Napoleon III [Reprint 2014 ed.] 9780674284296, 9780674283121

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MAKERS OF MODERN EUROPE Edited by DONALD C. McKAY in association with DUMAS MALONE

NAPOLEON III

LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Flandrin

Versailles NAPOLEON III

NAPOLEON III BY

ALBERT GUfiRARD

CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS H A R V A R D U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS 1943

COPYRIGHT, I 9 4 3 BY THE PRESIDENT AND FELLOWS OF HARVARD COLLEGE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

NO PART OF THIS

BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER

PRINTED AT THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRINTING OFFICE CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U.S.A.

This Boo\ is Dedicated to DR. HAROLD E. PEARSON

EDITOR'S PREFACE

N

A P O L E O N III is, and will doubtless remain, an enigmatic figure. His character and career have been the subject of widely variant interpretations. Building on the disaster of 1870, his early biographers damaged his reputation by finding the Second Empire either a close corporation organized by shady adventurers for their own profit or an unmitigated reaction against the generous resolves of 1848. Gradually another picture of Napoleon has emerged, and Mr. Guerard's interpretation lies in this newer tradition. The conspirator, the reactionary, have not disappeared, but they have withdrawn to the background. In their place stands a man deeply sensitive to the generous ideas of his own age, a humanitarian very broadly defined. Napoleon was steadily concerned with the improvement by state action of the lot of the most numerous class; he was the earnest — if spasmodic and inconsistent— proponent of the rights of nationalities; and he regarded himself as a ruler in the interest of his people as a whole, above party and faction, subject to the "democratic" control of the plebiscite. Napoleon III was a precursor, a prophet. He grappled with the problems of the future — problems still unsolved by either democracies or dictatorships, to the development of both of which he may be said to have contributed. Of this complex career Mr. Guerard has chosen to write an "interpretation" rather than a formal and conventional biography. This is an ambitious effort to situate the man and his ideas in the broad context of his age. Not all his conclusions will invite assent — they do not from the present writer. Mr. Guerard has many qualifications as a biographer of Na-

viii

EDITOR'S

PREFACE

poleon III. Born and educated in France and long a resident of this country, he understands both the French scene and his American audience. As a youth he confesses to have shared the conventional Republican view of Napoleon III, a view rapidly modified by a critical study of the period which he has pursued for more than thirty years and with which various ones of his previous books have dealt. The present volume is the second in the series of Makers of Modern Europe. The series has no intention of offering to the public once again the biographies of men which appear with almost monotonous regularity — Napoleon, Cavour, Gladstone, Marx. It proposes instead to present the lives of men for whom there is no biography, or no adequate biography in English. At the same time these biographies will deal with men who left a significant impress on their age, men who may properly be considered as "Makers of Modern Europe." Contributors are invited to keep steadily before them the view that serious historical biography involves constantly the relation of its subject to his historical context. They are to expose in adequate detail the problems with which the statesman dealt, the significant contributions which the thinker made. They are to address themselves constantly to the question: "What was the significance of this man for his epoch ?" DONALD C . M C K A Y WASHINGTON, D. C. September 28, 1942

CONTENTS INTRODUCTION

ΧΪίί

PART I TOWARD THE EMPIRE I. II. III.

THE EDUCATION OF AN IMPERIAL ADVENTURER

3

THE HEIR OF THE NAPOLEONIC LEGEND

25

THE UNIVERSITY OF HAM AND THE FAITH OF 'FORTY-EIGHT

IV. THE GREAT HOPE AND THE GREAT FEAR: THE YEAR 1848

.

. .

. .

V.

THE ROMAN EXPEDITION AT HOME AND ABROAD: LOUIS NAPOLEON,

VI.

BY THE GRACE OF GOD AND THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE: CAESARIAN

THE CONSERVATIVES, AND THE «CHURCH DEMOCRACY, THE COUP D'ETAT, THE EMPIRE

48 73 93 II3

PART II THE SECOND EMPIRE VII.

THE EMPEROR AND HIS CIRCLE

VIII.

THE EMPIRE STANDS FOR PEACE: THE FOREIGN POLICY OF NAPO-

IX.

SAINT-SIMON ON HORSEBACK: THE ECONOMIC AND SOCIAL POLICY

X.

THE DEEPEST THOUGHT OF THE REIGN: THE MEXICAN ADVENTURE

LEON HI

167

OF NAPOLEON III

I93

AND THE TURN OF THE TIDE XI.

219

LIBERTY CROWNS THE EDIFICE: THE POLITICAL EVOLUTION OF THE SECOND EMPIRE

XII.

I43

243

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT: I. SEDAN II. POSTERITY

266 281

APPENDIX CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY

297

GENEALOGICAL TABLE

3II

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ESSAY

315

INDEX

325

ILLUSTRATIONS by Flandrin

NAPOLEON I I I ,

frontispiece

Versailles Every painter offers a different Napoleon III: Cabanel gives us a rather blatant parvenu, Yvon and Meissonier a not very convincing general. With Hippolyte Flandrin, a religious painter (his decorations in St. Germain-des-Pres and St. Vincent de Paul are notable), we have the gentle humanitarian peering into the future. The photographic portraits — hideous as a rule — do not invalidate any of these interpretations. THE

UPRISING,

by Daumier

58

Washington: Phillips Memorial Gallery There is nothing to show that this spirited piece refers to a definite event, like the famous "Rue Transnonain." The Uprising per se, here portrayed, is one of the major characters in European history: the democrats constantly appealing to the holy wrath of the people, the law-and-order men eager to chain the beast. Napoleon III believed in serving the people while curbing the mob. Here, Daumier takes no side. EMPRESS EUGENIE,

by Winterhalter

154

Madrid: Collection Όuke of Alba Winterhalter's best-known picture — the Empress seated in a park, with her crinolined Ladies-in-Waiting — renders well the self-conscious but undeniable grace of the period. Here painter and august model attempt to register Majesty: not without success. NAPOLEON

Paris:

III

AT SOLFERINO,

by Meissonier

186

Luxembourg

The moment when Napoleon III, as a military leader, came within measurable distance of his great model, Napoleon I. Solferino was his battle, and Francis Joseph's ineptitude made it a decisive victory. The soldiers said: "He has his uncle's papers!" L A DANSE,

Paris:

by Carpeaux

202

L'Opera

Charles Garnier's Grand Opera is often accepted as the most typical monument of "the Gaudy Empire," and Carpeaux's group as the aptest symbol of period and regime. When it was unveiled, a Puritan hurled an ink bottle at one of the dancing nymphs, as Luther did at the devil some three and a half centuries before — with no appreciable results in either case. D E A T H OF M A X I M I L I A N

(sketch), by Manet

Boston: Museum of Fine Arts A Comedy of Errors finds its tragic end. The sketch is much more powerful than the finished picture; or than the conventional scene in which the doomed Maximilian comforts his confessor.

226

INTRODUCTION Ο F I G U R E in history is more sharply defined than that of Napoleon I. But even in his case, man, career, and legend refuse to coincide. It took the formidable turmoil of the Revolution to turn the young Corsican soldier into a general, a Consul, an Emperor. It took the enormous wave of Romanticism to transmute the military autocrat, after his death, into a democratic myth, the new Prometheus. In the minds of even the most painstaking historians, such as Kircheisen, there is no logical relation between the known facts and the epic glow which surrounds them. T o the present day, Napoleon is praised for ideals which he combated, or blamed for policies determined before he attained power; and the great conqueror is most famous for his defeats, Egypt, Russia, Waterloo. Our confusion deepens immeasurably when we approach the taciturn and shadowy figure of his nephew, Napoleon III. Even less than with the first Emperor is it possible to separate the man from his destiny. It would be idle to wonder what Louis Napoleon Bonaparte might have been had not fate made him a prince, for a prince he was born, and he never forgot the fact for a moment. Nor can we think of him apart from the Second Empire, his creation and his raison d'etre. Man and regime form a single historical entity; each is inconceivable without the other. But the Empire is no easier to define than the Emperor. It was an adventure; it was a political system; it was a period. And that period evokes many things in our minds: two harsh glittering decades between the Coup d'fitat and Sedan, the sudden expansion of industry, the birth and conflict of nationalities, republican ideals struggling against despotism, science at war with religion,

xiv

INTRODUCTION

Romanticism wounded, Realism triumphant. The scene of history is swept by these contrasting lights; and as they clash or blend they pass over the impassive face of Napoleon III, silent, pathetic, or prophetic, alone for twenty years in the center of the stage. At the height of his power, they called him the Sphinx of the Tuileries; when he failed, there were many to declare with Bismarck that he was a sphinx without a secret, "a great unfathomed incapacity"; the most indulgent pronounced him a dreamer: three different ways of confessing — or boasting — that one did not understand. With this lazy or supercilious agnosticism we cannot rest satisfied. Yet the sole clue that we have to offer is no whit more scientific: Chance. In 1848, the world was out of joint, torn between irreconcilable desires. Louis Napoleon was likewise compounded of all contrasts: epigone and pioneer, tortuous and single-minded, a damaged soul and a humanitarian, a Utopist who kept watch over the money bags. Above all, he was the heir to a legend itself a living chaos. Through one of the great accidents in history, legend, personality, and time met in miraculous accord. Louis Napoleon was, in strict literalness, the man of the hour. He proved not unworthy of his luck: 1848, 1851, 1856, 1859 — after eleven years he was still a mystery and a paradox, the Protean center of a Protean age, with something in him that peered and strained beyond immediate needs. But the continued miracle demanded continued energy, and the man grew sick. Then everything that his luck, his prestige, his gentle and secret obstinacy had held together began falling apart. For another decade, momentum carried forward the hybrid regime with the ailing man at the helm. Tragically, he was paralyzed, but he was not blind. Then the abrupt end. We are aware that chance — which Napoleon I called destiny

INTRODUCTION

XV

and Napoleon III, more piously, Providence — is no explanation. The only excuse for making it our working hypothesis is that it describes, if it does not explain, the one central fact in Louis Napoleon's career: the spontaneous and quasi-universal acclaim which, in December 1848, turned an obscure pretender into the head of the French state. Although summed up in a single word which is a confession of ignorance, our hypothesis recognizes, and challenges us to examine, the complexity both of the epoch and of the man. It embraces, if it does not reconcile, the three interpretations which are usually offered of the Second Empire and its enigmatic ruler. The first is the most damaging, and, because of its loose simplicity, the most widely spread and the most ineradicable. It was best expressed, perhaps, by Alexander William Kinglake, the historian of the Crimean War: "It will presently be necessary to contract the field of vision, and going back to the winter of 1851, to glance at the operations of a small knot of middle-aged men who were pushing their fortunes in Paris." 1 A band of adventurers, Persigny, Morny, Maupas, Saint-Arnaud, with the Napoleonic name as their single asset, secured power for their chief through trickery and violence, and maintained themselves for eighteen years through force and fraud. Loot was their sole object; the Empire was not a regime, it was a racket. This version was for many years good Republican orthodoxy in France. Victor Hugo had clothed it with imperishable beauty in his lyric satire Les Chätiments; Gambetta repeated it sixteen years later, with the mighty rumble of his southern rhetoric, made more impressive with echoes from Sallust, Cicero, Caesar, and Corneille; decked out with puns and quips, it was Henri Rochefort's only stock-in-trade. It was perfect party propaganda: the imperial vil1 A . W . Kinglake, The Invasion of the Crimea, 8 vols. (Edinburgh and London, 1863-87), I, 204.

INTRODUCTION

XVI

lain alone was responsible for Sedan, and the birth of the new Republic was the triumph of virtue. In England, such a view appealed to the pure souls who were shocked by the meretricious splendor of the modern Babylon, and who could not forgive Napoleon III for protecting the temporal power of the Pope. America also elected to believe the worst: had not the wily Bonaparte rigged up a puppet Empire in order to plunder Mexico? This conception explains much. What it fails to take into account is the origin of Louis Napoleon's power, the triumphant election of December 1848, before the pretender knew any of the "gang" except Persigny. It chooses to ignore eighteen years of well-planned and solid prosperity, so solid that it stood the test of a disastrous war, and remained a golden memory for two generations. And when Kinglake virtuously avers 2 that "in France, for the most part, the gentlemen of the country resolved to stand aloof from the Government," he does not add that Albert the Good and Victoria became not merely the formal allies but the personal friends of the usurper. The second interpretation admits that, back of the Coup d'fitat, there was a principle, and not merely personal greed. That principle may be called Bonapartism. Bonapartism is not Napoleonism : the core of it is not martial glory, but material order. Those who hailed the Bonapartist coups d'etat of the 18th of Brumaire and the 2nd of December yearned for tranquillity, not for conquest. When anarchy threatens, property demands a strong government and offers the crown to the most efficient policeman; this is called "saving Society." If the policeman, the Man on Horseback, receives the blessing of the Church, his effectiveness will be enhanced. But first of all he must control the regular army, against the army of disorder which naturally congregates in the great industrial centers. The army's avowed purpose, which 2

Invasion of the Crimea, I, 316.

INTRODUCTION

XVll

is to defend the nation's honor and heritage, the soldier's tradition of heroism, the dazzling show of flags, uniforms, decorations, the blare of military bands, barely disguise the essential fact that the troops are a vast police force in reserve. A firm hand, disorder repressed, prosperity restored: a formula which legitimately appeals to the conservative mind. It was for many years that of Porfirio Diaz and his cientificos. On a loftier plane, it was also the key to the success of Henry IV. For, with his shrewd and kindly smile, the good King would often allude to "the big stick which brings peace." Henry IV, however, was a sovereign by right divine; the ruler who is frankly the head of the police has no such spiritual prestige. So the curse of materialism attaches to Napoleon III and his regime: material order, material prosperity, material pleasures, summed up in the word Bonapartism. The third interpretation is the one which Louis Napoleon himself offered, in his pamphlets when he was a pretender, in his addresses when he became President and Emperor; we have no right to ignore it. His threefold program was strikingly different from that of the constitutional monarchy and its heir, the Parliamentary Republic. In politics, he stood for Caesarism: democracy incarnated in one man, a national leader above classes and parties, ruling "by the grace of God and the will of the people," pledged to the protection of order, but not of privilege. In the social and economic field, he held that the first duty of the state is not so much to defend vested interests or maintain free competition as to improve the condition of the masses. In international affairs, his aim was friendly cooperation among free nationalities. His purposes were distorted and thwarted in application; and so they are often dismissed as insincere promises, vague Utopias and at best fumbling velleities. This, however, is sheer partisanship. A direct study of his record has led many historians to a more favorable conclusion. In eighteen years he achieved much. It was

XVlll

INTRODUCTION

his hope that humanitarian Caesarism would grow under the protection of Bonapartism, and ultimately supplant it. Material order, for him, was not an all-sufficient end, but only a condition of progress. Racketeer, policeman, reformer: no student of the period will deny that all three elements were mingled in that equivocal figure. As to their relative importance, no consensus prevails. It must be noted as a fact, however, that the hostile legend, the KinglakeHugo-Gambetta-Rochefort tradition, survives only in the shallower books. The character and work of Napoleon III still offer baifling problems; but invariably the result of intimate study is to increase our sympathy and our respect. This was my own experience. A t this point, I am compelled to introduce a personal element. N o one believes in the automatic and irreformable "verdict of history." History, even when it is, as Leopold von Ranke would have it, the plain recital of "how it actually happened," is bound to be a selection and an organization of the facts; this implies an interpretation, and the interpretation presupposes an interpreter. Not egotism, but scientific scruple, should prompt the writer to measure his own personal equation, the inevitable aberration of his mental instrument. I was brought up in the purest Republican faith. I learned my letters in the books of Victor Hugo, and my father always referred to the Emperor by the old contemptuous nickname "Badinguet." In that faith I lived undisturbed until I reached manhood. The first scholarly histories of Napoleon III had already appeared — Pierre de la Gorce's, Thirria's — but I was not aware of their existence. When Dechartre, in Le Lys Rouge, referred to the Emperor as "an affectionate soul," and praised "his simple courage, his gentle fatalism," I smiled understandingly, for I knew that Anatole France reveled in outrageous paradoxes. The change came slowly. Its instruments were not books or

INTRODUCTION

xix

men, but the streets of my native Paris. I came to realize that the Paris we know best, and which hundreds of cities have sought to emulate, is the work of Baron Haussmann; and I discovered the plain truth that Haussmann was but the agent of Napoleon III himself. The faults of Haussmann's work are obvious. It suffers from excessive symmetry and monotony, emphasized rather than relieved by the questionable taste of a few public buildings. Even in my childhood, my favorite nooks were those which had escaped the pickaxe of the formidable Prefect. Yet I did feel then, as I do now, that the transformation of Paris under the Second Empire was nobly planned. The mind that conceived it must have been far-sighted, generous, and bold. From 1908 to 1912, I was engaged in a study of religious thought in French literature under the Second Empire. 3 I could not escape the conclusion that the whole period had been maligned. We had chosen to remember only its frivolousness, as though Offenbach and Princess Pauline Metternich were the typical French people of the age. We had forgotten that solid works of religious philosophy were not merely written in those days, but discussed with passionate earnestness. I had vaguely believed that all serious literature was in opposition or in exile; I came to realize that, with the exception of Hugo and Quinet, the best writers under the "Tyranny" lived and labored at home in perfect freedom. My purpose had not been to study political conditions and least of all the person of the sovereign. But through the rich memoirs and letters of the time I found that Napoleon III could not be ignored. Many of the leaders in literature — Merimee, Gautier, Augier, Flaubert, Sainte-Beuve, George Sand, Taine, Renan — had friends among the members of the imperial family. The poet whose art and thought I respected most, Alfred de Vigny, ad3

French Prophets of Yesterday (London and New York, 1913).

XX

INTRODUCTION

mired the Emperor. The simple and courageous testimony of Louis Pasteur, on the morrow of Sedan, impressed me deeply. Not from a single source, but from innumerable allusions and chance remarks, a new figure of Napoleon III was formed in my mind. The elderly rake in the uniform of a policeman, heavylidded, with dyed hair, goatee, and long waxed moustaches, melted into the gentle character described by Dechartre in Le Lys Rouge, and painted by Hippolyte Flandrin. In reading those innumerable volumes, I found that no one had ever approached him — whatever his prejudices might be, foreign ruler, diplomat or soldier, Republican, scholar, man of the people, Queen Victoria, Francis Joseph, Victor Duruy, Smile Ollivier, Louis Pasteur — without being won over by his profound and unaffected kindliness. This personal appreciation did not in the least affect my political ideas. I never was tempted for a moment to turn Bonapartist, even in retrospect. I have retained to this day my admiration for Victor Hugo, not only as a poet, but as a man. In Hugo's mind and character there were elements which, if not base, were at any rate common; but he had also the fierce righteous anger, the magnificent and somber imagination of a Hebrew prophet. In his resistance to the Coup d'fitat he may have been pragmatically mistaken, but he was morally right. He struck superb attitudes of defiance; but, however theatrical, they were none the less inspired by his conscience. Of the two, the Emperor was by far the more civilized. He had a gentler soul, a more practical sensitiveness to human suffering, a more intelligent interest in modern technique as an instrument of human welfare. But Hugo, in the garb of a shrewd French bourgeois, was a weird primitive seer, and transcends the ages. Three quarters of a century have elapsed since Napoleon III disappeared from the European scene. Yet the Second Empire,

INTRODUCTION

XXI

so remote in some of its aspects, is in its essence strangely modern and indeed contemporary. Our world begins in 1848. There were many men under Louis Philippe who had never taken a railroad journey, and many for whom manhood suffrage or socialism were ludicrous Utopian dreams. But the problems of eighty and ninety years ago are with us still. Marx, Darwin, Wagner, are living forces, and their doctrines are living issues. The books, pamphlets, speeches of that time could be given out today. The wave of the future, whatever it may mean, was battling against the shores of Europe nearly a century ago; and we are not certain that it has gained even one painful inch. T o this, not to its tarnished tawdriness, gay uniforms, and crinolines, does the Second Empire owe its fascination. It is the present, but the present with a perspective. It makes us aware of dangers, but also of opportunities, which we might overlook in the weariness of our daily toil. History is experience; it broadens the field of contemporary politics; and, like all experience, it does not preclude experiment. The reverse process is no less legitimate and no less inevitable; the present throws a light upon the past. This does not mean that we should inject the quarrels of one age into the problems of another. Partisanship is never justified, and in this case, we need particularly to be on our guard. We are living in an age of conflict, and many believe that one-sidedness, which they mistake for wholeheartedness, is the essential condition of victory. This delusion might lead us to condemn in the past anything which resembles what we hate in the present. Between the origins and principles of the Second Empire and those of the Nazi regime there are striking similarities. In both cases, a great nation was chafing under a Diktat·, even the best English and American historians fail to realize how deeply the French resented the treaties of Vienna. In both cases, there was a desire to avenge a defeat

xxii

INTRODUCTION

and to reconquer historical frontiers. In both, there was utter disgust with the bewilderment and impotence of Parliamentary rule. In both, there was an appeal to the vast conservative lower middle class against the "Red Specter," Communism. In both, there was a bid for the support of the masses, by offering them a bolder social program than the Parliamentarians had dared to envisage. In both, the political formula was Caesarian Democracy: a single leader endorsed by a plebiscite. These resemblances cannot fail to be present in the reader's mind, as they are in my own. History is not mere chronology: it records the conflict of principles, the clash of sentiments, the competition of interests. If we were to ignore such factors, history would be a dead mass of meaningless documents; but as soon as we strive to understand them, we seem to be making a case for them, and our impartiality is impugned. I can affirm that my purpose is strictly nonpartisan; but I know that such a claim is the commonest among students of history, and the hardest to sustain. I am seeking to present Napoleon III as I understand him. I have no desire to use him as a whipping boy to chastise Hitler, as, under the Second Empire, the opposition used Tiberius of Rome and Soulouque of Haiti. Still less is it my intention to offer an indirect apology for the ruthless German dictatorship, or for the pathetic Vichy regime. In the course of three decades, my conception of Napoleon III has naturally altered in many details. But, substantially, it remains the one I expressed in French Prophets of Yesterday and in French Civilization in the Nineteenth Century, which appeared in 1913 and 1914. This fact alone should support my plea that I am offering in these pages a portrait and an interpretation, not an argument in the controversies of the present day.

