to députés itself (and its great popularity) contributed to the status quo of institutional democracy, which did not offer French women the same platform to voice their opinions. In line with Michel de Certeau’s presentation of “The practice of everyday life,” my analysis of French citizens’ letters to four députés (roughly between 1900 and the 1930s) acknowledges the subtle yet active resistance of powerless individuals to and within a framework imposed on them from above. In his research on the appropriation and consumption of everyday routine practices, De Certeau shows that “ordinary” citizens were/are not merely passive recipients and reproducers of topdown strategies, i.e., the official cultural frameworks of relations and behavior within the consumer society, created by formal institutions. On the contrary, even though the population did/does not have the power to impose such strategies themselves, they could nonetheless offer creative tactics from below, implementing and at the same time rejecting elements of the dominant framework they operate(d) in.4 My research on the discursive tactics used by “ordinary” citizens and the content of the letters they addressed to four individual députés shows that this model is equally applicable to the practice of everyday political life of French citizens of the Third Republic, even of those who did not have the power to judge the official strategies through their vote. Just like there was no passive consumption of top-down created cultural trajectories, there was no passive reproduction of the values and expectations of the French republican regime. Moreover, multiple formal frameworks (republican, local, individual, national, religious, educational, etc.) could coexist and overlap, leading individual citizens to creatively combine several discursive elements in their attempts to overcome inconsistencies characteristic of the regime while inevitably creating others.

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Even though the Separation of Church and State was supposed to laicize the Republic, it did not manage to take religion out of politics. On the contrary, especially in times of misery and hardship, “ordinary” citizens put such a great deal of hope and faith in individual députés, that their interactions with them almost took religious proportions at times. The lens of political religion is usually adopted in analyses of totalitarian regimes, and, in the case of democratic regimes, it is applied to analyses of (the emergence of) mass political parties and movements.5 Paradoxically, however, it was precisely in the absence of mass party politics and during the attempted laicization of society, that political religion took its French Third Republican form. Instead of a sacralization of macropolitical movements, a sacralization of micro-politics manifested itself in the practice of writing letters to a député. What makes an analysis of such micro-political histories in pre-democratic times even more pertinent, is the common historiographical link between the end of mass party politics and the perceived crisis of representative democracy. Although some of the most recent books in the field refer to the “twilight”6 and eventually the death of the regime,7 followed by “post-democracy after the crises,”8 the impression that representative democracy was suffering from its own structural field of tension is not new.9 Many scholars agree that a permanent state of crisis is inherent to the regime,10 yet, with varying degrees of “fragility” across Europe.11 Rosanvallon situates such a tension of representative democracy between impartiality and reflexivity, since a Member of Parliament ideally embodied a combination of the most skilled expert (impartiality), and a relatable person who shared the same experiences as the common man and woman (reflexivity), hence performing both distance and proximity. Because organized political parties could offer a mix of both, they were able to somewhat reduce democracy’s inherent tension. The end of mass party politics therefore explains the growing impression that representative democracy is in crisis.12 That makes it particularly interesting to investigate the paradoxes and mechanisms that predated both mass party politics and complete democracy, despite the regime’s universalist claims. Because of its members’ high degree of individual freedom in the absence of strong party discipline, the French Third Republican parliament formed the ideal backdrop against which citizens’ perceptions of such representational tensions between distance and proximity could be examined. After having explored the deputies’ networks and accessibility by “ordinary” citizens (in Part I), I analyzed the paradoxes of the French Third