PART I TOWARD THE EMPIRE

CHAPTER I T H E EDUCATION OF A N IMPERIAL A D V E N T U R E R

T

H E future Napoleon III was born in Paris, on the twentieth of April, 1808. He was the first Bonaparte to be an actual prince at birth, for his father, Louis, was then King of Holland; and it seemed as though no child could enter the world under more auspicious circumstances. The year 1808, not 1 8 1 1 , marks the true zenith of the First Empire. Austria, Prussia, Russia had been defeated and compelled to acknowledge the new order; on the Continent, England was powerless; the ominous breach with the Papacy was not yet irreparable; the fatal Spanish adventure had barely begun. Behind this imperial splendor, however, lay a private story of misunderstanding and bitterness. The boy's parents, Louis Bonaparte and Hortense de Beauharnais, had been united against their will; they had quarreled from the first; their reconciliations had been precarious and brief; and now, without a formal divorce, their separation was known to be absolute and final. Yet they were not ill-assorted in age; when they were married in 1802, Louis was twenty-four and Hortense nineteen. Nor did they seem unworthy of their high destiny: he, a promising young officer; she, graceful and accomplished. Toward both of them the family autocrat, Napoleon, had shown particular affection. Indeed Louis had been his favorite brother. They were born nine years apart, and their comradeship had almost a father-and-son quality. In 1791, Napoleon, then a lieutenant, had brought Louis from Corsica to France and assumed charge of his education. It was a severe drain on his slender pay; Lieutenant Bonaparte had to deny himself every social pleasure. But he did not grudge the

4

NAPOLEON III

sacrifice; for the lad was handsome, healthy, intelligent, and affectionate. In 1796, General Bonaparte took his brother with him to Italy. It was then — if Napoleon's word is to be trusted — that Louis fell a victim to what the French call diplomatically le mal de Naples and the Italians il morbo gallico. Louis went to Egypt, as one of his brother's aides-de-camp, and his lifelong ailments were afterwards ascribed to rheumatism contracted during that campaign. Whichever diagnosis we accept, the result, unfortunately, is beyond doubt. Louis, in his young manhood, became an invalid and a hypochondriac. He remained intellectually able, high-minded in a lopsided way, and something of a disciplinarian. Very different from the youngest of the Bonaparte brothers, Jerome, he took seriously his responsibilities, first as an officer and later as a king. But Hortense de Beauharnais was the last person to appreciate these morose virtues. After a chaotic and tragic childhood under the Revolution — her father, General de Beauharnais, beheaded, her mother one of the merry widows of the Thermidorian reaction — she had at last received a proper education in the school of Madame Campan. There an effort was made to restore at least the outward decencies of the ancient regime; but the pleasurecrazy atmosphere of Directoire society could not be stopped by any scholastic barrier, and Hortense was her mother's daughter. She had inherited, if not all the beauty of the creole, at least much of her social charm and a good share of her flightiness. Hortense and Louis were the victims of a family feud and a family intrigue. The hatred of the Bonaparte clan against the Beauharnais reached the bitterness of a Corsican vendetta. They had hoped that Napoleon would repudiate Josephine when he returned from Egypt; they were frustrated, and they lived in fear that he would make Eugene de Beauharnais his heir. Josephine, not above reproach, barren, and aging fast, had to fight every

AN IMPERIAL ADVENTURER

5

inch of her way. She sought to mitigate the hostility of the Corsicans and to strengthen her own position through a second alliance with Napoleon's family. T h e Bonapartes were not disarmed. Indeed, Caroline Murat spread the atrocious rumor that Napoleon had been Hortense's lover, and that her first child, w h o m he wanted to adopt, was his. T h e difference in temperament alone would have made it difficult for the young people to be happy; the campaign of slander, working on the morbid and embittered mind of Louis, made even the semblance of peace impossible. Louis was insanely jealous before he had any serious cause to be; and, according to Napoleon, he attempted to discipline his gay young wife as he would drill a regiment. A son, Napoleon Charles, was born to the unhappy pair in the first year of their marriage, 1802; a second one, Napoleon Louis, in 1804. In 1806, a misfortune even worse than his marriage befell Louis Bonaparte; he was made, against his protest, the puppet K i n g of Holland. Historians unanimously deride those kings by the sole grace of Napoleon who sought to espouse the interests of their people and questioned the will of their maker, the omnipotent Emperor. Yet if a new order were to be established in Europe, the feudatory kings, while working in close harmony with France, should have been allowed a certain degree of dignity and independence. As crowned prefects they were ineffective, offensive, and absurd; only Eugene was fairly successful as Viceroy of Italy. T h e task of Louis in Holland was hopeless; for the prosperity of the Dutch rested on seaborne commerce and could be restored only through peace with England. T h e eternal quarrel between husband and wife now assumed a political aspect; K i n g Louis identified himself with Dutch interests, even when they clashed with those of France; Queen Hortense remained attached to the policies of the Emperor. Their open division was a perpetual scandal; Hortense returned to France.

6

NAPOLEON III

In 1807, their first child died. It seems that their common sorrow brought about a fleeting reconciliation. At any rate, King Louis sought his wife in Southern France, at Cauterets in the Pyrenees and at Toulouse; but before their third child was born they had separated again. No family was ever more virulently attacked than the Bonapartes, not even the Borgia or the Bourbons. We have already seen that the worst charges — as in the case of the Bourbons — originated in the most intimate circle. It is not surprising therefore that the legitimacy of the child should have been questioned. A persistent rumor ascribed his origin to Admiral Verhuel, a very able Dutchman who had cast in his lot with the French regime and who was to end his days in France, under Louis Philippe, as a peer of the realm. No proof could be adduced; Decazes, the future favorite of Louis XVIII, or another Dutchman, Charles de Bylandt, would have done just as well. Between Louis and his third child there was no physical resemblance; but then Louis himself was very different in appearance from the other Bonapartes. The two surviving brothers, in their young manhood, looked strikingly alike. At any rate, King Louis himself raised no question, at the time or later; an alleged letter to the Pope, endorsing the calumny, is considered apocryphal. His attitude to his youngest son was often severe and even ill-natured; but, his surly character being granted, it could not be called unfatherly. To the unbiased, his correspondence, and especially his last will and testament, are conclusive. No one denies that Hortense was pleasure-loving and frivolous, and that she remained a coquette even in the uncongenial and stodgy Court of Holland. It is well known that from 1810 to 1815 she had a liaison with Count de Flahaut, himself the illegitimate son of Talleyrand; of that "open secret" union was born, in 1811, a certain "Demorny" whose destiny, thirty-eight years later,

AN IMPERIAL ADVENTURER

7

was so strangely to meet again that of his half-brother. But 1810 is not 1807. Even Taxile Delord, whose long and journalistic Histoire du Second Empire is a constant attack on the dynasty, dismissed the Verhuel scandal. We should not have mentioned it if Alfred Neumann had not made it the center of his very able biographical romance, Another Caesar. According to him, Louis Napoleon clung all the more desperately to his Napoleonic mission because he was not certain that he was by blood a Bonaparte; he sought in the spirit that legitimacy which was so dubious in the flesh. Psychologically, the hypothesis is interesting, although far-fetched; historically, it is unwarranted. Meanwhile, King Louis had resigned his painful crown and fled first to Westphalia, then to Toeplitz, and finally to Graz in Styria. Landor tells us that "from the throne he had mounted amid the curses of his people, he descended amid their tears." A neatly balanced phrase, but a romantic exaggeration. When Louis had velleities of returning to Holland, no one, least of all his former subjects, paid any attention to his claims. Napoleon publicly deplored his brother's ingratitude, set aside the boy king in whose favor Louis had abdicated, and calmly decreed the annexation of Holland. It had been "created by the alluvions of the rivers of the Empire"; in resuming possession, the Emperor was merely recapturing his own. An ingenious argument; the more decisive one remained unspoken: quia nominor leo. It was not until November 1810 that the young prince was solemnly baptized at Fontainebleau. He was christened Charles Louis Napoleon.1 His godparents were Napoleon I and his new Empress, Marie Louise, for Josephine's long fight had ended in 1

T h e first of these names (after his grandfather Carlo Buonaparte) was never used; to his family, he always was Louis. Between the death of his elder brother in 1831 and his return to France in 1848, however, he signed himself Napoleon Louis. F r o m 1848 to 1852, he resumed the form Louis Napoleon, under which he is universally known.

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III

defeat. In 1811, the K i n g of Rome was born; the fate of the dynasty no longer depended on the rival factions Beauharnais and Bonaparte.

T h e future seemed to belong to the new Charle-

magne; three years later, his immense dominions had shrunk to the Baratarian dimensions of Elba. Hortense was in Paris when the end came; it is claimed that she urged the Empress to defend the capital. But after the final disaster she was not unduly obstinate in her loyalty to the fallen hero. H e had made terms for himself; Josephine, w h o m he had repudiated, felt free to do likewise; and Hortense followed her mother's example. T h e Beauharnais were more than ready to accept the Restoration. Although not of the highest nobility, they belonged to the old world, and had never taken very seriously the parvenu grandeur of the Bonapartes. So Josephine and Hortense welcomed the victors, and in particular Alexander I of Russia. They had at least one excuse: the Tsar posed as a liberal, the friend and deliverer of the French people. Josephine did not live to profit by his friendship. She did not droop like a withered flower, or die of a broken heart; eager as ever to please, she caught cold wearing too flimsy a dress at a reception for the Russian Emperor. Hortense's shrewd diplomacy had its reward; she secured for herself 400,000 francs a year, and the title of Duchesse de Saint-Leu. 2 T h e first Restoration was an uneasy, an ambiguous period. T h e Congress danced in Vienna; France was humbled; yet her government cordially cooperated with the victors while attempting to divide them. T h e aristocracy joyously entertained the invaders, "our friends the enemies"; the people cursed them; the army was dispirited and sullen. Then, escaping from its island cage, "the 2 Her husband had already adopted the name, which was that of an estate near Paris; but he had been satisfied to call himself a count, and resented her ducal pretensions.

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eagle flew from steeple to steeple to the towers of Notre Dame." On the twentieth of March 1815, without having had to fire a shot, Napoleon entered Paris. T h e feelings of Hortense are hard to imagine. She presented herself at once to the kinsman and master she had disowned. H e scolded, but forgave. In this last gamble with destiny he could not afford to scrutinize too closely the loyalties which gathered round h i m ; was he not compelled to accept even Fouche? Marie Louise was gone; Josephine was dead; Hortense and her sons were now his most intimate family. Hence they were associated with the shrunken Empire, so precariously revived, more closely than they had been with the regime in its splendor. Napoleon III was to be the heir of the Hundred Days; and 1 8 1 5 foreshadows 1870. It was as the champion of the Revolution and as the enemy of the restored Ancient Regime that Napoleon had been acclaimed by the people. His best supporters were now his brother Lucien and the old "Organizer of Victory," Lazare Carnot, both convinced democrats. But the ambiguity inherent in Bonapartism paralyzed his action. H e found that his personal prestige and power had been so shaken that his name no longer was an allsufficient principle of government; he could not claim autocracy by divine right; he would not become the Caesar of a Jacobin mob. So, rejecting or rejected on every side, he had to seek an alliance with the Liberals, whom he had always despised and who could never trust him. A new constitution was hastily drawn by Madame de Stael's lieutenant, Benjamin Constant; elections were held, a plebiscite taken, the army reorganized; the adventure was assuming the appearances of a regular government. Everyone knew, however, that the fate of the new regime was to be decided, not at the polls, but on the battlefield; and Europe had formally outlawed Napoleon.

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NAPOLEON III

That is why there was such an ominous air of unreality about the last ceremony of the new Empire, a "May Assembly" which had to be postponed until the first of June. Then, on the great parade ground of the Champ de Mars, Napoleon, visibly middleaged and pufify, absurdly clad in white velvet and satin, announced to the nation the result of the plebiscite, gave their new colors to the regiments, received their oath of allegiance, and passed them in review. By his side, in lieu of the King of Rome, stood the two sons of Louis, eleven and seven respectively, old enough if not to understand the momentous occasion at least to be indelibly impressed by its dramatic pageantry. Eleven days later, the Emperor was leaving for the front. There is a tradition that Louis Napoleon rushed in tears to his uncle's knees crying "Don't go to war! They want to kill you!" and that Napoleon said to Marshal Soult, "The boy has a good heart and a noble soul; who knows but he may be the hope of my race ?" We have this touching story on the authority of Persigny, the most active lieutenant of Louis Napoleon as a pretender. Miraculously apposite prophecies are not rare in propagandist literature. It was the great gambler's last throw. Paris waited, at the same time tense and listless. The cannon roared tidings of victory. While cheering news came from the northern front, it was learned that a Royalist uprising in the west had proved abortive, and that La Rochejaquelein, the Vendeen leader, had been killed. Davout, ablest of the Marshals, commanded in the capital. Social life continued; on the afternoon of June 20, Queen Hortense listened to Benjamin Constant reading his cruelly searching novelette, Adolphe: "We were all in tears, author included." Then the blow fell: Joseph received a message from his brother; Waterloo had been fought and lost on the eighteenth. On the twenty-first, at eight in the morning, Napoleon arrived at the Elysee. It was the fourth time that the great conqueror had abandoned his army.

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T h e following eight days saw an intricate game in which all the participants but one were blindfolded; and even the one exception, Fouche, playing for power as the sole guarantee of his own safety, was at times uncertain of the next move. T h e Liberals, a majority in the Chamber, wanted neither Napoleon nor the Bourbons; Lafayette knew too well that a moderate republic had no chance of success; Napoleon II, with a council of regency, might be the best solution. O n the other hand, Lucien Bonaparte, the hero of Brumaire, demanded another Coup d'fitat and a democratic, national, and military dictatorship; the mob was besieging the Elysee, urging Napoleon to remain and to lead; the remnants of the army, still devoted to their chief, were approaching Paris; the Emperor could rely upon Davout's loyalty.

But

Napoleon himself, now that luck had forsaken him, could not make up his mind to fight, to submit, or to flee. It was a race between political reorganization and the allied armies. England and Russia were not committed to the Bourbon cause; if they had found in Paris a firmly established government, they would probably have recognized it. Blücher was advancing on the heels of the retreating French troops; but in his haste he had left the British far behind. Napoleon saw his last chance; he offered to lead his soldiers again, were it only as "General Bonaparte," and destroy the Prussians.

But a new and even more

decisive Ligny would merely have been the prelude to a worse Waterloo. Half a million men were on the move behind the Prussian and English vanguard. Napoleon had believed too long that a single battle could be a final argument. Fouche's game was twofold. In order to have a bargaining point, he must avoid a sudden and complete surrender to the Bourbons; so the Constitutional Empire had to be kept nominally alive. On the other hand, it was essential that this shadowy government should remain bewildered and paralyzed, so that, when

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Fouche had made his terms, there could be no effective resistance. First of all, on June 22, Napoleon was induced to abdicate, as the only hope of preserving the Empire for his son; but, although Napoleon II was duly proclaimed Emperor of the French, Fouche, Manuel, and their accomplices took care that his accession should seem as uncertain as possible, so that public opinion might have no chance to rally to the support of the regime. Lafayette was sent on a bootless mission to the Allied sovereigns. Davout was kept confused and inactive, until he realized his helplessness. T h e presence of Napoleon in Paris was a constant danger; he was prevailed upon to retire to Malmaison, and the General appointed to "protect" him, Becker, might already have been called a jailer. History can afford to be more sentimental and more melodramatic than self-respecting fiction. It was all too fitting that Napoleon, before starting on the road to exile, should spend the last f e w days at Malmaison. T h e place had been purchased by Josephine in 1798 and decorated by her in a style which had not yet acquired the frozen dignity of the Empire. It had been their country home during the happiest days of the Consulate, that perfect honeymoon of the thirty-year-old hero and his glory. There Josephine had returned, and there she had died; her frail and gracious spirit haunted the rooms and gardens.

Napoleon

requested Hortense to join him at Malmaison, on June 25. T h e weather was magnificent; and the fallen monarch, numb with nervous fatigue, lingered in the lovely park, evoking the memory of " m y good Josephine, a true woman, the most charming person I have ever met." T o be sure, he said also — with a wry smile, w e must surmise — "But her debts! H o w I used to scold her about them!" A n d , with the dread of decisions to take, of new dangers to face, of new indignities to suffer, he sighed: " A h ! how beautiful Malmaison is! Surely, Hortense, we should be very happy if only we were allowed to remain here."

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Queen Hortense, who tells us of these last hours, reveled in sentiment; but there is pathos enough in the bare fact: Napoleon remained from June 25 to June 29 at Malmaison. These poignantly sweet moments deeply affected Hortense. She had been a somewhat fractious member of the imperial family; she had made her peace with the Bourbons; but, even more than Josephine, she was "a true woman." Malmaison did what the Tuileries could never achieve; she became devoted to the man who needed her as a comforter. It was from her that Louis Napoleon was to learn the Napoleonic religion which was the constant inspiration of his life, a faith quite different in its depth and tenderness from the cool and critical loyalty of the other Bonapartes. Nor was Hortense's Napoleonism mere personal devotion; as Napoleon had been overthrown by foreign kings, as his life was threatened by French royalists, Hortense discovered in him the founder of a revolutionary order. Her reflections, after describing Napoleon's departure, are singularly clear and firm for a woman who is so often described as merely frivolous: "It was the Empire that established the preeminence of personal merit over hereditary rank. . . .

I asked myself whether there was any class of

society that had not profited by his presence. Although his chief purpose had always been to uplift the masses and to strengthen the institutions which assured them a true independence, at the same time those rich and titled men who had plotted his downfall were also indebted to him for their very lives, for having made peace between them and the working classes, and for the sense of security which sprang from that peace." 3 This may be too favorable an interpretation of the First Empire; but it constitutes almost the blueprint of the Second. A t Malmaison, Napoleon caught a last glimpse of his two ille3

The Memoirs of Queen Hortense, ed. by Jean Hanoteau, tr. by Arthur K . Griggs, 2 vols. ( N e w Y o r k : Cosmopolitan Book Corp., 1927), II, 250.

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gitimate children — Leon, son of Eleonore Denuelle de la Plaigne, and Alexander Walewski, son of his one great hidden love, that young Polish countess w h o had sacrificed herself — in vain — for the sake of her country. Both of them were to play a part in the life of Louis Napoleon. Count Leon, a ne'er-do-well, fought an absurd duel with him in London; Walewski we shall meet again as a great personage of the Second Empire, Minister of Foreign Affairs and President of the Legislative Body. Napoleon was tarrying dangerously at Malmaison. T h e Provisional Government was anxious to see him g o ; if he was no longer a menace, he was still a remorse. A t any moment he might be captured, either by French royalists or by Prussian soldiers; and from neither could he expect any mercy. W i t h every hour of delay, his chances of escaping to America were reduced. A t last, on the evening of June 29, he left for Rochefort. T w o frigates were waiting for him in the roadstead of the island of Aix. Just beyond, the Bellerophon

was watchfully cruising. II

The parting, Hortense tells us, instead of being heart-rending, brought her a feeling of relief. In this she was in full harmony with France and Europe. A t the height of his power, Napoleon had once asked his courtiers: " W h a t will the world say when I depart?"

Every one was trying to think up some memorable

phrase. But the great realist answered his own question: "They will say: Ouf!

A t last!"