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Republican regime (in Part II) and how these were interactively coconstructed by citizens in their written communications to deputies from left to right, from rural to more urban areas: Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, Laurent Bonnevay, Louis Marin, and Henri-Constant Groussau. More specifically, Part II focused on the paradox of the ideal of parliamentary representation of the nation, together with the paradox of republican universalism in a regime that excluded women from the vote, as well as the paradox of politicization through clientelist practices. While, theoretically, the deputy had to represent the nation in its entirety, in reality, he was the sole representative of a specific district (apart from the period of departmental list voting between 1919 and 1928). This tension was not just the result of top-down created electoral laws, but it was also used and construed in citizens’ letters to députés. However, instead of problematizing the multiple levels of representation (individual, local, departmental, regional, or national), letter-writers creatively combined such references to legitimize their requests to deputies, while appealing to various (official and unofficial) aspects of the representatives’ image. The roles citizens attributed to the four députés are very comparable. Across the different archives, many letters implicitly shared the same categories (such as the impartial deputy and the deputy-lawyer). However, the exact interpretations of each role differed from one representative to the other, testifying to the letter-writers’ basic knowledge of the deputies’ fields of expertise and how these could relate to their individual cases. Remarkably, among the people who addressed French deputies in the early decades of the twentieth century, especially those who officially did not correspond to the prototype of the French Republican (male, lay) citizen displayed the most accurate knowledge of policies that included or excluded them. In other words, the more forgotten the letterwriters seem to have been in the formal political framework—as was the case for religious workers, remarried war-widows and young single women—the more politicized their justifications were in their informal political contacts with the députés. Paradoxically, as the outcasts of the Republic, nuns combined a religious framework with high awareness of the republican one, which they hoped to alter from within. Through their responses and responsiveness, Third Republican parliamentarians contributed to their correspondents’ discursive blurring of the lines between militancy and comradery, between legal and parliamentary representation and between governance and representation. The combination of the deputies’ proximity (as addressed in Part I) with their

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multifaceted moldable roles (as addressed in Part II) can be seen as a primary contributing factor to the regime’s survival, despite its crises and incomplete representative democracy on the formal level. In other words, ordinary citizens’ direct engagement and feeling of (physical or empathic) proximity may explain the legitimacy of the regime as perceived from below. Through letter-writing, citizens appealed to the deputy’s charity, empathy, or kindness, based on (vague) republican values, without actually being recognized as full republican citizens. Although the war thus did not bring about true institutional democratization in terms of granting voting rights to women, it did seem to have triggered more knowledge of the notion of citizenship among the citizens (voters and non-voters) themselves. Each request in itself was unique and contained a rather anecdotal aspect. While acknowledging the value of each individual letter, this book’s guiding questions aimed to transcend the anecdotal, in order to allow for some broader insights into the citizens’ negotiation of republican ideals. Despite differences that can be attributed to the individual level of the député (such as Groussau’s exceptional expertise in juridical advice for congregants), but also to the nature of their constituencies (highly agrarian in the cases of Dumesnil and Bonnevay) and the level of education of their correspondents (high in the cases of Marin and Groussau), combined, the letters they received contribute to our broader understanding of the French Third Republic. Historiography about this regime mainly focuses on discontinuity. Indeed, the Third Republic is known as tumultuous, given the rapidly succeeding governments, the Great War, the subsequent economic crisis, the political scandals, the anti-parliamentary sentiments, and the changes in electoral laws that nonetheless still denied women the vote. However, even though the regime was indeed unstable on the surface, it managed to survive a war, crisis, and scandals, after which anti-parliamentary criticism and feminist movements could seemingly still not count on wide grassroots support. Research into letters written by “ordinary,” unorganized people to French deputies of the Chamber helps to understand the Republic’s survival, and the way in which it was co-determined by citizens’ perceptions of the regime. Beyond the variations among individual letter-writers, my analysis showed continuity. The many letters studied for this book gave evidence of how French citizens continued to attribute a surprisingly strong legitimacy to “their” individual député. The common act