Hortense returned to Paris, where she had left her children in hiding. Her one desire now was to enjoy private life; if possible, with the man she considered as her morganatic husband, Flahaut. But she discovered what difference the Hundred Days had made in the minds of the Allies and of the royalists. Europe, having trembled again, distrusted incorrigible France far more than in

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1814. The Bourbons had been made ridiculous — a crime of lese majeste for which there could be no remission. Hortense, one of the closest associates of Napoleon during that fantastic episode, was now hated as twice a transfuge. She was accused of having plotted for Napoleon's return while accepting favors from Alexander and Louis XVIII. The Tsar, this time, denied his protection. She had to rent an apartment under an assumed name. Finally, she was ordered out of the capital; she was not safe for Paris, and Paris was not safe for her. The White Terror had begun. She set forth for Switzerland, escorted by a young Austrian officer, Count Woyna. Metternich had picked him out because he was "as handsome as a hero of romance." The great diplomat, himself a master philanderer, was not above employing sirens of both sexes; he probably hoped that Woyna would have with Hortense the same success as Neipperg with Marie Louise; such a move was a flattering tribute to her importance. Hortense would gladly have forgotten Louis, and she might even have forgotten Napoleon; but she could not forget Flahaut. Woyna's protection was not superfluous; at Dijon, in particular, royalist officers wanted to arrest her. Woyna led her to Geneva, where the local authorities, under pressure from France, would not allow her to stay, and thence to Aix in Savoy. There he bowed himself out, the essential part of his mission unfulfilled. Later on he was to take the Queen's part with great zeal, affirming she was not clever enough for the role ascribed to her. She professed to be well satisfied with this plea. Even Aix was no safe retreat. The situation was equivocal. The Austrians, who were not vindictive, were withdrawing; Savoy was still under French administration, but already occupied by Piedmontese troops. In their sullen confusion, Hortense's enemies would not allow her to stay anywhere, or move anywhere. She

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could not stop in a town for the night but some prefect, officer, or diplomat would raise objections. Finally Baden offered her a temporary refuge at Constance; the Grand Duke had married a cousin of hers, Stephanie de Beauharnais. Thanks to the Tsar, still the most generous among the victors, she was permitted to reach that haven. She had other friends in Southern Germany. The King of Bavaria had been faithful to Napoleon almost to the last; and her brother Eugene, now Duke of Leuchtenberg, had a firm position at the court of his father-in-law. Thanks to these connections, she was allowed at last to purchase a house at Augsburg in Bavaria and a summer home at Arenenberg in the Swiss canton of Thurgau. From 1817 until her death twenty years later her peace was no longer disturbed. There it was, in that gemütlich Alemannic atmosphere, that Louis Napoleon received most of his education. In the meantime, two series of events had taken place which, negatively, were to influence the boy's destiny. On March 8, 1815, a decree of the French courts had made the separation of Louis and Hortense official and given the father the custody of his elder son. In the autumn, while Hortense was at Aix, he sent his agent to claim Napoleon Louis. There were afterwards talks of reconciliation, and counter talks of Papal annulment; Hortense favored neither. She and Louis met a few times again, at Leghorn and in Rome; family life was never resumed. It was also during the first months of her exile that Hortense lost Flahaut. Letters addressed to him had come into her hands, and she felt she had the right to open them; she found that another had claims on the affection of the handsome soldier, in all likelihood a queen of tragedy, Mademoiselle Mars. That storm was weathered, and Flahaut came back, duly repentant. But he went to England and found favor in the eyes of a young lady rich, well born, and talented. The position of morganatic consort

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to a fallen queen has drawbacks; yet Flahaut, more dutiful than ever, offered to return. But Hortense understood, and released him; and, like so many victims, she found consolation in religion. She fainted, she wept, she believed — this was the era of Chateaubriand. 4

As a result, Louis Napoleon was brought up by his

mother alone, in an atmosphere of elegiac resignation. His gentleness and his melancholy were hers — those qualities which contrasted so strangely with the martial legend of the First Empire and with the gaudy materialism of the Second. From her also he inherited that craving for affection, facile but not depraved, which even in his autumn days betrayed him, as it had betrayed her, into irregular paths. He lacked, therefore, the guidance of men — either his misanthropic father or his tacitly acknowledged stepfather. A virile influence, however, came into his life with the appointment of Philippe Lebas as his tutor. W h y Lebas should have been selected remains a mystery. Preceptors in princely households, as a rule, were ecclesiastics, men of the world, or soldiers; Lebas was an austere republican scholar, the spiritual heir of Robespierre. His parents were Philippe Lebas and Elizabeth Duplay; she the daughter of the cabinetmaker who had offered the Jacobin dictator a home; he, with Couthon and Saint-Just, Robespierre's most devoted lieutenant. When in Thermidor the reign of Virtue and Terror was abruptly closed, Lebas committed suicide to cheat the guillotine. T h e son of this Plutarchan hero preserved his republican orthodoxy; he cherished it to the end, even when his former pupil became Emperor of the French. H e was oddly out of place in the family circle of Hortense, who belonged to the old world 4 Auguste Charles Joseph, Comte de Flahaut (or Flahault) de la Billarderie ( 1 7 8 5 - 1 8 7 0 ) , married a daughter of Lord Keith on June 19, 1817. Napoleon III made him a Senator, an Ambassador, and Chancellor of the Legion of Honor. Fortunate to the last, the son of Talleyrand and the father of Morny died on the very eve of Sedan, September 1, 1870.

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and filled her house with priests. He did not even fulfill the one condition she had insisted upon, he was not a bachelor. We are constantly at a loss with Hortense. Because she dressed and danced prettily, dabbled with painting, and composed sentimental songs in troubadour style, we are apt to dismiss her with affectionate indulgence. So we hesitate to offer what after all is the most natural hypothesis, that Hortense knew what she was doing. She had been shrewd enough to realize, even before Napoleon's death, that the sole justification of the Bonapartes was their democratic origin; in a legitimist scheme of things, they were mere adventurers. She preferred a young Jacobin who was a man to vapid survivors of the Ancient Regime with whom she was only too well acquainted. At any rate, the appointment was no sudden caprice. Thanks to the interference of King Louis, who at that time chose to demand his second son also, the negotiations were protracted, and Lebas retained his position for seven years. He found his pupil apt and willing enough, rather retarded in development, "gently stubborn," as his mother called him. He organized a somewhat formidable plan of education, in which even meal hours and strolls were utilized; but the social activities of the little court often ruined his elaborate time-table, and kept the boy human. What part Philippe Lebas had in the formation of Louis Napoleon's mind is uncertain. He did not turn him into a stern republican or an incorruptible follower of virtue; yet it is not indifferent that the future Emperor should have been for seven years under the influence of a man with a mind and a conscience. Louis Napoleon alone, very different from his uncles and cousins, accepted his heritage not as a privilege but as a responsibility. One great service Lebas did for Louis Napoleon: he induced Hortense to place him in the Augsburg High School or Gymnasium. At last the exiled young Prince had a normal life with

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boys of his own age. He acquitted himself well, starting very near the bottom of his class and rising steadily. He never expressed any great enthusiasm for the education he received at Augsburg. Yet it came at the most impressionable and decisive age, and it had upon him a profound influence. Louis Napoleon, who spoke French at home and had a French tutor, became in speech and probably in thought thoroughly Germanized. For decades afterwards his Teutonic accent was noticeable and indeed embarrassing. His taciturnity, his slow and painful enunciation, which made people call him dull-witted before he won power and sphinx-like after he had achieved it, may be partly attributed to that cause; he could speak effectively, but unless he exercised great care he would relapse into German intonation. This was a standard joke with the opposition press under the Second Republic; he was constantly represented as using the thick jargon of Baron de Nucingen, the grotesque banker in Balzac's novels. A later version of the same gibe was ascribed to Bismarck. Napoleon III had congratulated the Prussian diplomat on his French: "I have never heard a foreigner speak our language like you." And Bismarck retorted: "Sire, I can return the compliment: I have never heard a Frenchman speak his language the way Your Majesty does." The story, even though apocryphal, is not incredible; for Bismarck knew how to veil his insolence with a show of bluff humor. This Germanism was more than a trick of the tongue. Louis Napoleon, who never showed any deep interest in French literature, was very fond of German poetry, and particularly of Schiller. In prison, after the Boulogne fiasco, he sought consolation in translating Die Ideale, a poem by his favorite.0 The brother of Prince Albert, Ernest II, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, reports: 6

Andre Lebey, Les Trois Coups d'£tat de Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte: I. Strasbourg et Boulogne (Paris, 1906), pp. 357-358.

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"Sometimes during a quiet chat when he would sit in his armchair smoking cigarette after cigarette almost like a man in a dream, he gave me the impression of a German savant rather than of a sovereign of France. On such occasions, he would recite whole poems by Schiller, and would pass suddenly from French to German in his talk." 6 W h e n Victoria and Albert returned the visit of the French sovereigns and had a delightful time at SaintCloud, there were "intimate confabulations protracted by long exchanges between Albert and the Emperor of old German songs and memories."

7

Louis Napoleon was a veritable League of Na-

tions in one man.

He even improved upon his uncle Prince

Eugene, that good Frenchman who, as Viceroy, had proved an excellent Italian, and who died, universally regretted, as a Bavarian Duke. Creole and Corsican, a Dutch prince through a brief whim of fate, a Southern German by education, he was to find himself perfectly at home among the British aristocracy, and he married a Spaniard. But next to France, his country was Italy. He had taken repeated trips beyond the Alps — to Leghorn, to Florence, where his father had summoned him. But Rome was the natural gathering place of the clan. In 1823, 1824, 1826, Hortense and Louis Napoleon spent many weeks there, meeting the Matriarch, Madame Letizia; her brother Cardinal Fesch; Lucien, Prince of Canino, and his innumerable brood; and K i n g Louis himself. It was odd that the family of the excommunicated Emperor who had held the Pope a prisoner and robbed him of his domains should find a refuge in the capital of the Church: the restoration of Catholicism in France through the Concordat still seemed to the Pontiff a miraculous achievement, for the sake of which a multitude of sins could be forgiven. It was more natural, 6 F. A. Simpson, Louis Napoleon and the Recovery of France, 1848-1856 (London and New York, 1923), p. 267. 7 Ibid., p. 325.

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however, that the Bonapartes should be interested in the national existence of Italy; for Napoleon had practically realized that ancient dream, almost forgotten since Machiavelli. The name Italy had become a mere geographical expression; it was Napoleon who gave it again a definite political significance. His stepson was Viceroy in the north, his brother-in-law Murat was King in Naples; his own prefects governed the center. In Italy alone, the downfall of Napoleon meant, not liberation, but irremediable disruption, and a yoke more foreign and less enlightened than his own. Already in the twenties there had been liberal movements throughout Europe; ill-concerted, they had been easily repressed. The Greeks alone were able to keep up the fight against their "legitimate" rulers, the Turks, thus greatly embarrassing the Holy Alliance, which could side neither with infidels nor with revolutionaries. In 1830, insurrections flared up everywhere. In "three glorious days," the Bourbons were driven from their French throne; the Dutch had to relinquish Belgium; Poland was in open rebellion against the Tsar; all Italy was in a turmoil. The order imposed by the victors at Vienna was thus shaken; and the heirs of the defeated Caesar must have been thrilled with hope. In December 1830, Louis, Hortense, Jerome met again in Rome; but, never overbold, the Emperor's brothers were in no mood for adventures, and decided upon inaction. The younger generation, however, was quivering. The two sons of Louis, the elder son of Jerome, barely sixteen, a son of Lucien, Pierre, even younger, planned a fantastic attack on the Vatican. This adolescent plot was easily nipped. The two younger lads were gently kept out of mischief; the son of Jerome had but a brief career; Pierre, on the contrary, lived for another half-century, through incredible vicissitudes. The two elder princes managed to get out of Rome. In Florence, they were approached by an Italian patriot,

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Menotti; it has been claimed, but without substantial evidence, that they already belonged to the secret society of the Carbonari. W h e n , in February 1831, an insurrection against the Pope broke out in Romagna, the brothers were among its leaders. They seem to have enjoyed their first taste of martial activity, and to have given a good account of themselves. Yet they were requested by the insurgents themselves to abandon the cause: their expected contribution was not their prowess, but their name, and that name had ceased to be an asset. T h e movement was making headway against the inefficient Papal troops; but the real danger was Austria, and the only protection against that danger was the intervention of France. N o w the new K i n g of the French, Louis Philippe, could hardly be expected to help a revolution in which two Bonaparte princes figured prominently. T h e insurgents could have spared themselves that gesture of ingratitude; Bonapartes or no Bonapartes, Louis Philippe was not ready to assist them. It was only after their defeat that a policy of "active non-intervention," designed to check the spread of Austrian influence in Italy, was adopted by the French government. T h e Bonaparte princes were no longer combatants; but that did not ensure their safety. Austria had declared that all foreigners who had taken part in the rebellion would be shot, and let it be known that imperial rank would not serve as an excuse. Hortense, in despair, hastened in search of her sons. She discovered that they were at Forli; but at Pesaro she found that the elder had died, after a three days' illness which had begun like measles and turned into a malignant fever. 8 W h e n she joined the younger, he was himself stricken with the same disease. Hortense

showed herself resourceful and courageous.

She

This, at any rate, is the official version. It has been claimed that the young prince was shot, and by a Carbonaro; cf. Octave Aubry, Le Second Empire, p. 13η. 8

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reached Ancona just before the Austrian troops, secured passage for her son on a boat bound for Corfu, and had his baggage sent aboard; then she hid him in a small inner room of the palazzo she had rented. It was that very palazzo that the Austrian commander wanted to appropriate for his own use. Hortense pleaded illness and managed to keep a few rooms for herself. For a week, only a wooden door separated the hunter from his silent quarry. As soon as Louis Napoleon was strong enough to move, Hortense applied for a pass through the Austrian lines, and her son accompanied her in the livery of a footman. Across the Papal States and Tuscany, every stop for changing horses, every night at an inn, every police examination of her papers created a new peril. She avoided the main roads, but she had to pass through cities like Siena where she was well known. Out of the territory controlled by Austrian rulers, she used a passport she had procured in the name of an English lady and her two sons; the part of the missing one was played by a young nobleman compromised in the rebellion. We may note two curious coincidences in this romantic episode. In the same enterprise in which Louis Napoleon was engaged — the storming of Civita Castellana — there died a Count Felice Orsini, whose son, twenty-seven years later, was to attempt to kill Napoleon III. And the Archbishop of Spoleto who favored the flight of the young prince was Monsignore Mastai-Ferretti, who, as Pius IX, was to be Pope during the whole of the Second Empire, and prove at the same time a blessing and a thorn to the regime. Finally, mother and son reached France at Antibes. The Bonapartes were still under sentence of banishment, and their incognito had to be preserved. But with her usual coolness and daring Hortense drove on to Paris, and as soon as she had reached the capital requested to be received by King Louis Philippe. He met

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her with elaborate secrecy, yet with no lack of courtesy and kindness; he even offered financial assistance. But under the present circumstances he could not allow them to remain in France; and under no circumstances would Louis Napoleon be admitted into the French army under his own name — a veto which was probably a blunder. Still, Hortense and her son did not move; the young man was supposed to be ill again with fever. But, sick or not, he had arranged to meet Republican and Bonapartist leaders. T h e police lost patience; the princely intruders were ordered out of Paris, and some time in May they arrived in London, where they received a friendly welcome. In August, they were on their way back to Arenenberg.

CHAPTER II T H E H E I R OF T H E N A P O L E O N I C L E G E N D U R I N G his brief stay in Paris, Louis Napoleon's residence was on the Place Vendome. He was in hiding, soon to be expelled as undesirable; but he could see the column which his uncle had erected to the glory of his own arms. It had already been decided to restore, at the summit of the great shaft of bronze, the statue of the conqueror. On the fifth of May, the anniversary of the Emperor's death, crowds gathered round the monument as though it were the altar of a god. Louis Napoleon heard the roar of that mighty wave; Napoleon-worship was sweeping over France, and many parts of Europe as well. For another decade it would visibly gather momentum. Thereafter, while it lost something of its force among the leaders in thought and art, it reached deeper into the masses. By December 1848, it had become irresistible.

D

Many still consider Napoleon III merely as the ape of his uncle. We believe on the contrary that his regime attempted to face modern problems of which Napoleon I had scarcely an inkling. But there is one point upon which friends and foes are agreed: it was the Napoleonic legend alone that made the Second Empire possible. At a critical moment, economic and political forces were deflected by imagination and passion. As so often happens in history, a Myth took command, and reality humbly followed. It is the story of this myth — more decisive than birthright, achievement, or character — that we must now attempt to trace. When we are using the words myths and legends, we do not mean in this case delusions or lies. Napoleon is not a fabulous

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personage like William Tell; the innumerable facts of his career are known definitely enough, and the two famous little books which attempt to disprove his existence are only clever satires.1 Myths and legends are interpretations rather than fabrications. The legend is the wealth and intensity of the sentiments — favorable or hostile — which crystallize round the facts and almost obliterate them. The myth is the symbolical value attached to a person or an event. Myths and legends are the gigantic and often distorted shadows of actual facts, projected upon the background of our dread or desire. Once the legend has taken hold of our imagination it assumes a life of its own. It is proof against scientific investigation; the common man and the scholar are equally swayed by it. Historians may be extremely realistic in gathering and presenting material details, yet thoroughly uncritical in accepting the aureole that transforms them. In the case of the Napoleonic saga this is almost as true today as it was a hundred years ago. W e shall offer examples from three writers, our contemporaries — an Englishman, a Frenchman and a German — all three sensible, dispassionate, and reasonably careful. General Colin Ballard states that Napoleon was a play-actor, and no gentleman; that he left "no lasting impress on the people w h o knew him best"; that "when the glamour of novelty and mystery had been dispelled, he must have been a sorry figure of a man"; that (an unfamiliar truth) he lost six campaigns out of twelve. But all this does not prevent him from professing: "I think he is the greatest man that ever lived." 2 Richard Whately, Historic Doubts Relative to Napoleon Buonaparte (London, 1819); Jean-Baptiste Peres, Comme quoi Napoleon η a jamais existe; on, Grand Erratum source d'un nombre infini d'errata a noter dans Thistoire du XIX' siecle (1827). 8 Brigadier-General Colin R. Ballard, Napoleon, an Outline (New York: D. Appleton, 1934). 1

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Louis Madelin aspires to be the Thiers of our days, the most inclusive and thoroughgoing historian of the Consulate and the Empire. His many volumes on the subject are one long panegyric. Napoleon, he says impressively, created cities by a stroke of the pen. On closer examination, the "cities" are reduced to La Rochesur-Yon or Napoleon-Vendee. Several years after the miraculous "stroke of the pen," Napoleon was curious to see for himself his magic creation. He found a vast field of mud, and derisively poked his sword through the walls of the mud barracks melting in the rain. He raged as only superhuman Leaders can rage, and slapped the engineer's face. Even now, La Roche-sur-Yon remains a dull fourth-rate official center.3 Kircheisen has devoted his whole life to Napoleonic studies; he has gathered a monumental bibliography of a hundred thousand titles; he is reassuringly free from eloquence and imagination. On the same page of the volume in which he condensed the results of his long efforts, we read first: "One of the many riddles in Napoleon's life is furnished by the problem why, with few exceptions, all in the Emperor's service, French and foreigners alike, were eager to lay down their lives for h i m " ; and, twelve lines below: "On October 28th, 1808, Napoleon wrote to Clarke, the Minister of War: O u t of 747 recruits from the Aube Department, 485 have deserted. Give orders to have them arrested, and sent back to the army.' " 4 Evidently these historians live and write on two planes, the factual and the poetical; and they are not aware that there is an abyss between the two. This represents the Legend hardened into unconscious and indestructible orthodoxy. But how "Louis Madelin, The Consulate and the Empire (New York: Putnam, 1934), I, 169, and Le Consulat (Histoire du Consulat et de l'Empire, vol. IV; Paris: Hachette, 1939), p. 212. Cf. G. Lenötre, La Petite Histoire: Napoleon, Croquis de l'ipopee (Paris, 1932), pp. 137-145. 4 F . M. Kircheisen, Napoleon (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co., 1932), p. 519.

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did the Legend arise? It had many aspects and went through many phases. W e can only sketch the general lines of that very complex story.5 There was a first Napoleonic Legend, that of the Consulate. A t that time, the achievements were real, and the enthusiasm they created was sincere. France in 1800 had but one desire: to close the era of violence, to restore peace, materially and morally, at home and abroad. But she clung to the conquests of the Revolution : political reforms as well as territorial expansion, the Republic and the "natural" frontiers.

Bonaparte satisfied her every

wish. H e gave her the Code, the Concordat, the treaties of Luneville and Amiens. T h e response was instant and almost unanimous. Many emigres returned; the old revolutionists felt safe; even liberals like Madame de Stael and Lafayette, even a staunch republican like Lazare Carnot, were willing to cooperate. Miraculous achievements indeed: but the very nature of miracles is to be accidents. There are miraculous moments, but no miraculous regimes. Within a few years, everything that France had hoped for had disappeared. Privilege was restored, liberty was stifled; against the one Bastille of the Bourbons, Napoleon had eight; the Emperor was excommunicated by the Pope w h o had crowned him; war raged incessantly, and the most dazzling victories failed to bring permanent peace any nearer. A s a result, the showy structure of the Empire failed to convince thoughtful men; all felt that it could not last. Even the army was disaffected; conscripts deserted, veterans grumbled, Marshals barely concealed their dismay. There was applause, because a well-staged pageant always brings unreflecting applause; there was no audible protest, because the Emperor had imposed upon all a leaden silence; there was no deep loyalty and no confidence. N o sooner had Napo5 C f . Albert Guerard, Reflections Charles Scribner's Sons, 1924).

on the Napoleonic

Legend

(New

York:

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leon's power been shaken by defeat than his servile Legislative Body and his hand-picked Senate found their voices again. When he fell, his bureaucrats and his generals openly expressed their relief. On his way to exile he was jeered at and even menaced by hostile crowds. Marie Louise forgot him at once; Josephine entertained his victors. Ingratitude? No: deliverance. The unopposed return from Elba does not prove the magic of Napoleon's prestige. It proves only the utter lassitude of the country. France allowed him to come back and allowed the Bourbons to flee with the same disenchanted indifference. Only a minority took part in this desperate interlude. The masses ignored the Emperor's plebiscite; the Chamber elected by a few was hostile to his rule; he did not dare to levy new soldiers. The legend of the Consulate, that of the young Republican hero, lawgiver and peacemaker, was practically dead. The authors of the second Napoleonic legend were first of all the Bourbons. Had the military autocracy been succeeded by a genuinely liberal and modern regime, the Empire might have been remembered only as a nightmare, dramatic and oppressive. In point of fact, as compared with Napoleon's rule, the Restoration was liberal; but the Bourbons managed to create the impression that they had "learned nothing and forgotten nothing." Their principle of Legitimacy was a challenge to the rights of the people. They expunged the Revolution from French history; it seemed as though they were bent on restoring the Ancient Regime entire, with its cruel or frivolous capriciousness, its outworn hypocrisies, its social inequalities more galling than downright oppression. And they had manifestly been brought back through the victory of foreign arms: until the Empire was shaken by defeat, royalism was a forgotten cause. The ludicrous flight of the Bourbons before the shadow of a single man revealed their irremediable weakness. They returned after the Hundred Days a regime

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of senile ghosts. They existed at first on the strength of Napoleon's impopularity and the fear of a third invasion. But with the years these sentiments lost their potency. Napoleon had ceased to be a menace; in contrast with that grey, elderly Court, the figure of the dead dictator arose again, strenuous, virile, and colorful. He had contributed to his own legend, in that "campaign of Saint Helena" which may be considered as his masterpiece. With his unique sense of strategy, he had massed his forces on two points: that he was a martyr, and that he was a martyr for democracy. Neither claim was wholly true; but both, especially in combination, were extremely effective. England had treated him more leniently than Prussia or the French Royalists would have done. Sir Hudson L o w e was no villainous jailer, but simply a humorless, fussy mediocrity overwhelmed by his historic responsibility. Napoleon remembered that he was democracy incarnate only after the legitimate sovereigns had outlawed h i m ; before that, his one desire was to become "the nephew of Louis X V I . " For fifteen years his constant effort had been to destroy the work of the Revolution. Even in 1815, when democracy sought to recapture him, he shuddered at the thought of becoming the Emperor of the Jacobins. In the first months of his exile, he was still a thorough conservative. H e deplored the blindness of the monarchs who would not see that he was their best shield against the revolutionary spirit. But, as all hope of a second return faded away, he saw that his one chance before posterity was to pose as the champion of the people. This was not a deliberate lie; the two elements, revolution and reaction, had always coexisted in his regime and in his mind. It was merely a shift of emphasis and a reversal of the trend. Thus he shaped his own myth, not as the proud conqueror, but as the organizer of a free France assuming leadership in a united Europe. In this new perspective his fall appeared as the defeat, not of tyranny, but of the Rights of Man.

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Such was the gospel that was preached by the Saint Helena writers, Gourgaud, O'Meara, Las Cases. A n ill-assorted and mediocre group: but if the wording was mostly theirs, and often commonplace enough, the inspiration came from Napoleon. The Legend, in its definite form, started neither from the depths of the people nor from the leaders in French literature, but from these few men. It spread in all directions, to the bourgeoisie and to the poets; the masses were the last to be affected. It was only after 1825, and in a very hesitating manner at first, that Romanticism adopted the Napoleonic theme. The Emperor had stifled literature, and under his reign all great writers were in opposition or in exile. So Chateaubriand, the undisputed monarch of the pen, hailed with exultation the Restoration, which he considered as his personal work; and for a decade he and his followers attempted to create for the Bourbon throne an atmosphere of medieval loyalty and faith. It was the Walter Scott spirit carried into the field of actual politics: the Restoration was an historical romance. But no magic could turn the obese epicure Louis X V I I I into a Saint Louis, the dull reformed rake Charles X into a Charlemagne, or the inglorious military demonstration of the Duke of Angouleme in Spain into a crusade. The coronation of Charles X at Rheims in 1825 was the climax of this aesthetic willto-make-believe. The shades of Clovis and Joan of Arc were evoked. In true Romantic fashion, the effect was enhanced with faked wonders; the vial of Holy Chrism which a dove had brought down from heaven for the anointing of Clovis was miraculously found again; and patients suffering from "the King's evil" were submitted to the healing touch of Charles X . The France of Voltaire tittered; and the Romanticists themselves, sated with medievalism, lost interest in the theme. They were not yet ready for Napoleon. The interim was filled by Lord Byron and the struggle for Greek independence. Phil-

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hellenism had admirable romantic elements: the magic of the Orient, the crusading appeal of a fight between the Crescent and the Cross. But it was also a liberal cause: the emancipation of an oppressed nationality from its "legitimate" rulers. By 1830, the conversion of the Romanticists was complete; they honestly believed, with Victor Hugo, that "Romanticism was Liberalism in literature." The Revolution was still associated in men's minds with the Reign of Terror; Utopian Socialism, so far, had affected only a few; thanks to the dullness of the Bourbons, thanks to the masterly "campaign of St. Helena," Liberalism meant Napoleon. Not all Romanticists, however, turned into Napoleon-worshippers. The most sensitive, whether they were aristocrats like Lamartine and Vigny, or men of the people like Michelet, held themselves aloof. But those, of coarser fibre perhaps, who craved communion with a large public and were not afraid of the obvious — Hugo, Dumas, Balzac — became the high priests of the new religion. In this they were associated with men in whom there was not an atom of romanticism, the laureates of the petite bourgeoisie, the facile songster Beranger, the journalist, politician, and historian Adolphe Thiers. Below them, a swarm of hack writers, the most prolific of whom was Marco Saint-Hilaire; still further down, a nameless crew of quick scribblers, until there was no theater in the capital, not even the circus and the vaudeville stage, without its Napoleon. All this did not originate with the people; but it was bound to reach and influence the people. In the early thirties, Napoleon did turn at last into a hero of folklore. Beranger's most famous song, "The Memories of the People," did not even claim to represent the state of public opinion: it prophesied what the peasants under their thatched roofs would say "fifty years hence," and it helped create the feeling that it described. Balzac's admirable

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"Story of the Emperor told in a Barn" came out in 1833. By that time, it is not impossible that the Legend had reached the villages. Andre Lebey offers as an example of Napoleon-worship in the strictest sense a popular engraving in which a dying veteran points to the portrait of the Emperor and says to a priest: "Here is my God." This is no document as to what the people felt under the Empire; it merely shows what was conventionally ascribed to the people in 1836, the date of the picture. The people, it is true, did not protest. How could they, and why should they? They accepted, passively at first, the "memories" that were manufactured for them. Here, as in St. Helena, there was little deliberate lying — rather, an attractive blend of verity and self-delusion. A disaster, even when it is due to sheer incompetence, like the retreat from Moscow, assumes with time dramatic value and epic grandeur. Who could contest the validity of the Legend ? The dead were dead; the young had not suffered; the survivors could hardly resist a process which, magnifying their Leader, turned even his humblest follower into a hero. So the old Grognards, much as they had grumbled and cursed, now chose to remember only their own bravery, their fortitude, their passionate loyalty. Of this transmutation two examples will suffice. There are few more engaging documents than the Notebooks of Captain Coignet.6 The old soldier, who could barely write, speaks for the millions who remained inarticulate. After Waterloo, he went back to civil life; he married a woman who owned a little grocery store, and they lived happy ever after, well quit of the Napoleonic saga. When the Duchess of Angouleme went through his little town, he was proud to don his uniform again, and ride β

Les Cahiers du Capitaine Coignet, 1776-/850, edited by Loredan Larchey (Paris, 1896); The Note-book,* of Captain Coignet, with an introduction by Sir John Fortescue (London: P. Davies, 1928).

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by the side of her carriage. It was only when he was seventy-two that he was prevailed upon to write his souvenirs; they admirably reflect the Napoleonism of 1848, not of 1808; and they prove furthermore that the old Captain was a born storyteller. The other case is that of Cambronne's defiant answer at Waterloo, "The Guard dies and does not surrender." The General himself denied that he had said it; the first mention of it appeared several days later in a newspaper, probably the creation of a clever journalist. Later, a rival legend arose: Cambronne is supposed to have answered, not like a hero of Corneille, with a grandiloquent maxim, but in true soldierly fashion with a curt and coarse expletive. Hugo, in Les Miserables, dwells at length on that terser and more effective version. Both now belong to folklore. But nearly half a century after the event, in 1862, survivors of Cambronne's last stand swore that they had heard his magnificent reply; moreover, they all had repeated it after him. As late as 1877, a military surgeon testified: "I was there; I heard; the Old Guard, the Young Guard, and all present, took up the cry. I shouted with the rest: 'Hurrah for Cambronne! The Guard dies and never surrenders!' " A spurious memory, extremely vivid and perfectly sincere, had been created in their minds by the Legend. It had dramatic fitness, therefore it was true. Credo quia pulchrum? This is exactly the process which was taking place, half-consciously, almost automatically, throughout the French nation, between 1830 and 1848. In this process the share of actual Bonapartist propaganda was at first exceedingly small. One agency, however, was deliberately fostering Napoleon-worship, and that agency was the government of Louis Philippe. 'Georges Lenotre, La Petite Histoire: Napoleon, Croquis de Γ Epopee (Paris,

1932), pp. 233-239.

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II This policy of the Citizen-King is usually described as both crafty and shortsighted. Perhaps a more favorable interpretation is possible. The King's attitude was generous as well as Machiavellian, and his complicated game was successful to the end. It was not his regime, but the Second Republic, that was overthrown by a Bonapartist tidal wave. When the Bourbons fell suddenly in July 1830, the victors found themselves in a quandary. They had merely wanted to give the reactionary Charles X a sharp lesson; but the people of Paris, called to arms, had destroyed the "legitimate" monarchy. The country was hardly more ready for a Republic then than in 1815; the legend of the Terror was still benumbing political thought. There was no organized movement in favor of an Empire; the Eaglet was half-forgotten in his Austrian cage. So a small group of liberal politicians advanced a solution which had been obscurely in reserve ever since 1789: a French 1688, a moderate constitutional revolution, which would preserve the monarchy but establish beyond dispute the supreme rights of the nation. The instrument was ready: the Duke of Orleans, head of the junior branch of the royal family. We may think of Louis Philippe as a wily old man, cheating his young kinsman, the legitimate heir, out of a throne, cheating the heroic workmen of Paris out of a democratic republic, duping the elderly Lafayette, deserving to be blessed by the eternal turncoat Talleyrand. On a certain plane, this damaging conception is not untrue. We may see in him, on the contrary, a man who addressed himself to the desperate task of reconciling the warring factions. For the word compromise, which always implies a capitulation to forces of evil, we might substitute eclecticism, the selection of the best in all traditions and all ideologies, with re-

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conciliation as its immediate purpose and harmony as its ultimate goal. Now this task was very similar to the one that Bonaparte had undertaken in 1799. Bonapartism and Orleanism are both eclectic, or, if you prefer, hybrid regimes; the one attempted to monarchize the Revolution, the other to liberalize the monarchy. In both cases, there was a genuine appeal to cooperation and concord. Louis Philippe in particular labored sedulously to unite the chequered past of France into a single tradition. He turned again the Church of St. Genevieve into a Pantheon or Hall of Fame: a revolutionary measure, for among the great men to whom that temple was dedicated were Voltaire and Rousseau. But, on the other hand, he reopened Versailles, symbol of the ancient regime, gauntly deserted since 1789, as an historical museum consecrated to "all the glories of France." In that spirit he could not obliterate Napoleon any more than Louis X I V or the Convention. So he completed the Emperor's great Triumphal Arch; but the finest group of statuary in it, Rude's Marseillaise, celebrates the armies of the Republic. It must be granted that Louis Philippe was astute, and very consciously so. A bourgeois king by the grace of the barricades, he had to be a politician; he sought to catch every wind of popularity in order to advance his own purpose. Had he not captured Napoleonism, it would infallibly have been used against him. His foreign policy was sound enough: no wild democratic crusade, no war of revenge, no conquest, no fighting for the sake of mere prestige. But such wise caution looked perilously like "peace at any price," and the French could not forget that, twenty years before, their arms had dominated the continent. Louis Philippe attempted to surfeit them with glory — retrospective, and therefore safe. The nation which had lived through the imperial epic could afford to remain at peace without loss of dignity. Com-

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mon sense enthroned was thus glorified with a Napoleonic halo. So the Citizen-King completed the self-advertising monuments of Napoleon I, and surrounded himself with his veterans. Even mediocrities like Savary, Duke of Rovigo, and Maret, Duke of Bassano, were called back to active service. Men who had occupied high offices under the Empire found seats in the House of Peers. N o ceremony was deemed impressive enough, no cabinet was counted complete, without "an illustrious sword." Marshal Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, became almost a permanent figurehead. In this systematic cultivation of the Legend, the climax was reached in 1840, when the remains of Napoleon were solemnly brought back from St. Helena. Joinville, the Sailor Prince, had charge of the sacred mission; on December 15, in a pageant of unexampled magnificence, the Emperor's body was laid to rest at last "on the banks of the Seine, amid that people of France he had loved so well." The King and his family were cheered to the skies; hardly any one seemed to remember that the Emperor's nephew and political heir was imprisoned in a French fortress. Ill But the King had played his clever hand a little too cautiously. He had appropriated all the memories of the Empire — institutions, monuments, living fossils, and the very corpse of the Hero; but he had been of two minds about the Emperor's family. If, in 1830, he had opened wide the gates of France to the Bonapartes, offering them dignities at his court, princely residences, honorary ranks in the army, they would have been glad to accept, and the fusion of the three traditions, royal, republican and imperial, which Louis Philippe desired, might have been accomplished. But in 1830 the new King of the French felt himself very insecure. Metternich still held the Duke of Reichstadt as a pawn in the diplomatic game. So when, in 1831, Queen Hortense asked

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permission to settle in France, Louis Philippe answered "Not yet." Soon the initiative was taken away from him; there was a Bonapartist pretender. In 1830, Louis Napoleon seemed far removed from such prominence. The immediate heir was his cousin, the Duke of Reichstädt ; next came his uncle Joseph, his father Louis, his elder brother Napoleon Louis. By 1832, the situation had changed. Both the young princes that stood ahead of him had died. It was certain that Joseph and Louis, of the older generation, would never take any initiative. So, although Joseph remained the head of the family, active leadership devolved upon Louis Napoleon, then twenty-four years old. The death of the Duke of Reichstadt in 1832 was not such a fatal blow to Bonapartism as the death of the Prince Imperial in 1879. It substituted a pretender who was free for one who was under the control of Metternich. It substituted also the grandson of Josephine for the son of Marie Louise. With the Napoleonic Legend, there had grown a Josephine Legend: she was remembered as the gracious Empress, the true Frenchwoman, Napoleon's companion during the golden years. Most of all, it placed in the front rank the one Bonaparte prince who had faith in the Bonapartist principle. For the poets, for the people, for Louis Philippe himself, for the very family of the hero, the Emperor was but a magnificent meteor; for Louis Napoleon, he was the prophet of a new order. That is why, in our effort to understand the character and destiny of Louis Napoleon, it will not suffice to consider him merely as the passive heir of the Legend. He shaped the Legend anew, and shaped it in his own image; the Napoleon I he worshipped was a foreshadowing of Napoleon III. In the light of this faith, his two attempts to force his way to power, at Strasbourg and at Boulogne, were not so absurd as they seemed. In spite of their ludicrous failure, they did advertise the

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two essential facts that Louis Napoleon was creating: that there was, beside glorious Napoleonic memories which belonged to history, a Napoleonic doctrine which contained the germs of the future; and that this doctrine was incarnated in the Emperor's nephew. It seemed an audacious paradox, and all wise men shrugged their shoulders; but, when all other doctrines had failed, Louis Napoleon was ready. IV

We have left Louis Napoleon, in August 1831, back at Arenenberg. There a delegation of Polish insurgents asked him to become their leader; but his adventure in Romagna had sobered him and he declined. For the next five years, unexpectedly, he became a model Swiss citizen. In the land of William Tell he won prizes for markmanship. He wrote Political and Military Considerations about the land which had become his second country; he served in the militia. The Swiss generously rewarded his good conduct. The canton of Thurgau gave him civic rights in 1832, the Confederacy made him an honorary citizen in 1833; in 1834, Berne conferred upon him an honor he cherished even more — he was appointed a captain of artillery. He was already busy on his Artillery Manual, a solid piece of work which General Dufour praised very highly. He was no mere princely dabbler; to the end of his career, he retained his interest in the subject. As Emperor, against his more conservative advisers, he promoted the breech-loading cannon, the Chassepot rifle, the machine gun. At the Exposition of 1867, he was seen examining, with the appreciation of an expert, the exhibit of Krupp. This manual was not written purely for Art's sake. He sent it, with his compliments, to a number of French military men. Thus relations were established, courteous, professional, non-committal; and the army was reminded that once more there was a young

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artillery officer by the name of Bonaparte. This was the quieter part of his advertising campaign. He wrote pamphlets, and letters to the press. Any occasion would serve; at a pinch, he would create an occasion by contradicting solemnly, in a public announcement, news that no one had noticed or believed. By means which, like his very eloquence, were still juvenile, he was "forcing himself to such an eminence as to catch the dying rays of the St. Helena sun." 8 He had thus asserted his claims and shown his mettle before 1835, when he met Victor Fialin, alias the Viscount or Count de Persigny. The influence of this curious personage remains illdefined. Neither of the two young men was the tool of the other; they were both ardent Bonapartists. For the daring steps which followed, and for their failure, Louis Napoleon alone assumed full responsibility. Yet it is not inconceivable that there would have been no Strasbourg Futsch and ultimately no Second Empire without the more rudimentary and more obscure adventurer who now placed at the service of the Prince his devotion and his daring. 9 Thus Fialin de Persigny appeared, if not as the master-mind, at least as one of the protagonists in the tragi-comedy of Strasbourg. It was through him that the plot was provided with the most melodramatic and perhaps most effective of stock characters, the temptress, Eleonore Gordon. Louis Napoleon had established contact with a number of officers in the Strasbourg garrison. One of the first was Laity, a lieutenant of engineers; by far the most important was Colonel Vaudrey, in command of the 3rd and 4th Artillery regiments. Vaudrey, like many of the older army men, had served under Napoleon; he felt he had been slighted by the July Monarchy; but ' L e t t e r to M. Vieillard, his brother's former tutor, January 1835. "Fialin, born in 1808 like Louis Napoleon, borrowed from his mother's family the "dormant" title de Persigny. H e had first been a noncommissioned officer in the Hussars; dismissed for political activities, he became a journalist.

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the decisive argument that won him to the cause of the Prince was Eleonore Gordon, nee Brauk, a veritable Bradamante, concert singer and expert fencer, whom Persigny introduced to the middleaged and susceptible Colonel. It was intimated that General Voirol, although he had not committed himself, would not oppose the movement. On October 30, 1836, at six in the morning, Louis Napoleon and a handful of followers appeared at the Austerlitz barracks. Vaudrey had already drawn the regiment on parade; he now presented the Prince to the soldiers, and a lusty shout: "Vive I'Empereur!" was the unanimous response. Louis Napoleon assumed command, and, with the band playing, he marched out of the barracks at the head of the regiment. Napoleon I had far fewer men when he landed at Jouan Bay, near Cannes, in 1815. If only the other forces at Strasbourg would follow the 4th Artillery, Louis Napoleon would have the solid nucleus of an army; all the discontent created by six years of dreary squabbling, all the enthusiasm roused by the Legendmongers, might very well be polarized. T o the young man followed by his troops in the blare of martial music, the regime of Louis Philippe may have appeared ready to dissolve like a mist. And the danger, when the news came, was fully realized in Paris. For, at this solemn moment, fate chose to play a trick worthy of the melodramatic stage. A despatch was sent to the government by means of the "aerial telegraph," a semaphoric system created by Claude Chappe at the time of the Revolution. It read: "This morning about six, Louis Napoleon, son of the Duchess of Saint-Leu, who had in his confidence Colonel Vaudrey of the Artillery, went through the streets of Strasbourg with. . . ." The passage in italics was given as doubtful; the end was missing; the fog had intervened. Louis Philippe, his court, and his ministers were left to guess the riddle.

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Guizot, in his Memoirs,10 gives us a relation of that night; through his dignified restraint we can feel the anguish, the dismay, or the secret hopes of men who had gone through many revolutions and served many regimes; above all, the lassitude of the aging King, who had known so many years of penurious exile. In the morning came the end of the despatch, and a messenger from General Voirol. A last-minute fluctuation in the plans of the conspirators, and above all the determination of Voirol himself, had caused the movement to collapse within less than three hours. Persigny had escaped. All the other participants were arrested. The government chose to minimize the affair. Louis Napoleon was treated with fatherly leniency, and shipped abroad. It was absurd, after releasing the chief offender, to bring his accomplices to trial. This the Cabinet failed to realize, and reaped the reward of its obtuseness. On January 19, 1837, the accused were unanimously declared not guilty by a Strasbourg jury, after a twelveday trial which provided excellent publicity for Bonapartism. The verdict was hailed with great rejoicing by the whole city, including the garrison. Meanwhile, the frigate Andromede, with Louis Napoleon on board, had sailed with sealed orders on November 21, 1836. She took a leisurely cruise to Rio de Janeiro, and finally landed the Prince in the United States. He was well received in America, 11 and perhaps he was ready to turn into a good American like his cousin Achille Murat. But he was snubbed by his uncle Joseph, upon whom he had counted; and he received news of his mother's 10

F. Guizot, Memoirs to Illustrate the History of my Time, London, 1861, IV, 197, 198. 11 There were unpleasant rumors about him, but they were the result of a confusion; his cousin Pierre happened to be in N e w York at the same time, and to make himself objectionable. Pierre's destiny follows Louis Napoleon's like a caricatural shadow.