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of letter-writing to parliamentarians in itself already validated the representatives’ authority. The content of such letters, moreover, testified to the remarkably great trust and continuous faith these letter-writers had in the deputies they contacted. Even when the député had not managed to make a former request succeed, his correspondents kept counting on his advice and support. They attributed a great deal of power to these individual deputies on various levels (from personal to national), thus leaving little room for anti-parliamentary sentiments. Although it is impossible to verify how successful their many requests for recommendations, advice and financial support were (in terms of obtaining their desired solution), it is safe to say that the majority was at least successful in terms of the deputies’ overall responsiveness. In addition, the fact that letter-writing allowed women to appeal to the député’s attention on equal grounds as men, offers a possible explanation for the surprisingly weak pressure from below to grant women the vote. Politically unorganized or informally organized French female letter-writers in the early twentieth century seem to have actively shaped their socio-political identities, instead of having been passive subjects of conflict situations, formal politics, and top-down image construction. More broadly, although the First World War did not appear as the so-called trigger for institutional democratization, “ordinary” men and women did try to make their notions of democratic citizenship more explicit in their nonetheless very personal requests to deputies during wartime and the subsequent turbulent interwar period. In sum, voters and non-voters, men and women seem to have been under the impression that they could actively contribute to their representation on a micropolitical level, through their act of writing letters to députés, which helps explain the remarkable legitimacy of the French Third Republic, despite its instability on the surface.

Notes 1. For example: Huzzey and Miller, “Petitions”; Haaparinne, “Voice of the People.”. 2. For example: Doorenspleet, “Reassessing”; Idem, “The Structural Context”; Jürgen Habermas, The Inclusion of the Other. Studies in Political Theory, ed. Ciaran Cronin and Pablo De Greiff (Cambridge, UK & Maldon, MA: Polity, 2005). 3. For example: Huzzey and Miller, “Petitions”; Haaparinne, “Voice of the People”; Carpenter, Democracy by Petition.

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4. Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), XVII–XX. 5. See: Augusteijn, Dassen, and Janse, “Introduction: Politics and Religion,” 1–11, and the collection of papers in their aforementioned edited volume Political Religion. 6. Anne Applebaum, Twilight of Democracy. The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism (New York: Doubleday, 2020). 7. Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, How Democracies Die (New York: Broadway Books, 2018); David Runciman, How Democracy Ends (London: Profile Books, 2018). 8. Colin Crouch, Post-Democracy After the Crises (Cambridge, UK & Medford, MA: Polity, 2020). 9. Pierre Rosanvallon, Democratic Legitimacy: Impartiality, Reflexivity, Proximity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011), 187. 10. See: Hedwig Richter, Demokratie. Eine Deutsche Affäre. Vom 18. Jahrhundert bis zur Gegenwart (Munich: C.H.Beck, 2020). The Association for Political History’s recent panel on “The Permanent Crisis of Democracy” (23–04-2021) agreed on the same. (Convener: Ido de Haan; keynotes: Jens Hacke, Martin Conway, and Nadia Urbinati; panelists: Karen Lauwers, Elisabeth Dieterman, Joris Gijsenbergh, and Ermes Antonucci). 11. Martin Conway, “On Fragile Democracy: Contemporary and Historical Perspectives—Introduction,” Journal of Modern European History 17, no. 4 (2019): 431. 12. Rosanvallon, Democratic Legitimacy, 171–87.

Bibliography

Primary sources a. Key documents Letters to deputies in the Departmental Archives, France (1900–1930s) Archives Départementales de Meurthe-et-Moselle, Papiers Louis Marin, 26J , files 35–36, 43/I, 474, 490. Archives Départementales de Seine-et-Marne, Fonds Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, 72J , files 11–14, and the even files from 20 to 36. Archives Départementales du Nord, Papiers de Henri-Constant Groussau, J 474, files 7–132. Archives Départementales du Rhône, Fonds Laurent Bonnevay, 10J , files 22–25/I, 31, 34–38, 63–66, 69/I-76.