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failing health. So he sailed for England, and reached Arenenberg on August 4. Mother and son had but two months together. Early on October 9, Queen Hortense died. The clever men round Louis Philippe fumbled again. They took umbrage at the presence of the Prince in Switzerland. The proud little Republic defended a refugee who was almost an adopted son; France, clumsily, massed troops on the border. When the crisis had gone far enough to enhance the national and international importance of the Pretender, he saved the situation by withdrawing of his own accord. In the fall of 1838, he went over to London, and the French Cabinet did not attempt to bully England. English society took him up eagerly. He had an illustrious name, and already a romantic career; he was an accomplished horseman and a good shot; he had quiet and courteous manners; and for a while, at any rate, he was not hampered by lack of money. He was a member of the best clubs, and was entertained by the best hostesses. It is well to remember these pleasing months; it may correct the impression that Louis Napoleon was a seedy adventurer from Soho for whom his imperial claims were only a financial gamble. It is true that he was repeatedly short of funds at later moments, and even when he was President of the Republic; it is true that, with lofty indifference, he had recourse to the strangest backers — the eccentric dethroned Duke of Brunswick, the professional beauty Miss Howard. But he had poured at least two fortunes of his own into his cause. Disraeli gives a very favorable account of him, under the name of Prince Florestan, in his household at Carlton Gardens. Although he associated with Count d'Orsay, and took part in the notorious Eglinton Tournament, he was no mere man of fashion — any more than Disraeli himself. He worked more seriously than ever before at his exacting business as a Pretender; he read,

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he kept up an extensive correspondence, he ran a couple of newspapers in France, he wrote pamphlets. Again Persigny was his right-hand man. T h e "London Letters" by the former Hussar were flagrant and not unskillful propaganda. 12 ν A t Strasbourg, Louis Napoleon had at least caught a glimpse of success. In the next four years, he had matured; his cause had been well advertised; Parliamentary rule in Paris was revealing its worst aspects, instability and selfish intrigue; French prestige abroad was at its lowest; the government of Louis Philippe was soon to be isolated and humiliated by the insolent policy of Palmerston; the Napoleonic Legend was reaching its zenith. Every circumstance therefore seemed more favorable than in 1836. Yet the second attempt of Louis Napoleon was a far more humiliating fiasco than the first. Indeed the whole affair seemed to be concocted in a spirit of parody, like some opera büß a episode. On the fourth of August 1840, the steamer Edinburgh

Castle,

chartered for a pleasure cruise, left London Bridge. She picked up various members of the expedition at Blackwall, at Greenwich, at Gravesend, where the Prince went aboard, at Margate, and at Ramsgate. It was found impossible to reach Boulogne, as planned, on the fifth at daybreak. It would have been dangerous to linger in port; so the steamer, all that day, roamed aimlessly and very uncomfortably in the Channel. On the sixth, at one o'clock in Visite au prince Napoleon-Louts, lettres de Londres (Paris, 1840). With the eyes of faith, Persigny even detected Napoleonic features in the countenance of the Prince. There were many living likenesses of the Emperor — Count Leon, Count Walewski, an alleged third son who died in San Francisco, K i n g Jerome and his son Prince Napoleon, and most of all Princess Napoleone Bacciochi, Countess Camerata. But neither the K i n g of Rome nor Napoleon III figures in that gallery. 12

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the morning, a seasick little band was landed at Wimereux, three miles north of Boulogne. The troop, fifty-six in all, were arrayed in French uniforms, which had been distributed on board. Until they had left England, the rank and file knew absolutely nothing about the "party," although a few may have guessed. Some of them were Poles; the rest were French; nearly one half were personal servants and took the adventure as part of the day's work. Gambetta echoed the story that Louis Napoleon had with him a tame eagle, which was to hover above his head, attracted by a piece of bacon in his hat. This crowning absurdity is apocryphal; but it fitted so well with the tone of the whole enterprise that it deserved to survive. Hardly less farcical were the promotions and decorations which the Pretender, when he was presented to the Boulogne garrison, distributed with a lavish hand, together with more substantial gold pieces. At Strasbourg, Louis Napoleon had secured the complicity of a colonel; at Boulogne, his one confederate was a lieutenant. At Strasbourg, he had led a regiment; at Boulogne, he was arrested, after an unseemly scuffle, by a few coast guards and national guards. Ironically, the column erected by Napoleon to the Grand Army saw the last feeble stand of his nephew. "Nothing fails like failure": we are left wondering at the utter futility of the whole affair, indeed at its farcical character. Louis Napoleon, we must remember, was no adolescent, and no crackbrained bohemian. He had already shown singular pertinacity and a great deal of shrewdness. The fiasco was not due to nervousness or cowardice. At Boulogne, as at Strasbourg and on many later occasions, Louis Napoleon may have shown a lack of spectacular dash and quick resourcefulness; but his quiet courage was not impugned. T w o hypotheses may explain the ludicrous discrepancy between

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the goal and the means. The first, the more definite but also the more questionable, is that Louis Napoleon had reasons to count upon powerful accomplices who would have rallied to him at the first sign of success. The chief of these may have been General Magnan, who commanded at Lille. Magnan was at the same time unscrupulous and prudent. He testified later that he had been approached by a Bonapartist agent, whose offers he had indignantly rejected, but whom he refrained from turning over to the police. It was Magnan who eleven years later was the chief instrument of the Coup d'fitat; but, cautious even in a desperate adventure, he insisted upon remaining a mere instrument and obeying orders from the Minister of War. The events of 1851 throw a curious light upon those of 1840. But for the energetic Captain Col-Puygelier, Louis Napoleon might have secured Boulogne; and it is not inconceivable that Boulogne would have meant Lille, and a whole division. Louis Napoleon, before his judges, claimed that he had no accomplice. This was generous and wise; but perhaps it was not quite true. The second explanation is Louis Napoleon's hypnotic faith in his own cause — a faith which he believed the whole of France was sharing, except a few profiteers in Paris. Under that assumption, another return from Elba would be no miracle. It was sufficient for the Prince to present himself somewhere on French soil, and France would rally to the national ideal. The Napoleonic fervor which was raging throughout France would seem to justify this delusion. For a delusion it proved to be. The Pretender did not realize that the Napoleonic Legend at its very climax was but a legend — that is to say, something to be enjoyed rather than believed in or acted upon; that it might be a sufficient motive for a pageant, but not for a revolution; and that it was still the saga of one man, not a principle of government. This supports our contention that

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Louis Napoleon was not purely and simply the passive heir of the Legend: that led him only to the sorry discomfiture of Boulogne. He had to transform the Legend to his own usage, to transcend the epic of conquest, to make Napoleonism a new order, not a mere memory; and in order to achieve this, he had to equate the three terms: Napoleon I = Caesarian Democracy = Louis Napoleon. A paradoxical task: his own convictions could not have assured its success without the support of circumstances not of his own making. But circumstances without his convictions would have fallen into a very different pattern. He inherited, but he also shaped, his destiny.

CHAPTER III T H E U N I V E R S I T Y OF H A M A N D T H E F A I T H OF ' F O R T Y - E I G H T N C E more Louis Philippe was very much embarrassed with his prisoner. He had tried indulgence after Strasbourg, only to be challenged again, four years later, by the incorrigible Bonapartist pretender. It would not have been safe to send him before a regular court of justice. France at that time was not revolutionary, and not even disloyal; but she was frondeuse, reveling in pinprick opposition, always ready to tease the government with mocking songs and cartoons, eager to score a point against the capable but all-too-clever K i n g ; a jury might have thought that acquitting the conspirators would be a very popular prank. The newspapers in France and abroad harped so unanimously on Louis Napoleon's mental derangement that a dignified and comfortable lunatic asylum might have been the most acceptable solution. But it would have been paradoxical to declare a man insane because he took the Napoleonic Legend too seriously at the very moment when the Emperor's remains were brought back to Paris with such a display of patriotic fervor.

O

It was decided to have the Prince and his accomplices tried before the House of Peers. A n exceptional but not an unnatural jurisdiction: under the Third Republic, attempts against the safety of the State, those of Boulanger in 1889 and of Deroulede in 1900, were likewise brought before the Upper House. It is obvious that a purely political body cannot be expected to render a judicial sentence. But an armed revolution is not an ordinary offense; it

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is an act of civil w a r ; and a regime in mobilizing its staunchest supporters is simply exercising the right of self-defense. T h e decision, however, involved two dangers. T h e first was due to the fact that Louis Philippe had stocked his Chamber of Peers with survivors of the Empire. It was hard for those men to forget either their present position or their origin. As a result, more than one half of the Peers, including Count de Flahaut and Admiral Verhuel, refused to pass judgment. Of the 3 1 2 members, only 167 attended the trial, and only 152 voted the final condemnation. T h e second and worse danger was that a ludicrous fiasco was magnified into a major crisis. In France, according to an old proverb, it is deadly to be ridiculous, and Louis Napoleon at Boulogne had cut a very sorry figure. But a man arraigned before the Upper House ceases to be a negligible adventurer. Louis Napoleon seized his opportunity with singular daring and skill. The pretender who had so hopelessly fumbled in action, as though he had been in a daze, revealed himself in the courtroom as a master of strategy. He presented his own cause in a speech which was a model of spare and vigorous political eloquence. N o apologies, no recriminations: a direct challenge to the very principle of the Orleanist regime. T h e Napoleonic Empire had been ratified by a solemn plebiscite; only a f e w hundred Parliamentarians, representing at most 200,000 wealthy electors, had made Louis Philippe K i n g of the French. Louis Napoleon had come, not to claim an hereditary throne, but to do what the plutocratic July monarchy had never dared — to consult the will of the people. T h e Prince's thesis was amplified by his counsel, Berryer. Berryer was perhaps the greatest orator in those days which in France were the golden age of forensic eloquence. He was no Bonapartist, but a Legitimist, and he welcomed the chance of denouncing the Orleanist usurper. T h e divine right of Kings and the

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divine right of the people were rival conceptions, but both of them had the dignity of a principle. Orleanism, on the contrary, was a makeshift, and appealed only to material interests. "You jeer at the Prince because he failed," said Berryer. "On my conscience, I affirm that if he had been successful, I should still have refused to recognize him. If any one of you can swear the same oath, him I accept as a judge. But you, barons, counts, ministers, marshals of the Empire . . . !" Then rose General de Montholon, a relic of Saint Helena, one of the participants in the Boulogne adventure: "I received the Emperor's last breath; I closed his eyes; my conduct needs no other explanation." Berryer had made an admirable case against the prosecutors; but, as he fully expected, this did not improve the immediate chances of the accused. On the sixth of October, Prince Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte was sentenced to "perpetual imprisonment in a fortress within the continental territory of the realm." Lieutenant Aladenize, his accomplice at Boulogne, General de Montholon, Fialin "alias de Persigny," the faithful Dr. Conneau, and ten others received lighter sentences. Four minor members of the expedition were acquitted. On October 7,1840, Louis Napoleon was interned in the fortress of Ham. The citadel, ancient but not strikingly picturesque, was a large quadrangle with heavy round towers at each corner, rising in the marshy countryside of Picardy; within the medieval ramparts there were two modern brick barracks. While by the trial before the House of Peers the stigma of grotesque failure had been removed, the Prince did not turn, then or at any time during his captivity, into a popular hero. N o one gave him a serious thought, two months after his condemnation, during the great pageant of his uncle's second burial. The July Government, with all its limitations, was humane as well as shrewd; with Saint Helena as a warning, it took good care that the Prince should have no chance

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to become a martyr. His quarters, in one of the towers, were comfortable enough: a large study, which he filled with books and Napoleonic relics, leading to an inner bedroom. He was treated with great consideration. His friends, General de Montholon and Dr. Conneau, shared his captivity. He was allowed to keep his valet Thelin, who, after a few months, was free to leave the fortress and go to town as he pleased. He could ride in the courtyard, grow flowers, perform chemical experiments. He had many visitors. One of the earliest was Louis Blanc, who was surprised to find in Louis Napoleon such a convinced fellow socialist. Among the steady callers was a young laundress, known as la belle sabotiere; the sons of "the fair daughter of the clog-maker" were given titles and estates under the Second Empire. From the material point of view, the regime to which Louis Napoleon was submitted at Ham was no less rigorous than the one his uncle had to endure in Saint Helena. Napoleon I, too, had companions, personal servants, a garden, visitors; and it is not certain that the climate of Picardy is pleasanter or healthier than that of the Southern Atlantic. But the whole atmosphere was different, perhaps because it was not in Louis Napoleon's nature to create and to nurse grievances. Almost every evening the commanding officer, no Sir Hudson Lowe, took a hand in a friendly game of whist with his prisoners. Years of captivity may break a man's spirit, embitter his disposition, or at any rate arrest his development. Lafayette's long imprisonment in Austria did him no good, and Alfred Dreyfus, after Devil's Island, did not fulfill the promises of his early career. There was in Louis Napoleon an inner strength which enabled him not merely to survive but to grow. In later years, French and foreign observers were often astonished at the wide range and serious character of his knowledge; as Duke Ernest of SaxeCoburg-Gotha remarked, there was in him something of a Ger-

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man savant.

This he owed to those six long years which he

himself called "the University of H a m . " This term of confinement had a more paradoxical effect; it brought him into closer contact with France. W h e n he became President of the Republic, he had hardly lived in his native country at all, except as a young child or as a prisoner; but the years at H a m were not wasted. While his purview was limited to a few miles of sodden and misty landscape, he managed, through reading, correspondence, and personal interviews, to become acquainted with men and affairs. Strange as it may seem, he knew France and the French better than the actual rulers, Louis Philippe and his right-hand man, Guizot. They had to squander their time on official functions and routine duties; their narrow world of courtiers, diplomats, functionaries, and politicians created an opaque screen between them and the multitude.

Behind the

medieval walls of H a m , Louis Napoleon was free. His taciturnity, his dreaminess, have been ascribed to his imprisonment. These traits, which are often overemphasized, were in his nature. Even as a child, he kept his own counsel and went his own w a y ; Queen Hortense referred to his "gentle obstinacy." But there was a tendency in him which was strengthened by many years of reflection divorced from immediate responsibility: Louis Napoleon, exile, pretender, captive, constantly lived in the future; President and Emperor, he never was satisfied with the tasks or the pleasures of the day. T h e faraway gaze so well rendered by Hippolyte Flandrin expresses the longing of an eternal prisoner. II

If history is to be "realistic," that is to say, in close touch with actual facts, it cannot afford to ignore those states of the public mind which give men and events their true significance. It was

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not the material blowing up of the Maine but its effect on American opinion that determined the Spanish War. The Royal Ordinances of Charles X in 1830, an accidental shot in February 1848, caused revolutions in Paris only because spirits had already been aroused and lines of battle drawn. These collective psychological factors are not merely the background of individual action, they are the deeper reality of which individual action, when it is effective at all, is only the symbol. Louis Napoleon failed in 1836, and again in 1840; he triumphed in 1848 and 1851. Man and principles were the same; the difference was due to the cooperation of that shadowy and all-powerful personage, Public Opinion. As in the ancient epics, the true protagonists of history are gods, that is to say spirits, rather than men. So we must turn for a while from the realm of deeds to the domain of thought — the thought of France and the thought of Louis Napoleon, growing in unison. From 1831, Louis Napoleon had been both a pretender in the conventional sense, and a publicist. Imprisonment compelled him, if not to give up, at any rate to reduce, his activities as a party leader. The creation of Bonapartist groups and periodicals was definitely subordinated to his chosen work — to study, to reflect, and to express himself. In terms of strict politics, until 1848, Bonapartism remained negligible. At the end of 1847, the Prefect of Police, reporting to the Minister of the Interior, mentioned Socialists, Communists, Legitimists; about Bonapartists, not a word. 1 This is no proof that the Prefect was blind, but only that he wore blinkers. Louis Napoleon did not play the same game as Guizot, Thiers, or Mole. It might be said that this remained true even after Louis Napoleon had achieved power. His election in 1848 was a personal, not a party, triumph; in 1849, although his popularity was unimpaired, very few Bonapartists were returned to the Legislative 1

Paul Gueriot, Napoleon

III, 2 vols. (Paris: Payot, 1 9 3 3 - 3 4 ) , I, 121.

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Assembly. In 1869, Prince Napoleon wrote to the Emperor: "The situation is complex in this sense, that if the Empire has a great hold of the nation, its supporters are scattered throughout the land, while its opponents are disciplined, compact, with definite centers in the larger cities, and most of all in Paris." 2 Perhaps Lord Malmesbury and Bismarck were justified when they expressed their belief that, even in 1871, Napoleon III personally would still have commanded a majority in the country as a whole; but in the National Assembly, there were but a handful of Bonapartist deputies. The Imperial regime, as Louis Napoleon conceived it, differed both from the two-party system of orthodox Parliamentarian liberalism and from the single-party system of modern dictatorships; it was meant to be the denial of the party spirit altogether. The task that the Pretender had appointed for himself was to build up a principle and a personality, not a machine. So he took his place, as the author of books, pamphlets, articles, among the innumerable critics and reformers of Society in that teeming period — historians, economists, political philosophers, religious prophets, Utopian socialists. He belonged to the generation of the Saint-Simonians, of Cabet, Fourier, Pierre Leroux, Proudhon, Louis Blanc, Auguste Comte. He breathed the same air as Lamennais, Lamartine, Michelet, George Sand, Victor Hugo. He was "a man of 'Forty-eight," a democratic humanitarian, at least as much as he was an orthodox Napoleon-worshipper. It is hard to tell what place he would have attained among humanitarian publicists if he had not been a Bonapartist pretender. In no history of French literature, in no study of political thought, do his works receive more than a passing mention. I am not interested in having this judgment reformed; the writings 2

Ernest d'Hauterive, Napoleon III et le Prince Napoleon, inedite (Paris, 1925), p. 389.

Correspondance

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of Napoleon III are but a minor element in his career. Minor, but not negligible. 3 We should not imitate the foolish superciliousness of Jules Simon, who sneered at the Prince for having written "some worthless pamphlets," and added with pride that he had never looked into them. These pamphlets are important in two respects. Whatever their intrinsic worth may be they achieved their end: they created in the public mind that paradoxical association between Bonapartism and humanitarian democracy which was Louis Napoleon's special contribution to politics. It was not exclusively the Emperor's nephew, it was also the man who had written On the Extinction of Pauperism, who was chosen by the people in December 1848. The second point of interest is that these writings may throw some light on the fundamental problem in Louis Napoleon's bewildering fortune. Was he a mediocre personage, with no merit but his prestigious name, an heir, an epigone, an ape ? Or was he a man of obscure, baffling, and complex genius, who did not merely inherit the Legend, but reshaped it to his own purpose, revitalized it with a totally different element, and thus created his own opportunity ? Those who, more conscientious than Jules Simon, actually read the books of Louis Napoleon, those who later listened to his speeches, were impressed by the quality of his thought and style. Chateaubriand and George Sand were warmly appreciative. Beranger, a worshipper of Napoleon I who refused to become a Bonapartist, said that he considered Napoleon III as "the first 3

The works of Louis Napoleon before 1848 comprise: "Political Reveries" (1832); Considerations politiques et militaires sur la Suisse (Paris, 1833); Artillery Manual (1834); Des ldees Napoleoniennes (Paris, 1839); Fragments historiques, 1688 et 1830 (Paris, 1841); Analyse de la question des sucres (Paris, 1842); L'Extinction du pauperisme (Paris, 1844); Canal of Nicaragua (London, 1846); and contributions to sundry newspapers, particularly Le Progres du Pasde-Calais. The more significant of these publications, Napoleonic Ideas and The Extinction of Pauperism, will be discussed later.

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writer of the age." 4 Tocqueville, whose judgment we are bound to respect, said that he was "the only man living who could write monumental French "5 Richard Cobden praised "the absolute perfection of the style of his occasional addresses." 6 Most striking of all is the reluctant testimony of Victor Hugo. An unmeasured political adversary, Hugo loved the French language even more perhaps than he loved France or Liberty. Curiously enough, one of the contemporary writers for whom he professed some esteem was Napoleon III. "I have read his books," he said. "He is not lacking in talent. He is quite a good writer." 7 The chief quality in Louis Napoleon's style is its directness. He did not pastiche his uncle; there are no rhetorical tricks and no poetic flights in his speeches and writings. Napoleon I is more quotable; his proclamations and bulletins teem with sudden apostrophes and romantic images which cannot be forgotten. But there is also some flashiness in that brilliancy; Napoleon I was a master advertiser and constantly talked for effect. Louis Napoleon writes quietly and out of deep conviction. His words are historical documents, and not pieces of eloquence. It is only on closer scrutiny that we realize how well knit is the argument, and how fitting the expression. It seems strange to find such definiteness and such plenitude in one whose mind was so often accused of being vague or tortuous. In this, as in many other respects, he was not unlike President Woodrow Wilson, not to mention later democratic leaders. A man with a distant goal may hesitate, grope, and fumble in affairs 'Hippolyte Thirria, Napoleon III avant I'Empire, ι vols. (Paris, 1895-96), I, 231. 5 F. A. Simpson, Louis Napoleon and the Recovery of France, 1848-1856 (London and New York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1923), p. 195. "Ibid. 7 Comte Fleury et Louis Sonolet, La Societe du Second Empire, 4 vols. (Paris, 1911-1924?), IV, 91.

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of the moment; he will thus create in shallow critics the impression that he is feeble or disingenuous, when he is first of all conscientious; but when he has thought a thing through, his words come out simple, firm, and clear. The man who strives for immediate applause is never at a loss; but his voice never rings perfectly true. Ill What is this new protagonist, this "Spirit of 'Forty-eight" which Louis Napoleon managed to integrate with the Napoleonic Legend ? It was a faith rather than a system, a Protean mass of conflicting formulae, with a strange intensity of life. The least inadequate definition might be "Romantic Humanitarianism" — and the Romantic element should be as fully stressed as the humanitarian. So, in a psychological and political biography of Louis Napoleon we must, rather unexpectedly, find a place for that bewildering entity called Romanticism. The Second Empire saw the triumph, and in a sense was the triumph, of Realism; yet without Romanticism there would have been no Second Empire. Romanticism passed through several avatars before assuming a democratic-humanitarian form. Under one aspect, it was sheer rebellion; under another, it was the quest for the picturesque and dramatic; under a third, it was love and reverence for the storied past. Each one of these phases, in the 'forties of the last century, had representatives not merely in literature, but in the political scene; each one of them affected the mind and the destiny of Louis Napoleon. The origins of Romanticism in France are to be found long before the Revolution; it may be said that its essential elements were manifest in Jean-Jacques Rousseau. But it grew confusedly, and even when it achieved some definiteness it fulfilled itself in many ways. The Revolution and the First Empire were neither

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developments nor causes of Romanticism; both were definitely classical in spirit. The Revolution was not an outbreak of desperate rebellion; it was intended to be the triumph of Reason, that goddess of the Enlightenment and of the whole Classical Age. The Empire was hailed not primarily as a glorious adventure, but as the restoration of sanity, discipline, order, all the classical virtues and benefits. It is significant that art, in that period of turmoil, assumed severely classical forms. The professed ideal of the Renaissance, a return to antiquity, was never completely realized until the reign of Napoleon I. The monuments of the sixteenth century are still touched with the fantastic grace of the Gothic; those of the Empire are severe Roman pastiches. There are moments in the development of mankind when the individual feels ill at ease in the established framework of society. This does not imply that men have suddenly grown impatient of restraint; still less that the ego has become more forceful; there were magnificent personalities in the great ages of discipline, in the thirteenth century as well as in the seventeenth. It means rather that institutions have shrunk or lost their elasticity; there is a senility, an arteriosclerosis, for societies as well as for bodies of flesh and blood. The revolt of the individual against the established order is the sign of this disharmony. When man thus asserts himself against society, it cannot be in the name of tradition and common sense, which are the bulwarks of things as they are. It must be in the name of his personal inspiration, a new revelation, "genius," imagination, passion. Romanticism therefore rejects as mere convention the dull tyranny of the safe and sane. Its first manifestation is inevitably rebellion. Rousseau's first great message was not that man is naturally good, but that man is everywhere in fetters. His fundamental dogma, the essential goodness of human nature, is but the answer to the objection: "What would happen if the shackles were to be removed?"

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This spirit of rebellion is that of the German Sturm und Drang, of Schiller's Brigands as well as of Goethe's Götz von Berlichingen. At this stage, the sole philosophy of Romanticism is anarchistic; the one essential thing is to resist oppression, to destroy the superstitions and prejudices which make man a willing slave. This defiant attitude never wholly disappeared; nearly half a century after Rousseau it accounted for Lord Byron's tremendous popularity. After Byron's death, in the 'thirties and 'forties, anarchism remained an orthodox form of the Romantic faith: Theophile Gautier and Alfred de Musset voiced their utter contempt for all religious, political, and social causes; beauty and love, as revealed through their own imagination and passion, were the sole objects of their worship. This anarchistic element is found among all the Romanticists, even among those who professed a more positive creed: in Victor Hugo, whose Hernani is an outlaw like Schiller's Karl Moor; in Alexandre Dumas, whose Antony spurns the established code; in George Sand, who lived as well as wrote her gospel of defiance; even in the realist Balzac, whose favorite hero, Vautrin, is an escaped convict at war with society; even in the searching analyst Stendhal, whose most typical characters, Lamiel, Fabrice del Dongo, and especially Julien Sorel, set at naught all conventional standards. This, we believe, is only the rudimentary form of Romanticism; it is not negligible, however, for the understanding of our problem. It is this exaltation of revolt that for fifty years made revolutions so endemic throughout Europe. Admiration for the rebel and the outlaw lent prestige to the conspirator, to the Italian and French Carbonaro, even to an eternal monomaniac of insurrection like Auguste Blanqui. In a less romantic age, Louis Napoleon would have followed the example of his uncles, enjoyed his very respectable wealth and social position, made terms with a sensible government which would have met him halfway. He would have

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collected Napoleonic relics, written Napoleonic histories, and at most issued a few harmless and dignified manifestoes: such desperate attempts as Strasbourg and Boulogne cannot be understood without their romantic background. In a less romantic age, also, these mad ventures would have disqualified him for high office, and his election to the Presidency would have been inconceivable. After three-quarters of a century of rather uneasy sanity, the bournes of the possible have again faded out of sight; we no longer smile at "prophets and lunatics"; it is easier today to understand "the mad and holy year 1848" than it was three decades ago. A second aspect of Romanticism — the most obvious because it was the most superficial — was its association with a retrospective attitude, and indeed with political reaction. The Romanticists, almost to a man, became the Knights of the Throne and the Altar. This Toryism is a curious interlude between the rebellious spirit of the Sturm und Drang and the prophetic fervor of the eighteen-forties. The causes of this confusion were complex, and the earliest were of an aesthetic nature. The tenets of Classicism, identified with the Greco-Roman tradition, had grown exceedingly trite. Men, in their effort to escape from the commonplace, sought picturesqueness in the exotic and the medieval. This was, at the origin, a quest for more vivid colors rather than for new principles. It was manifest, in an urbane, self-ironical manner, in the pseudo-Gothic of Horace Walpole's Strawberry Hill and of Beckford's Fonthill Abbey; it ended, a whole century later, in the more glaring absurdity of Gothic railway stations, such as St. Pancras in London. It accounted for the universal favor enjoyed by Sir Walter Scott. It played a part, as we have seen, in the halfhearted pageantry of the Bourbon restoration. This superficial Romanticism has left two or three traces in Louis Napoleon's career. In its early form, it was known in France as the troubadour style; it affected Queen Hortense, who wrote a

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few songs of vaguely medieval inspiration; one of them, "Partant pour la Syrie," was to become the official anthem under the Second Empire. In 1839, Louis Napoleon took part in the famous Eglinton tournament. It is said that the Earl of Eglinton squandered thirty to forty thousand pounds on that gorgeous masquerade, in which members of the British aristocracy, true to the spirit of Froissart and Don Quixote, played at being knights in shining armor and Queens of Beauty. The vogue for the medieval was over by the time the Empire was restored: the most typical buildings of the period are in Renaissance style, with a strong Italian influence. But it was under Napoleon III and thanks to his support that Viollet-le-Duc did some of his most thorough and most questionable Gothic restorations. The city of Carcassonne and the castle of Pierrefonds would have been perfect settings for an Eglinton tournament. The last exalted representative of this purely external romantic medievalism was Kaiser Wilhelm II. There was a deeper cause for this alliance between Tory politics and romantic art. The reform movement among the Philosophes, the actual Revolution which started in 1789, were both inspired, we must repeat, by classical Reason. It was in her name that historical privileges were denounced as abuses and ancient beliefs attacked as superstitions. All those who, moved by deep conviction or by self-interest, rallied to the defense of the traditional order, appealed to "the wisdom of prejudice" and the poignant beauty of the past. Antiquarianism ceased to be a hobby, as it had been with Walpole; it became a political and religious argument. The first who threw the nascent force of romantic feeling against the Revolution was Edmund Burke; the most thoroughgoing theorist of the reactionary school was Joseph de Maistre; but the greatest, the most conscious, the most effective artist on the side of aesthetic Toryism was Rene de Chateaubriand. For nearly two decades, his prestige as traveler, poet, lover, statesman, believer,

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was hardly rivaled. "I want to be Chateaubriand or nothing," wrote a gifted schoolboy by the name of Victor Hugo. Even after that prestige had begun to wane, it held its own for many years against the ascending stars of Byron and Napoleon. And if the French Romanticists, at the end of the Restoration, had already forsworn Toryism, it was to a large extent because Charles X had not shown proper gratitude to the great defender of religion and monarchy. By 1830, Lamartine, Michelet, Hugo, had become Liberals; Vigny spurned all parties; Balzac professed reactionary opinions, but was not active in their defense. Chateaubriand himself, in his haughty and melancholy retirement, assumed an attitude which was complex, thoroughly romantic, yet not devoid of political acumen. He claimed to be more of a Legitimist than ever, now that Legitimacy had become a hopeless cause. He wanted it to be known that the Legitimists had deserved their downfall, for this enhanced the merit of his obstinate loyalty; he was an old servant mourning over a tomb. And he felt free, as the last representative of the old order, to hail beyond the Orleanist compromise a new world he would never see. There are few more definite prophecies of social upheaval than those that can be found in the writings of the aging and disenchanted Rene. He anticipated by some fifty years the warning of Jaures to a Voltairian, "liberal," capitalistic bourgeoisie: "You have stilled the old song which for centuries had lulled mankind. . . ." So Chateaubriand himself has his place among the prophets of 1848; and he gave a qualified blessing to the young man who was transforming the Napoleonic legend into a social gospel. But when the revolution broke out he was dying and forgotten. W e have sketched three types of Romanticism — the rebellious, the picturesque, and the conservative — which, for the sake of convenience, may be labeled with the names of Byron, Walter

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Scott, and Edmund Burke. But the essential form is the one which, in English literature, we associate with Shelley, and, in French history, with the Revolution of 1848. It is humanitarian; or, if a less discredited term be desired, it is Promethean. This Promethean faith, paradoxically, had much in common with the Voltairian Enlightenment. Both denounced tyranny and superstition; both believed in progress; they were but the Classical and the Romantic versions of the same spirit. Voltaire himself was not cold-hearted: he burned with indignation at the thought of the sufferings inflicted by man upon man. But he placed the chief emphasis upon reason and science; his passion was held in check by his analytical and ironical intellect; fervor, even in a righteous cause, seemed to him a source of danger and delusion. For the Romanticists, on the contrary, the glow of enthusiasm was the essential experience and the warrant of truth. It is not sufficient for people to be sharply aware of injustice; they will not fight against wrong unless they feel its wrongness with that passionate intensity which deserves the name of faith. The Philosophes were ineffectual because their sight was keen only within a limited range and because their hearts were cool. They could advocate minor reforms, of advantage mostly to themselves, while remaining on friendly terms with enlightened despots, liberal aristocrats, and broad-minded priests. They were incapable of conceiving, and therefore of creating, a new heaven and a new earth. The Romanticists were not Philosophes, but prophets. A prophet will not be satisfied with tolerance, the inevitability of gradualness, and Candide's modest injunction: "We must cultivate our garden." Injustice fills him with holy wrath, because he has a vision of a juster world at hand. And he will not shrink, but exult, if his millennial hope first demands a catastrophic change. This state of the spirit is difficult to treat objectively, for its very

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nature is passion, and scientific enquiry must be dispassionate. Most studies of Shelley or Michelet have a touch of superciliousness: what a pity that such great poets should be so naive! The Romanticists might reply to their critics: What a pity that such sane, well-meaning, well-informed men should be so blind to elemental realities! It is in this fervid atmosphere of the 'thirties and 'forties that the mind of Louis Napoleon lived and grew. Unless we understand this fact, much in his character and in his career must remain incomprehensible. It is singularly hard to describe, in a few pages, a collective spirit; the safest approach is through the study of a representative man. And that man is not Louis Napoleon himself. He had his share of originality; he provided the synthesis between two antagonistic elements, the brutal epic of war and the gospel of social sympathy; he was not the first or the greatest apostle of either. To understand "the faith of 'forty-eight," we shall examine it in its major prophet, Lamennais. In so doing, we are not for a moment forgetting Louis Napoleon. We come nearer the flame which was reflected on the face of the prisoner. The man, forgotten abroad, was very great; yet we do not mean that his influence could compare with that of Rousseau fifty years before. We single him out, first of all, because the prophetic element in him was unmixed with any literary or political ambition. Tu es sacerdos in aeternum: he was a man of faith, and his whole desire was to live his faith. Then he is significant also because, unwavering in his devotion, incapable of any compromise, he was compelled by changing circumstances to go through several different phases. His spiritual biography sums up the religious history of his time; and, to a surprising degree, the religious history determined the political. Lamennais, in the name of his ideal, had first been a conservative like Joseph de Maistre, a "prophet of the past." He was

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untouched by the aesthetic Catholicism and Toryism of Chateaubriand; his one thought was that the will of God should prevail over the petty interests of selfish men. The will of God is made manifest through His Church, of which the visible head is the Pope. Lamennais the Theocrat, at this stage, is resolutely an Ultramontane; he is an authoritarian, and, in modern parlance, a Totalitarian. His long treatise, Essay on Indifference in Matters of Religion, may be summed up: "There can be no room for indifference." Governments, if they are to command obedience, must themselves acknowledge the religious source of all authority. Monarchy by divine right alone is legitimate. That monarchy collapsed in July 1830. Lamennais did not mourn. Not that he was a time-server, ready to turn against a defeated principle; but he had already discovered that the Bourbons were not "legitimate" in his sense of the term. Their rule may have had a clerical tinge: it was not religious, for it was not inspired by that love of the poor which is essential to Christianity. They had made an idol of their own earthly authority, and placed it at the service of pride and privilege; they deserved to fall. But Lamennais felt no interest in the nondescript Orleanist regime, that "eclectic" mass of cleverness and greed. All that he wanted from it was freedom. Not freedom for its own sake, but liberty to ignore a materialistic government, liberty to be a servant of God. In 1830, therefore, Lamennais called himself a liberal, like everybody else; but he was a liberal of a most unusual type, a liberal who remained first of all a theocrat. He was condemned by the State, which realized that this demand for liberty was a declaration of contempt. For this he was prepared; but he was also condemned by Rome. The Pope, Gregory XVI, hated the very word liberty, which in his mind meant free thought and revolution; he was influenced by the great Legitimist families in France, ultramontane and anti-liberal; he was afraid of a "liberal" movement

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in his o w n domains: had there not been a flare of insurrection in Romagna, and tremors in Rome itself? So the "liberal Catholicism" of Lamennais was banned; his companions, Montalembert and Lacordaire, submitted. Lamennais remained true, against Rome, to his uncompromising theocracy. T h e k i n g by divine right had proved himself an unworthy instrument; he had renounced the king.

T h e Pope

had become enmeshed in the forces of selfish pride, and could not free himself; he renounced the Pope. T h u s he reached the final stage of his stormy career, an unfrocked priest, a spiritual outlaw, a revolutionary flame, with exactly the same belief as in the beginning: the service of G o d through the service of the people; and by the people he meant the humble, the poor, the oppressed. T h i s faith is best expressed in his little book, The Believer.

Words of a

Biblical in style, thought, and feeling, it is not a lifeless

pastiche; Lamennais wrote like a H e b r e w prophet, because he was one in the spirit. Others, quite independently, had reached a similar stage. Henri de Saint-Simon thought of his Socialism as the N e w Christianity; his disciples formed an actual sect, with an organized community and a ritual. Michelet, Edgar Quinet, Mickiewicz, turned the old College de France into a cathedral of the new faith. For skeptics like Thackeray, for conservatives like Carlyle, this blend of Christianity and Revolution was distasteful and even sacrilegious. T h e y failed to realize its deeply religious character. Thackeray and Carlyle are humorists; Lamennais is a priest. 8 This Romantic fervor was not dissipated into vague Utopianism. It was formulated in very concrete terms. T h e "service of G o d through the service of the people" assumed a triple form.

As

against foreign oppressors, it meant national emancipation; for 8 For his book Le Pays et le gouvernement, Lamennais was sentenced to imprisonment in the same year as Louis Napoleon, 1840.

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Lamennais and for most of his contemporaries, the subjection of Italy, the martyrdom of Poland were felt intensely, as a personal humiliation and as a remorse. So long as such wrongs endured, Europe, as Father Gratry said later, was in a state of mortal sin. In the political field, it meant the assertion of human rights against the privileges of birth or wealth. In the economic domain, it meant that the community should foster, not private greed, but the welfare of all. In those days, national, democratic, and social were practically inseparable. But these very definite ends were not materialistic. Back of them all there was, not merely a passion and a will, but a philosophy, and even a theology. The "Humanitarian" creed of 1848 was essentially a restatement of Christianity. Man was animated by the breath of God; individually, he is pitifully limited and weak; but "Humanity," the sum total of all men, the spirit inherent in all men, is the collective incarnation of the Divine. Of this "Humanity," Christ is the supreme integration and the symbol: God's only son because He is the perfect Son of Man.9 Another feature of Romantic Humanitarianism can be understood only in terms of religious psychology: the belief in an individual revelation which, like the voices heard by Joan of Arc, is the warrant of a mission. The rationalism of the Enlightenment, the spirit of experimental science, the art of practical politics, all tend to minimize the individual as a factor: progress is the result of innumerable, imperceptible, anonymous efforts. Romanticism, on the contrary, has faith in the prophetic or messianic power. The earth was big with a new dispensation. "Who among us is to become a god ?" asked Alfred de Musset. This conception was ubiquitous at the time, among poets like Lamartine, Hugo, 9

It is interesting to note that Auguste Comte, at first a disciple and collaborator of Saint-Simon, then the founder of "Positivism" and the godfather of "Sociology," ended by establishing, in elaborate detail, a Religion of Humanity.

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Vigny, among historians like Michelet and Quinet, among Utopians like Saint-Simon and Fourier. There were major and minor prophets, impressive like the fierce and sombre Lamennais, ludicrous like Ganneau, who created the religion of appointed himself its Mapah,

Evadism,

and, from his apostolic garret sum-

moned the Pope to abdicate in his hands. Illumined by their faith, prophets cannot be discouraged. Saint-Simon squandered several fortunes, was derided and jailed, yet kept working to the end for his New Christianity. Fourier obstinately waited for years, at the appointed place and hour, for the benefactor who was to finance his Phalanstery. In other domains, Blanqui, Mazzini — and Karl Marx as well — showed the same indifference to apparent failure. There was much of this element in Louis Napoleon: thwarted, imprisoned, financially ruined, he did not waver. W e have said that Romantic Humanitarianism was a restatement of Christianity; it must be understood that its interpretation of the Christian tradition, even in the case of Lamennais, was not literal. The Romanticists were poets, and thought not in dogmas but in symbols. For their great theme of Redemption, Jesus was the aptest figure but not the only one. They believed in the mission of France, as "a Christ among nations." Vigny, Hugo, and even Proudhon thought of Paris as the New Jerusalem, and, in the mystic sense, the City of Light. For Michelet, the Revolution was a divine entity: ". . . Justice, the new God, whose war name here below is the Revolution." T o the man whose thought is prose these are but fulsome figures of speech; for the genuine poet and prophet they are pregnant myths. T h e most effective symbols are not collectivities and abstractions, but individuals: the Word must be made flesh. T h e messianic idea could be expressed in terms of Jesus, or of Prometheus, or of Napoleon.

Golgotha, Caucasus, St. Helena fulfilled the same

purpose. In all three, a figure of superhuman virtue suffered for

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the redemption of mankind. Napoleon himself, so realistic and even cynical in the days of his power, had anticipated the mythcreating value of his "martyrdom." In the ultimate development of the Legend, he had become "the Prometheus of Democracy"; he was called L ' H O M M E , The Man par excellence. It is significant that a truly religious democrat like Quinet could write a long poem on Prometheus, and another on Napoleon. The reader will now realize, we trust, that these pages devoted to Lamennais and the faith of 'forty-eight are not a willful digression, but the very core of our subject. All these aspirations, all these myths, were fermenting at that time in all the souls that were generously alive; fermenting all the more because the shrewd men in power were so insufferably self-complacent and blind. They were fermenting also in the chiaroscuro of Louis Napoleon's soul, in his dungeon at Ham. He was no Lamennais, no SaintSimon, but also no mere passive disciple; if he originated nothing, he accepted nothing ready-made; he shared in the exaltation of the time. He did not strive to be, he simply was, the publicminded Frenchman of his generation, filled with a welter of memories, interests, and dreams. Because of his birth and of his faith, he could fuse all these and give them a magic halo. Thus it was that he too became a symbol; and because he was a symbol, a power. IV

By 1845, Louis Napoleon felt ready to graduate from the University of Ham. King Louis was seriously ill in Florence and expressed the desire to see his son. Louis Philippe was not unwilling to release his captive; but, not unreasonably, he insisted that the Prince pledge his word not to challenge the regime again. This Louis Napoleon, prisoner of his mission, felt that he could not do; but he applied for a "leave of absence," promising to re-

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turn after a visit to his father. He was in earnest, and brought high influences to bear — Thiers, Odilon Barrot, Lord Londonderry. N o compromise could be agreed upon. The gates of H a m remained barred, and Louis Napoleon then resolved to depart without consulting Louis Philippe. In his position, it was a desperate gamble; a pretender could not afford to be caught in a ridiculous disguise. So he was determined, if he failed, to blow out his brains.10 The escape was planned by the Prince alone. The fortress was under repairs, and workmen came in from town in the very early morning. The commanding officer, Major Demarle, was suffering from rheumatism and did not appear until later in the day. On the twenty-fifth of May, Louis Napoleon disguised himself with clothes brought in by his valet Thelin — coarse shirt, blue smock, trousers, cap, and thick wooden shoes which increased his height. T h e clothes had been carefully soiled — almost too carefully, for this was Monday, and the other workmen were conspicuously cleaner. The Prince cut his moustache, rouged his face, put on a long-haired black w i g ; then, a pipe in his mouth, a plank on his shoulder, he calmly walked out. In the courtyard of the fortress he met a guard, the contractor, a drummer; no one paid any attention to him. A t the gate, he had to pass the noncom on duty, an orderly, the doorkeeper, a sentinel; he was not challenged. A t the last moment, he dropped 10 Here occurs a curious episode. Louis Napoleon needed money for the venture, and borrowed 150,000 francs from Charles, Duke of Brunswick. This eccentric personage, deposed in 1830, was wealthy in his own right, and his collection of diamonds was one of the finest in Europe. T h e transaction took the form of a treaty between the two sovereigns in partibus·. each agreed to support the political claims of the other. In the draft prepared by Louis Napoleon, the future Emperor of the French promised to aid the cause of "a united Germany with a modern Constitution"; Brunswick was not interested in such a grandiose scheme, and the clause was toned down. T h e debt was duly repaid, but the two pretenders did not become friends, and the alliance lapsed.