Letters to deputies in the National Archives, Pierrefitte-sur-Seine, France (1900–1930s) Archives Nationales, Fonds Jacques-Louis Dumesnil, 130AP, file 29; idem, 769F , files 59–63. Archives Nationales, Fonds Louis Marin, 317AP, files 119–132, (164–165), 167– 173, 234–242.

b. Supplementary sources Parliamentary documents Bulletin des lois de la République française 459, no. 8218 (07–1879), 61–62. © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0

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Feuilleton / Annexe au Feuilleton, Chambre des députés, Paris, 1900–1935 (with samples from 1924 and 1929). Impressions: projets de lois, propositions, rapports, etc., Chambre des députés / Sénat, Paris, 1912, 1914, 1917. Journal Officiel de la République française. Débats parlementaires. Chambre des députés, Paris, 1904–1934. Journal Officiel de la République française. Débats parlementaires. Sénat, Paris, 26-06-1917. Journal Officiel de la République française. Lois et décrets, Paris, 1882–1931. Ministère de la guerre. Loi du 10 août 1917 (dite Loi Mourier), fixant les affectations aux unités combattantes des mobilisés, officiers, sous-officiers et soldats appartenant à l’armée active et à la réserve de l’armée active (Paris: H. Charles-Lavauzelle, 1917).

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Historiography Avesne, E. d’. La France chrétienne en 1870 (extrait des Deux Frances). Paris: Jules Gervais, 1880. Bailly, Auguste. Richelieu. Paris: Fayard, 1934. Hanotaux, Gabriel. Histoire du Cardinal de Richelieu. Paris: Société de l’Histoire Nationale / Plon, 1932. Seippel, Paul. Les Deux Frances et leurs Origines historique. Lausanne/Paris: Payot & Cie. (Lausanne) / Félix Alcan (Paris), 1905.

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Index

A Action libérale populaire, 15, 172, 235 anti-parliamentarism, 18, 181–182, 189, 204, 205, 326, 329, 330 Armée d’Orient. See Eastern Front WWI Asile des Petites Sœurs des Pauvres , 158 B Barrès, Maurice, 17, 114–116, 128, 172, 291 Battesti, Antoine, 90, 91 Berteaux, Maurice, 299 Berthod, Aimé, 202 Bertrand, William, 202 Biénès, Pierre, 96 Bloc national , 172, 173, 186–191 Blum, Léon, 247 Bodereau, Pierre, 90, 242, 254 Bolsheviks, 210. See also communism Bonnefous, Georges, 24 Briand, Aristide, 14, 44, 45, 116, 199, 200

C Cartel of the Left, 10, 172, 189, 195–196, 257, 258 Chavanis, Clovis, 92, 96, 305 Chignier-Champalle (weaving factory), 92 Clemenceau, Georges, 186, 188, 190 clientelism, 8, 9, 16–18, 47, 78, 86, 100, 118, 125, 130, 141, 153, 167, 175, 184, 186, 234–247, 251, 255, 265, 275, 308, 328 Combes, Emile, 298 Committee of Inquiry, 180, 204–208, 217, 264 communism, 7, 188, 195, 196, 207, 247 congregation(s), 48, 49, 55, 114–116, 171, 173, 219, 234, 260–261, 293–300 Corneloup, Philibert, 312 D Daladier, Édouard, 16, 191, 220 Dames de Nazareth, 66

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. Lauwers, Ordinary Citizens and the French Third Republic, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-89304-0

349

350

INDEX

Dansette, Jules, 235 Daunay, Léon, 67, 84, 243, 280 Delcassé, Théophile, 298 democracy (citizens’ interpretations), 187–189, 194, 196–197, 223, 260, 326 desertion, 308–309 Dominicans, 296 Doumergue, Gaston, 191, 203 Dreyfus, 184

E Eastern Front WWI, 132–134 electoral laws district voting, 15, 19, 217, 276, 328 list voting, 15–16, 197, 321, 328 majority system, 15–16, 19, 54, 189, 210 panachage, 16, 210 proportional representation, 15, 19, 189, 197, 233 women’s suffrage (lack), 1, 12, 13, 135, 265–276, 329 equality of opportunities. See republican project

F Fatherland, 174, 192, 195, 200, 205, 210, 213, 215, 216, 257, 261. See also patriotism female enfranchisement. See electoral laws, women’s suffrage (lack) feminism, feminist, 268, 269–270, 329 Ferry, Désiré, 214, 215 Fidèles Compagnes de Jésus , 55, 294 Filles du Saint-Esprit , 260 Flandin, Pierre-Étienne, 203 Franciscans (in Morocco), 298–299