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his pipe; he picked up the pieces with a gesture of annoyance, and proceeded. He was barely out when he came across two workmen; they looked at him, and cried out: "Oh! it is Berthoud!" A n d he was free. The miraculous ease with which he left Ham raised the suspicion that the government connived at his escape. This is hardly a reasonable hypothesis. If Louis Philippe had wanted to let him go, he could have pardoned him and reaped the political benefit of his generosity. Besides, a plot of this kind would have required the complicity of several men, and some of them would have boasted about it afterwards. Success was plainly due to cool daring, skill — and luck. Thelin had followed his master and then run ahead to secure a carriage. Before getting to Saint-Quentin, where they changed horses, the Prince discarded his disguise. By two in the afternoon, they reached Valenciennes. For two hours, they had to wait at the railway station. Thelin was recognized; his companion was not. A t four, they boarded the train for Brussels. On the twentyseventh, by way of Ostend, Louis Napoleon reached London. In the meantime, Dr. Conneau was playing an elaborate comedy of his own, with a touch of the Molieresque. He placed a dummy in the Prince's bed and reported to Major Demarle that the prisoner was sick. He gave out that he was administering castor oil to his patient; and he had to manufacture convincing results, with cofiee, sops of bread, and nitric acid. At lunch time Major Demarle called again; he was told that the Prince was feeling better, but so exhausted that he begged to be excused. Considerately, the governor did not insist. But after dinner he could not be so easily satisfied; he had to write his daily report and assure himself in person of the presence of his charge. The patient was asleep? Very well: the Major would wait in the study. Finally, "as he heard the Prince stirring," he walked into the inner room,

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up to the bed, and discovered the dummy. "When did he leave?" he asked Dr. Conneau. " A t seven o'clock this morning." Whereupon Major Demarle had the alarm sounded, the drawbridge raised, all gates locked and bolted — most efficient precautions which came twelve hours too late. On his arrival in London, the Prince assured the French A m bassador that he had no intention of attacking the government of Louis Philippe again. He thus offered of his own accord the promise which, months before, would have set him free. Probably he hoped by this means to secure clemency for his accomplices and permission to see his father once more. This was not to be; the Grand Duke of Tuscany, under pressure from the French Government, vetoed the visit; Louis Bonaparte, whilom K i n g of Holland, died on July 26. For the third time, Louis Napoleon was a refugee in London, a welcome guest in English society, and a pretender at large.

CHAPTER IV T H E G R E A T HOPE A N D T H E G R E A T F E A R THE YEAR 1848

H E Romantic state of mind we have just attempted to describe was evidently that of a very small minority. France as a whole, in the eighteen-forties, was not seething with millennial hopes. She was a country of peasant proprietors, artisans, shopkeepers, and bourgeois; security, moderation, common sense were her national idols then, as they had been at the time of Boileau, as they were still when the second World War broke out. N o regime ever represented the average Frenchman, with his solid and stodgy virtues and his rather annoying limitations, more faithfully than did the monarchy of Louis Philippe. Yet, in February 1848, that government fell in a few hours, and outside Paris not a finger was raised in its defense. In order to understand this paradox, which gave Louis Napoleon his chance, we must take two factors into account. The first is the high degree of intellectual and political centralization prevailing in France, which gave Paris an influence out of all proportion to its numbers. The second is the purely negative attitude of the July Monarchy. Thrifty, prudent, and shrewd it undoubtedly was; but inert reason is no match for dynamic unreason.

T

The centralization so characteristic of nineteenth-century France had not been created by the Revolution. It was plainly under way at the time of Louis X I V . France, a mosaic of heterogeneous provinces, felt the need of a single leadership. But that leadership was of a dual nature, a principle and a geographical focus, the monarchy and the capital. For centuries, these two sources of

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power were by no means identical. Repeatedly, during the Hundred Years' War, the Religious Wars, the Fronde, Paris and the dynasty were sharply at odds. Henry IV had to compromise and admit that "Paris was well worth a mass." Of the two, however, the dynasty was the more national, and prevailed. Louis X I V could very well have established his court and his government on the Loire rather than at Versailles. Under Louis X V , actual leadership shifted from an unwieldy court and an indifferent king to the intensely active city of the financiers, the bourgeois, and the Philosophes: Versailles became merely a cumbrous appendage. At the start of the Revolution, it was the swift determination of the Parisians on the fourteenth of July, not the protracted squabbling between Court and Assembly, that decided the course of events. On the fifth and sixth of October 1789, a profound political reality was made manifest by grotesque means: clamoring for bread, the market women of Paris marched on Versailles, and triumphantly brought back the royal family, "the baker, the baker's wife, and the little baker boy." From that date, the central government and the capital were one — and the throne was at the mercy of a successful insurrection. Now there were two elements concentrated in Paris, and without any equivalent in the provinces: the intellectuals of all degrees — artists, writers, scientists, journalists, reformers — and the politically conscious workers. The intellectuals had their lunatic froth and the workers had their criminal dregs; men for whom "radicalism" means the one sin without remission affect to see only those two extremes. The genuine power of the capital, however, was not in them. It resided in those alert and generous minds who had flocked thither from all parts of France — and indeed of the world — because of the prestige, the stimulation, the opportunities that Paris, and Paris alone, had to offer. This element was strengthened by the young bourgeois who were studying in

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the University and professional schools of Paris, which had no peer in the country. These young men, uprooted, abruptly released from the strict discipline of provincial homes, escaping from the half-monastic, half-military routine of the lycee or college in their home town, were intoxicated with their new freedom. If this led to Bohemianism and light affairs with grisettes, it meant also the revelation of problems unthought of in Landerneau or Montelimar, and the discovery of new horizons. It is one of the oddities of French history that the elite of the conservative class should thus be exposed for several years to "radical" influences. Even when they settled down to provincial and bourgeois conformity, many secretly preserved the nostalgia of their young enthusiasm. In Paris also, "the people" were represented, not by men with the hoe, but by skilled workers. Some, like the printers, were in touch with the most advanced thought; some, heirs to long traditions of craftsmanship, were artists in the spirit. These men and women had served their apprenticeship in the streets of Paris, whose very stones were a liberal education; taste for them was not a luxury, but a means of livelihood; they went to museums, and were among "the gods" in the upper galleries of the theaters; they read, and above all they talked. Between the intellectual leaders, the students, and the people of Paris, there existed a fraternity which Victor Hugo has admirably described in Les Miserables. And for these three elements Louis Philippe was the incarnation of everything they despised — the smug, the selfish, and the dull. They resented most of all the fact that they had been his dupes; king by the grace of the barricades in "the three glorious days" of July 1830, he had lived to cheat the barricades. Louis Philippe and his very fine family — no other French sovereign had such an array of handsome and capable sons — were too intelligent not to realize that France demanded more

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than appeasement and cheeseparing economy. T h e heir apparent, the Duke of Orleans, who died prematurely, had formed a circle of literary men and artists, including Victor Hugo. W e have seen that Louis Philippe himself fostered the Napoleonic Legend. T h e conquest of Algeria also was a satisfaction given to romanticism — a colorful adventure, reasonably safe and not too expensive. It was felt, however, that these half-contemptuous concessions did not alter the essential character of the regime. Its guiding principle remained common sense in its narrowest form. In foreign affairs, this meant peace at any price, no entanglement —

"Chacun

chez soi, chacun pour soi," let every one stay at home and mind his own business. In the economic sphere, it meant following the profit motive without any qualification. W h e n Balzac, in his Human Comedy, described with such power the relentless struggle for wealth, "the ethics of the crab basket," it was the July Monarchy, not the Second Empire, and not our own age, that served as his model. The political domain was but an extension of the economic. On the assumption that money is the natural reward of capacity, only rich taxpayers had a vote. If you wanted political influence, the avenue was open: "Get rich!" Enrichissezvousl

This regime of the moneybags did not even have the

glamor of aggressive plutocracy. In its own field, that of business enterprise, it was purblind. Thiers, among the statesmen of the time, stood for "progress": yet even he could not see that there was a future for the railroads, and Lamartine, the idealistic poet and orator, proved a far better prophet. 1 T h i s obviously applies to the political regime (ideology and personnel) rather than to the period. O n c e in a long while, and very precariously, an enlightened despot m a y be "ahead of his times"; as a rule, governments are fossils. T h e Industrial Revolution had a fair start in France under Louis X V I . Retarded by the political revolution, the Empire and the Restoration, it gathered m o m e n t u m under the July Monarchy, especially after 1842. E v e n the most hidebound doctrinaire could no longer deny the existence of the railroads as a major factor in national economy. T h e m e n w h o were to be most typical of the 1

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By 1847, the regime seemed to be stricken with senility. Louis Philippe, with the years, had acquired excessive confidence in his indubitable cleverness. Unable to initiate a bold policy, he thought that every new suggestion was crude, untimely, unpractical. Quieta non movere was the epitome of his wisdom. To this know-nothing, do-nothing ideal, Guizot lent the prestige of his talent and of his character. Never had so drab a cause found such an able and dignified champion. Philosophical historian, doctrinaire statesman, devout Huguenot, he wore a triple crown of infallibility. Congenitally obstinate, king and minister were further handicapped by the very nature of the July compromise. They could not afford to dramatize conservatism, as Disraeli was to do, without playing into the hands of the Legitimists. They could not take a single step toward the Left without abandoning leadership to the Republicans. They were bound hand and foot to the happy medium, le juste milieu. The end came, not as a dramatic climax, but with casual swiftness. The loyal opposition, or Dynastic Left, was agitating for an extremely moderate electoral reform: that men of proved ability — such as professors, lawyers, notaires, retired officers, doctors — be given a vote, even if they did not pay the prescribed amount of taxes.2 Meetings, in the form of political banquets, were held Second Empire era — de Morny, the Saint-Simonians — were fully developed under Louis Philippe. But the leading statesmen — the wily K i n g himself, the ornamental Soult, Guizot, Thiers, Mole, and, among the leaders of the various oppositions, Odilon Barrot and Berryer — understood the industrial age as little as they understood democracy. 2 Technically, there were two reforms, embodied in separate bills: the electoral reform, extending the franchise to the highly educated, even though they did not pay the amount of taxes required as a qualification; and the Parliamentary reform, debarring office holders from becoming members of Parliament, where they remained under the thumb of their hierarchical superiors. Both were directed, ultimately, against the plutocratic system, and immediately, against the protracted and wearisome rule of Guizot. Both were jointly known and fought for as "la Reforme."

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throughout France. One was scheduled for the twenty-second of February in Paris. Government and "loyal" opposition tussled feebly; the meeting was authorized, then postponed, and finally canceled; the legality of this action was, by agreement, to be decided by the courts. Meanwhile, nervous irritation, rather than anger, was mounting. The very National Guard, composed of substantial bourgeois and hitherto the staunchest supporters of the regime, shouted: "Down with Guizot! We want the Reform!" The King yielded, too late. Random shots had been fired; corpses had been paraded through the streets; and barricades arose in the tortuous lanes of old Paris. Concession followed concession, not one of them swift and sweeping enough to stop the mad stampede of events. Finally, the old K i n g signed his abdication, and, as "Mr. Smith," reached the haven of England. There is little doubt that if Louis Philippe had withdrawn in time from Paris and entrusted an army to Marshal Bugeaud he could have reconquered his capital and restored his authority. His surrender was due chiefly not to cravenness but to humanity. The man who had sincerely practiced "peace at any price" was not willing to shed French blood in order to save his throne. He too believed obscurely in "the divine right of Paris"; what the barricades had given, other barricades could take away. His sons followed his example: the Sailor Prince, Joinville, and Aumale, who commanded in Algeria, submitted without a struggle. Paris, this time, did not want its victory to be filched away, as in 1830. A provisional government of Leftist orators, politicians, and journalists was established, with the poet Lamartine as its chief. The new Republic proclaimed itself not only "Democratic," but "Social." The "Right to Employment" was declared as a fundamental principle; and, as a corollary, it was decided, as early as February 26, to create "National Workshops." A Commission, with Louis Blanc at its head, was set up at the Luxem-

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bourg Palace, to enquire into social and economic problems; and a working man, Albert, became a member of the Government. In the glow of victorious enthusiasm, or in the dread of a new upheaval, the inconsistencies of the new regime were overlooked. There were as many shades of Republican Red as there were members in the executive council. T h e "National Workshops," to many, meant no more than emergency relief works; but to others, the name implied that Louis Blanc's ambitious scheme would be honestly tried. Finally, although the Republic called itself "Social," the Labor movement was so loose in thought and organization that it could neither formulate a definite program, nor discover a clear-headed, determined leader. Louis Blanc, a bourgeois theorist, fainted when he was urged to assume command; and Albert, the symbol of the rising proletariat, was totally devoid of prestige and influence. T h e sudden collapse of the July Monarchy took France and the world by surprise. Louis Napoleon was no exception.

He

had no immediate plans, and very little money; the inheritance of K i n g Louis had melted rapidly.

There was practically no

organized Bonapartism in France. In the tumult of the revolution, only sporadic cries of " L o n g live Napoleon!" were heard. Even these were out an echo of the Legend, not a demand for a new Empire. Louis Napoleon hastened to Paris, ariving on February 27. His professed intention was to rally to the new Republic. The banishment of his family, he claimed, had been imposed by foreign arms. N o w that "the people of Paris, through their heroism, had destroyed the last vestige of foreign invasion," he could resume his place as a French citizen. T h e Provisional Government did not accept this plea, and requested him to leave the country. H e acted with the utmost correctness, declaring that, as he did not desire to create any embarrassment, he would retire — for the time

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being. His excursion to Paris had not been wasted; he had shrewdly managed, without committing himself, to secure valuable political advertisement. He followed the same cautious policy when he declined to be a candidate to the National Assembly. Before deciding upon a line of action, he wanted to ascertain the temper of the country. We have seen Louis Napoleon so far as an adventurer with a touch of the humanitarian. Now that his hour was approaching, the dual nature of his political doctrine revealed itself more clearly. His brand of Napoleonism meant democracy with a socialist tinge; but Bonapartism stood also for material order. If it came to a choice, the preservation of order would be his first consideration. The Chartists had organized a great demonstration in London, for April 10, when their monster petition was to be presented to Parliament. In spirit, Louis Napoleon was in sympathy with the agitators rather than with the ruling oligarchy; but he did not believe in mob rule, and he enrolled as a special constable. He took this singular step unobtrusively, without any thought of its possible effect on French opinion; it might very well have ruined his chances. The unique character of Louis Napoleon lies in the fact that in him the dreamer was associated with a policeman. This implied no contradiction: a firm discipline, enforcing social peace, was for him the first condition of progress. This quiet gesture in London was in perfect consonance with the words he uttered twenty-two years later: "Material order is my responsibility." Now material order, or any kind of order, was precisely what the Provisional Government was unable to provide. The soul of that government was Lamartine, and we must devote a few moments to the political role of the great poet in those uneasy days; for both his success and his failure explain and prepare the advent of Louis Napoleon. An aristocrat from Burgundy, and, like most members of his class, a Legitimist and a devout

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Catholic, a minor diplomat, the first of the Romantic poets to achieve undisputed fame, Lamartine had entered active political life after the Revolution of 1830. But he had refused to become a politician. He had sought to realize the Romantic dream, which was that of Chateaubriand before him and of Victor Hugo after him, of the poet as prophet, guide, and "shepherd of the nation." He thus stood in absolute contrast to the sensible, practical, materialistic regime of the bourgeois monarchy. In that Parliament which was constantly haggling over petty interests, he claimed to represent "the constituency of the ideal." He had no personal grudge against the men in power; he did not denounce them as corrupt or tyrannical; he knew that on their chosen plane they were doing well enough. But he despised their spirit because it was mean and dull. His most destructive criticism was "France is bored." By this he did not imply that France was craving for amusement or excitement; he meant that she was eager for generous and far-sighted activity. It was on that aesthetic and moral issue that the Revolution of 1848 broke out; the deeper economic causes of the conflict were unconscious or at least ill-defined; and the actual events which determined the catastrophe were mere accidents. Lamartine found himself at the head of the State, not through a vast organized movement or through a clever intrigue, but as the perfect antithesis to the Orleanist compromise. It was a unique moment in history when meanness was discarded simply because it was mean, and a man called to power with generosity as his only program. T o this appeal there was at first a most gratifying response. Everywhere the people planted "trees of liberty," and the clergy gave their blessing to these symbolical ceremonies. That idealistic character was lost all too soon; but for a few days it undeniably prevailed; the prestige, the eloquence of Lamartine kept the miracle alive for several weeks. When we deal with the

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Second Republic, we have to guard against two delusions.

The

regime which was destroyed on the second of December 1851, was still, nominally, the Second Republic; but it had little in common with the government of Lamartine. On the other hand, realistic historians minimize the spirit of 'Forty-eight because its triumph was so fleeting. It is not always the duration of a phenomenon that affects mankind, but its intensity. T h e glimpse of a fraternal commonwealth in the magic dawn of 1848 was remembered in France for three generations. Lamartine himself was a democrat in the literal sense of the term: he believed in the people, and wanted the people to rule. His plan was to hold a general election at the earliest possible moment; in the meantime, he thought he had no right to commit the nation to any drastic policy. H e was himself an idealist, but by no means a radical. H e was fifty-eight; he had been brought up under conservative influences; although he had long been active in Paris, he had never ceased to be a country gentleman; although, in the Chamber of Deputies of the July Monarchy, he belonged to no party, he had become accustomed to the spirit and method of parliamentary debate. Moreover, he had traveled, and he knew that provincial France and the rest of Europe were not fully attuned to the temper of the Parisian revolutionists. H e was therefore no enthusiastic novice, and under normal circumstances he might have been a perfect leader for a well-established Republic; for he combined vision with diplomacy and a shrewd appreciation of the real. But he was not qualified to be a Jacobin dictator; and nothing else would have satisfied the radical elements in the capital. With the experience of nearly a hundred years, we are tempted to add: nothing else could have made the "Democratic and Social Republic" a success. T h e Paris radicals, the actual victors in February, were in constant fear of losing again, as in 1830, the fruit of their triumph,

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and they wanted to consolidate their position. They felt that, in the general confusion, only a bold policy could save the principles for which they had fought, and which had been solemnly proclaimed. For one thing, they did not want immediate elections, which would end their power. Democracy should not be entrusted to Demos until Demos was thoroughly awake. For the time being, Democracy implied the leadership, and if need be the dictatorship, of the f e w who were conscious of the democratic ideal and determined to make it prevail. The fighting of February was merely a start, the removal of an obstacle: the true revolution was under way.

If it should lose momentum, the

amorphous mass of the petty bourgeois and peasant proprietors would assert its power, passively, through the sheer weight of its numbers and the invincible sluggishness of its thought. So the Paris radicals kept whipping up the Provisional Government, urging it to take swift and decisive action. A t one time they demanded the adoption of the red flag, as the symbol of a complete break with bourgeois plutocracy; at another, a crusade in favor of struggling nationalities, for the victory of reaction abroad would leave French democracy in precarious isolation. Demonstration followed demonstration; at times they were so threatening as almost to turn into riots.

Twice at least, on

March 17 and on April 16, there were incipient insurrections, which came within an inch of success. Each attempt that miscarried deepened the frustration and despair of the revolutionists; while the misgivings and dull resentment of the conservatives were fanned into dread and anger. Within two months, the "heroes," the "victors," had become the enemies of society. It was under these uneasy circumstances that the elections to the National Constituent Assembly were held at last, on April 23. T h e Government had freely used its influence to "enlighten" the public mind; the popularity of Lamartine, although impaired,

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was still a powerful factor; and the result may be considered as a triumph for the Republic. Parties were loosely organized, and opinions shaded imperceptibly into each other: but roughly speaking the democrats, in general sympathy with Lamartine, won about 500 seats; the extreme Left, a very heterogeneous body, had barely 100; the Legitimists 100; the Orleanists 200. The Bonapartists hardly counted at all. We have seen that Louis Napoleon himself had declined to enter the contest. T w o of his acolytes at Strasbourg, Fialin (de Persigny) and Colonel Vaudrey, were candidates, and three of his cousins were elected, Napoleon, son of Jerome, Pierre, son of Lucien, and Lucien, son of Joachim Murat; but they offered themselves as Republicans, not as Imperialists. The one clear lesson of the poll was that France had accepted the democratic principle, but balked at socialism. This was clearly seen in the reorganization of the Government after the Assembly met on the fourth of May. A n Executive Commission was elected; its five members had all been members of the Provisional Government. But Ledru-Rollin, the most "advanced," was the last on the list; he got through only through the influence of Lamartine, and this loyalty to a colleague cost the poet many votes. Louis Blanc, the avowed socialist, and Albert, the only representative of the working class, were eliminated. The extreme Left, irritated and feverish, made a last effort. On the fifteenth of May, the mob, led by the members of the radical clubs, invaded the Assembly under pretext of presenting a petition. The whole thing was so chaotic and so disastrous that the Republicans claimed later that it had been engineered by the police. There is a simpler explanation at hand. The various leaders, Raspail, Barbes, Blanqui, distrusted one another. Each knew very little about the aim and scope of the movement; each joined because he was afraid that it might be capitalized by a rival. The affair began as a demonstration in favor of Poland; then the irre-

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pressible social conflict was brought in; quite unexpectedly one of the minor leaders, Huber, went up the rostrum and declared that the Assembly, having betrayed the trust of the people, was dissolved. Thereupon Barbes and Albert, following a revolutionary tradition, marched at the head of the masses to the Paris Hotel de Ville. There they formed a new government, and, for a start, decreed the reconstitution of an independent Poland. They went no farther; the troops had already cleared the Assembly and were surrounding the City Hall. The fiasco was complete, and the democratic Republic was wounded beyond recovery. From that fateful day there reigned on both sides the catastrophic psychology of the showdown. 3 The issue upon which the decisive battle was fought was that of the National Workshops. These had been established on the second day of the revolution, as a corollary of "the right to employment" decreed the day before, and as a satisfaction to the socialistic tendencies represented by Louis Blanc. N o sooner were they created than they were sabotaged. Their organization was not entrusted to Louis Blanc, who had given the subject ten years of serious thought, and they were but a caricature of his proposals. The unemployed were gathered together, pell-mell, without any reference to their training and capacity, and placed under semimilitary discipline. As a relief measure, this crude organization might have served a modest purpose. But the number of the unemployed was growing catastrophically, for Paris, the center of the luxury trades, suffered cruelly from the economic crisis. Soon there were 100,000 men enrolled, without any adequate work for them to do. They were set to digging out the Champ de Mars, 3

It was said, in particular by Ledru-Rollin, that Huber acted as a Bonapartist agent. For this, there is no proof, except the adage id fecit cui prodest. The affair greatly served the Bonapartist cause; but Louis Napoleon repeatedly reaped where he had not sown. As Emperor he pardoned Huber, who was still a prisoner; but he offered free pardons to all his political opponents.