G Garat, Joseph, 295–296 Gérard, Renée, 58, 67, 97, 99 H Hartmann, Fernande (later Marin), 97, 99 Herriot, Édouard, 199, 200, 202 Holy See. See Vatican Honnorat, André, 301 Huguet, Gentils, 291 J Jeanne d’Arc, 55, 264, 303–304 L laicization, 2, 53–54, 76, 84, 114–115, 171, 173, 257, 261, 262, 290, 293, 294, 296–297, 299, 324, 327 Laval, Pierre bill with Rameil, 249 Laval IV, government (fell in 1936), 267 Lazarists, 297–298 Légion d’honneur, 85, 92, 94, 229, 253, 257–259 Lugol, Georges (bill), 135 Lutaud, Charles, 95 M Malvy, Louis, 292 Mandel, Georges, 190 Marianne (la), vi, 54, 55, 65, 193, 213 Martin, Bienvenu, 297–298 Massé, Alfred, 298 micro-politics, 9, 135, 255, 327 Millerand, Alexandre, 14, 210 Mollet, Guy, 247

INDEX

Mourier (law), 159 Mun, Albert de, 299

N National Union, 199–201

O Oustric affair, 204–206, 217, 264

P Painlevé, Paul, 10, 16, 52, 133 panachage. See electoral laws, panachage Panama Affair, 14 parliamentarism, 3, 189–191, 194, 198, 204–206, 209, 210, 323, 324 patriotism, patriot, 24, 25, 114, 168, 172, 186, 187, 192, 194, 196, 197, 203, 210, 211, 220, 259, 262, 268, 271, 291, 300, 302 patronage, 8, 18, 83, 95, 130, 131, 195, 234, 246 permanences , 9, 12, 49, 52, 56, 57, 63, 90, 96, 240, 273, 302, 313, 314 Pétain, Philippe (Marshal), 235–236 petitioning, 325 in historiography, 9 to the Chamber, 69–70, 80, 261 Petit, Jean Nesme, 92 Petit, Maurice, 91 Philip, André, 208 Picquart, Marie-Georges (General), 299 Pierre, Eugène, 41, 43, 44 Poincaré, Raymond, 46, 116, 173, 191–195, 199, 200, 212, 214 Poizat brothers (blanket and flannel factory), 93, 310

351

political religion, 3, 18, 255–256, 327 R Rameil, Pierre (bill with Laval), 249 Republican Federation, 15, 24, 25, 172, 179, 181, 268, 269, 302 republican project, 16, 121, 127, 153 Ribot, Alexandre, 43, 202 Richelieu, Cardinal de-, 1203, 204 S sacred Union. See Union sacrée Salonica front. See Eastern Front WWI Sarraut, Albert, 202 sectarianism, 202, 255, 291 Sédack, Georges, 58, 67, 84, 90–91, 94–96 Sembat, Marcel, 16, 52 Separation of Church and State. See laicization SFIO, 15, 114, 171, 247, 309 solidarity (as a republican notion), 121–124 sovereignty, popular-, 44, 187 Stavisky affair, 180, 206, 207, 316 Steeg, Théodore, 291 T theater (parliament as-), 43–46, 187 Treaty of Versailles, 48, 188, 189, 211, 272 Treignier, Eugène, 292 U Union sacrée, 114, 181, 182, 186–191, 257, 295 universalism, 327 universalism (republican-), 190, 198, 270, 287, 324 Ursulines, 295–296

352

INDEX

V Vatican, 113, 116–117, 219, 257 Virgin Mary, 54, 265, 292 Viviani, René, 14, 43

Wendel, François de, 24, 214 women’s suffrage. See electoral laws, women’s suffrage (lack)

W Warren, Édouard de, 214

X xenophobia, 190, 197, 198, 324