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and then to filling it up again. Their chief occupation was to talk politics; they became an immense club of the discontented, festering with their accumulated grievances; a club which at any moment might turn into an army of insurrection. There were two ways out of this scandalous situation: to give the National Workships something profitable to do, and to suppress them altogether.

T h e first method was practical: the Second

Empire was to demonstrate that France was ready for slum clearance on the grand scale, and for a vast expansion of her railroad system. T h e second method prevailed. T o men without imagination, it seemed the easier of the two. It appealed particularly to those w h o were anxious to stop, at any cost, the spread of socialism. It was essential to cancel, as emphatically as possible, the dangerous promises of February 25 and 26. Such was the policy of the man in charge of the Labor Committee in the Assembly, the Catholic statesman Viscount de Falloux. T h e result was, on June 23, a proletarian insurrection in Paris. T h e next day, all the Eastern districts of the capital were organized for civil w a r ; hundreds of barricades were erected. In such an emergency, the eloquence of Lamartine was of no avail; neither was the Christian spirit of the Archbishop, Monseigneur Afire, who died in the attempt to stop the bloodshed. General Cavaignac was given full power to restore order. This he did unflinchingly; but he earned for himself the sinister name "the butcher of June." Cavaignac was a sincere Republican, and he cannot be accused of unnecessary cruelty. But, through no fault of his, the conflict assumed an extraordinary degree of bitterness. There may be chivalry in national wars, and a willingness to compromise in purely political strife; but social and religious conflicts alike rouse man to ferocity. Historical events cannot be gauged by statistics; the number of the dead matters less than the intensity of passion. In terms of

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modern warfare, the four "Days of June" would be accounted a mere skirmish; yet they marked a decisive moment in French history. The most advanced elements in the working classes, that is to say the best as well as the worst, lost faith in the bourgeois Republic. Politicians, they thought, had lured them on, betrayed them, goaded them into despair, and then turned upon them with unexampled ruthlessness. On the other hand, the bourgeois shuddered at the very thought of "social war," and felt as though the whole fabric of civilization were shaken. Everywhere in France groups were formed, ready to march upon Paris. It was then that the great bogey, "the Red Specter," 4 assumed lurid definiteness. The "Spirit of 'Forty-eight" on the contrary, that luminous and unstable blend of national democracy and religious humanitarianism, faded out of sight. With it disappeared the Executive Commission, and Lamartine. The victor, General Cavaignac, his cruel task accomplished, resigned his dictatorial powers; but the Assembly immediately reinvested him with authority, as Chief Executive. It was Louis Napoleon's miraculous luck that at the time of the insurrection he was not in active politics, and not even in France. His enemies, keeping him away from the scene of battle, had served him well. Complementary elections had been held on June 4, and Louis Napoleon was returned by four constituencies, Paris, Yonne, Charente-Inferieure, and Corsica. This fourfold triumph came literally as a thunderbolt. Not a single newspaper of any repute, not a single important organization, had supported the Prince's candidacy. It had barely been mentioned at all. His only active propaganda consisted in a few modest posters and handbills. The Government was thrown into confusion. On June 2, it had been admitted in principle that the law exiling the 4

Auguste Romieu's notorious book Le Spectre rouge de 1852 appeared three years later, in 1851. Cf. Chapter IX, note 7, below.

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Bonapartes should be repealed; on die twelfth, on the contrary, it was decided that if the Prince should appear in France he was to be immediately arrested; on the thirteenth, the Assembly declared his election valid; on the fourteenth, an ambiguous letter from him, and some disorder in the street, caused the Government once more to stiffen in its hostility. On the fifteenth, Louis Napoleon operated another masterly retreat; he sent in his resignation, so as not to increase the political confusion of the country. Once more he had been very efficiently advertised, and he had made the most of it. He had been proclaimed a public enemy while proving himself to be a good citizen. His opponents had veered with every wind of panic: he had shown himself dignified and statesmanlike.

A s they were soon to lose all credit, their

hostility became one of his chief assets. Thanks to them, when a week later Paris was torn by civil war he was still in exile, enjoying perfect freedom from tragic responsibilities. There is no proof, and no likelihood, that Bonapartism played any part in the Days of June. N o doubt a number of the insurgents had vague sympathies in favor of Louis Napoleon, for in his pamphlet On the Extinction

of Pauperism, he had advanced

a crude but intelligent plan for National Workshops. But this hazy agreement did not commit them to political Bonapartism; still less did it commit Bonapartism to the desperate cause of the insurrection. On the other hand, Bonapartism was not interested at that time in a showdown which would give some one else the prestige of saving society. It is our impression that Bonapartism was advancing in those days with a strict minimum of ideology, organization, and expenditure, simply because it held itself in reserve while every other tendency had been tried and found wanting. O n September 17, new complementary elections were held, and Louis Napoleon was returned by no less than five departments.

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This time there was no serious question of keeping him out. On the 24th, he arrived in Paris, and, as in 1831, he went to a hotel in the Place Vendöme district, in full view of the bronze column which was the symbol of Napoleonic glory. On the 26th, he took his seat in the Assembly. H e had by this time become a major factor in French politics; a vast crowd assembled to catch a glimpse of him. True to his cautious policy, he managed to slip in quietly and eschew a popular demonstration. He was called to the tribune, and read a brief address, in which he affirmed his devotion "to the defense of order and the strengthening of the Republic." These correct words, spoken in a toneless voice, were received with perfunctory applause. The deputies gazed with curiosity upon their new colleague, whom his name and the blunders of his opponents had turned into a portent. They saw a man rather under middle height — five foot eight — looking younger than his forty years, and disarmingly unobtrusive. His torso was long and his legs short; he moved awkwardly, with a shuffling gait; his head sat heavily on his broad and round shoulders; his countenance was pale and immobile; his eyes were small, heavy-lidded, of an undefinable grey; a thick auburn moustache almost concealed his very full lips. The one trait which struck the cartoonists was his curved and prominent nose, a beak which caused General Changarnier to call him later "a melancholy parrot." He was not downright ludicrous; he was not exactly commonplace; he certainly was not impressive. II

From the seventeenth of May, the Assembly, through a committee of eighteen, had been engaged in drafting a Constitution. We shall discuss its merits later, when we examine the causes of its collapse; the one important feature for us at this point is the

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organization of the executive. T w o extreme tendencies were in conflict. According to the first, the executive should simply be the agent of the Assembly, and could be dismissed by the Assembly; the result would have been somewhat akin to a constitutional monarchy with the figurehead removed. The other sought to create a strong and independent executive. This conception prevailed. The constitution makers could not fail to be impressed by the indecision, the impotence of the Provisional Government and of the Executive Commission; in an emergency, they had been compelled to create a one-man executive power. America was at the time the only model of a large successful republic; Tocqueville, the great authority on democracy in America, was on the drafting committee, and a presidency of the American type was adopted. Those who were afraid of a dictatorship made a last effort: they wanted to have the President elected by the Assembly. In a magnificent speech, Lamartine urged that the head of the state be chosen by the whole people, and he carried his point by 627 votes against 120. It is easy enough to claim that he had a selfish motive; the Assembly would inevitably have elected General Cavaignac, and Lamartine may have thought that his own popularity throughout the nation had not completely disappeared. We read his speech in a different spirit. We feel that, from the moment he had started his campaign against the Orleanist oligarchy, Lamartine was committed, both logically and mystically, to the democratic dogma. He was still "the representative of the ideal"; he was not the man to be swerved from a principle by a plea of expediency. He remained a prophet, not a politician; he said himself that the method he advocated might lead to a new Empire; yet he affirmed: "Alea jacta est! Let God and the people decide!" With these words he paved the way for Napoleon III. One obstacle remained: Lamartine was not the only one to

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foresee a Bonapartist restoration, and others were not so fatalistically resigned as he: they refused to admit that Democracy had the right to strangle the Republic. So, on October 9, representative Antony Thouret offered an amendment: " N o member of a family having formerly reigned over France shall be eligible to be President or Vice-President of the Republic." Every eye turned toward Louis Napoleon, for the amendment was aimed at him alone. He went up to the tribune, and, in a few halting sentences, uttered with a strangely un-French accent, he protested against "the calumnies constantly hurled at his head," stammered, ended abruptly, and shuffled back to his seat. The Assembly, particularly rich in orators, was dumfounded to find a political leader so inarticulate. Thouret voiced the general impression when he went up to the tribune again, and with contemptuous irony, said: "After what we have just seen and heard, my amendment is without object, and I beg to withdraw it." On such an occasion, a poor speech was the best strategy, and it has been said that Louis Napoleon's pitiful showing was intentional. In all probability, truth is not so Machiavellian. The candidate would have run a great risk in making himself deliberately ridiculous. The plain fact is that although he could write very well, and with due preparation speak impressively, he never was able to improvise. The Constitution was voted on November 4, and solemnly proclaimed on the Place de la Concorde on November 12. The presidential campaign had already started. Cavaignac, of course, was a candidate. Ledru-Rollin appealed to the democratic elements, Raspail to the socialists; Lamartine was Lamartine. Bonapartist propaganda, fitful and modest until June, was at last in full swing. The whole stock of electoral devices — newspapers, broadsides, portraits — was brought into action. This required money, and the Prince had very little. He borrowed recklessly, from many friends, from his mistress, Miss Howard, from

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the financier Achille Fould: a gamble on his political future had become "a good thing." But it cannot be charged that the election was bought. Money was freely spent on the other side also; and official pressure was exerted everywhere in favor of General Cavaignac. On the tenth of December, the vote was cast. Louis Napoleon headed the poll with 5,400,000; Cavaignac had 1,400,000; Ledru-Rollin 370,000; Raspail 36,000; and Lamartine — alea jacta est! —17,000. Such was the spontaneous verdict of the French people; there could be no suspicion of force or fraud. T o the end of his reign, Napoleon III considered the tenth of December 1848, not the second of December 1851, as the origin of his power. O n December 20 he was quietly inaugurated, by taking his oath of allegiance to the Constitution in the National Assembly. He offered his hand to General Cavaignac: the defeated man did not cordially respond. T h e new President went at once to the Palace of the Elysee; a small dinner party had been improvised; and among the guests were his accomplices in the fantastic ventures of Strasbourg and Boulogne — Colonel Vaudrey, Laity, and the faithful, the indispensable Persigny.

CHAPTER V T H E ROMAN EXPEDITION A T HOME A N D

ABROAD

LOUIS NAPOLEON, THE CONSERVATIVES, AND THE CHURCH

O

N February 24, 1848, a handful of insurgents in Paris — intellectuals, students, working men — had proclaimed a Republic; on the tenth of December, 5,400,000 votes, freely cast, had made Louis Napoleon President — a striking contrast in democratic methods. There was only one point in common between the two events: they were equally difficult to interpret. Did the radicals in February represent anything but themselves, or were they, as they asserted, the vanguard of the people's army, the appointed keepers of democratic orthodoxy ? And what stood, ten months later, behind the impressive array of 5,400,000 votes ? What is democracy ? The leadership of a small, conscious, organized minority, or the "will" of a confused, amorphous mass ? T o the present day, the election of the tenth of December remains a puzzle. It is the key to Bonapartism and the Second Empire; obviously, the 5,400,000 supporters of Louis Napoleon had no thought of electing the president of a Parliamentary Republic, and the Coup d'fitat of 1851 was but a belated consequence of their choice. As we have seen, diere could be no suspicion of fraud; the Bonapartists were not in control of the electoral machinery. There was no lack of Bonapartist propaganda, no doubt; but it only canalized and accelerated the trend of public opinion. The personal prestige of the candidate was small. It was a miracle that Strasbourg and Boulogne had not wholly shattered his chances. His publications, although able and widely read, were

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not outstanding; they did not give him a position among political writers equal to that of Lamartine, Lamennais, Thiers, or Louis Blanc. Few had actually seen or heard him; and those who had, in the National Assembly, would have pronounced him utterly lacking in brilliancy and popular magnetism. The stock explanation offered at the time, both by his radical opponents and his conservative confederates, is that Louis Napoleon, himself a nonentity, represented a conscious alliance between the Napoleonic Legend and political reaction. This interpretation was the official doctrine taught in the schools of the Third Republic. It contains much truth, but not the whole truth, and probably not the essential part of the truth. The Napoleonic Legend and reaction — neither of these factors would have sufficed by itself. The Legend was at its height in 1840; it had not made the Boulogne attempt a success. Napoleon stands first of all for martial glory; no one affected to believe that his nephew had inherited his military genius. Furthermore, it was the extreme Republicans, so hopelessly defeated at the poll, who had advocated a spirited foreign policy, a crusade that would restore the prestige and hegemony of France in Europe. The paradox might even be advanced that the warlike memories of the First Empire were something of a handicap for Louis Napoleon; he had to disclaim any intention of following in his uncle's footsteps. His last argument before he achieved his goal was: "They say: The Empire stands for war. No: the Empire stands for peace. L'Empire, c'est la paix." Reaction alone provides no master key. If by reaction we understand the restoration of order in the street and a determined stand against Socialist agitators, then General Cavaignac was the logical candidate, for he had "saved Society" with a heavy hand. If we have in mind something deeper, a return to the principles of the Ancient Regime, the unquestioned authority of the monarchy

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and the Church, then the Legitimist Pretender, the Count of Chambord, should have been called to the throne. It is true that, as the champion of reaction, Bonapartism had definite advantages over its two rivals. Cavaignac had done the rough work and had to bear the odium; he stood for discipline, unadorned and sullen. There was no bloodstain on Louis Napoleon's hands; and if his name evoked a stern military autocracy, that regime, in historical perspective, had at any rate an aura of glory: the "Legend" softened and illumined the harsh face of reaction. Against Legitimism, Bonapartism had the benefit of a far abler pretender. Not that the Count of Chambord was in any sense a negligible personality; he was an upright and intelligent man, with deep faith in his own principle, and a noble sense of his responsibility. He was twenty-eight: but for many years his party had been run by futile or despairing fossils. Berryer alone, the great orator, had vigor and prestige, and even Berryer's loyalty had a touch of melancholy resignation; he, like Chateaubriand, stood proudly as one of the last witnesses to a vanishing order. Throughout his life, the Count of Chambord, "child of the miracle" though he was, remained unable to vitalize or dramatize his cause. He was a Quietist, and committed his case into the hands of God. Louis Napoleon also had a fatalistic trust in his ideal; but he believed firmly that Destiny compelled him to act, and not to wait. He was not merely an heir, like his rival; he was a prophet. It can hardly be denied that in 1848 Bonapartism stood to a large extent for material order and social conservation. In a sense, we might even use the word "reaction." The term need not have any sinister implication: the people "reacted" adversely to certain initiatives which appeared ill-conceived or fumbling. N o doubt there was in June a great fear, paralyzing men's thought, as there was to be in March 1871 when the Commune broke out,

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or in 1917 when the Bolsheviki seized power; and when the middle classes start shuddering they shudder for a long time. Still, the French in December 1848 did not vote in a blind panic; for over five months, there had been no threat of renewed disorder; the Assembly was calmly proceeding with its constitutional labor; the press was free. The people, in December, did not frantically call for the police; what they wanted was a permanent cure for their political ills. The enemy, for them, was not democracy as a principle, which was practically unchallenged, or even socialism as a general trend: it was first of all disorder. Back of that disorder stood Parliamentary misrule, which fimile Faguet, fifty years later, was to describe as "the cult of incompetence and the dread of responsibilities." The cause of all insurrections is lack of firmness, and no authority with nine hundred heads can be firm. Now, in 1848, the more liberal Legitimists, the Orleanists to a man, the moderate Republicans with Cavaignac, even most of the radicals, were all committed to the Parliamentary system. The only alternatives to its excesses were, on the side of the conservative Legitimists, autocracy by divine right; on the side of the extreme Republicans, a Jacobin dictatorship; and both were abhorrent to the vast majority of the French. Bonapartism alone stood squarely against the loose and inefficient tyranny of the prattlers; and the authority that it claimed was to be derived from the consent of the people as a whole. Bonapartism then was anti-parliamentary; it received and accepted the support of the conservatives, as it received and accepted the support of men of good will from every class and party; but it was not permanently and necessarily committed to reaction. The opinions professed by the Prince had been unswervingly democratic and humanitarian; there is no reason to suspect their sincerity. It must be remembered that Louis Napoleon's candi-

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dacy was endorsed by Victor Hugo, and that Lamartine accepted the result of the election without dismay. Both great poets were ready to support a progressive President endowed with prestige and authority; they had no mystic faith in the infallibility of the Assembly, or in its superiority over the executive. An elaborate Constitution had been written: but by their vote, the people indicated what kind of a constitution they wanted. The French were weary of party squabbles, and the regime of their choice was presidential rather than parliamentary: but it was not intended to be a dictatorship, and least of all a reactionary dictatorship. There was no sign of a White Terror. We must add that Bonapartism won chiefly because it appeared as the last hope. Within a third of a century, all the other solutions had been tried and rejected: the Legitimist monarchy in July 1830, Orleanism in February 1848, the Democratic and Social Republic after the Days of June. Alone of all competing regimes, Bonapartism had been ratified by a solemn vote of the people; alone also, it had never been overthrown by the French themselves. Its many faults were forgotten; all that the French chose to remember was that its downfall had been compassed by foreign arms. It is our contention that the election of December 10, 1848, was not won by a coalition of the conservatives — Mole, Thiers, Montalembert, Berryer, and even Guizot — with Louis Napoleon as their standard bearer; but that it was won by Louis Napoleon alone. He won on his own program, which, summed up in his name, was not lacking in definiteness: authoritarian democracy. The one thing certain is that the monarchists, Legitimists as well as Orleanists, did not dare to put forth a frankly conservative candidate. They thought of the Prince de Joinville, but were soon compelled to abandon the idea. It is said that they were afraid of General Cavaignac, an able man and a staunch Republican,

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who, as President, would have consolidated the Republic. But even if they had thrown their whole weight in favor of Cavaignac, it is doubtful whether they could have secured his election. Much as they disliked to vote for a Republican, it would have been strangely shortsighted for Royalists to support, of their own accord., a Bonapartist pretender. They may have thought like Antony Thouret that the man, being tongue-tied, could not be dangerous, and, like Clemenceau two generations later, decided to vote pour le plus bete, for the stupidest; we wonder how deeply these very clever men managed to fool themselves. We have a higher opinion of their political astuteness: our impression is that they had no other choice. In American parlance, they got on the band wagon. More accurately perhaps, in the same picturesque speech, they "muscled in." For if, in December 1848, the Prince was free from any commitment to reaction, he did become entangled in 1849. This was due to two events, the elections to the Legislative Assembly and the Roman expedition. Both of them were enveloped in a cloud of ambiguities. So far as the relations between President and Assembly were concerned, that ambiguity was dispelled by the Coup d'lstat; but in the case of the Roman question, the puzzle was to remain unsolved to the very last day of the Empire. 11 The first few months of Louis Napoleon's presidency, while the Constituent Assembly was still in session, were correct and uneventful. He chose as his Prime Minister Odilon Barrot. From the parliamentary point of view, the selection was unimpeachable. Barrot, the leader of the constitutional or "dynastic" opposition under Louis Philippe, was a moderate liberal who had honestly accepted the Republic. He was decidedly "right of center" in the Assembly; but it was evident that the Assembly no longer repre-

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sented the mood of the nation. He was experienced and dignified enough not to be considered as a mere tool in the hands of the President; on the other hand, he was not brilliant or forceful enough to challenge the supremacy of the chief executive. The precarious equilibrium between a Parliamentary cabinet and the elected head of the nation seemed to be realized. The situation was made easier by the fact that Louis Napoleon was under personal obligations to Barrot, who had repeatedly defended his interests. The Constituent Assembly clung to its function, although its task was done. This attitude was not merely due to the pardonable desire of elected bodies to perpetuate themselves in power: it was inspired by sincere misgivings about the fate of the young Republic. The new regime was safe in the hands of those who had created it, but the temper of the country had markedly changed since the elections of April 1848. The Assembly was but a wraith. As early as January 29, 1849, it reluctantly voted to dissolve; but that indefinite promise did not take effect until May 26. The country lost patience with these tenacious survivors; General Changarnier, in command of the Paris troops, hinted that if they did not go of their own accord they might have to be pushed out. Finally, the general elections were held on the thirteenth of May. As was expected, the moderate Republican group, which had numbered 500 under the leadership of Lamartine, dwindled to 80, and ceased to have any influence. On the other hand, the radical vote showed a great increase; the party returned 180 members; its leader, Ledru-Rollin, was elected in five constituencies. The "Party of Order," with 460 deputies, was in full control of the Assembly. But that party was found to be almost solidly monarchical, perhaps two-thirds Orleanist and one-third Legitimist; the out-and-out Bonapartists were but a handful. Persigny was there, and he rallied a few deputies who formed the nucleus

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of a President's Party, or Party of the Elysee. But although this group was to grow during the next three years, it remained a minor factor. The President was faced with a parliamentary majority which, like himself, represented a desire for order, but which was frankly hostile to his principles and his ambitions. If the sweeping victory of Louis Napoleon on December 10, 1848, came as a surprise, this total lack of support, only five months later, may seem even more puzzling. Foreign historians could lightly dismiss the problem: the sudden change is only another evidence of French fickleness. For any one who is acquainted with the deep rural masses of France and their glacierlike sluggishness, such an explanation must appear frivolous. N o r can it be said that the new President had shown himself unworthy of his high office. A threatened agitation in the streets, on January 29, 1849, was met by quiet and efficient means beyond the compass of the pompous parliamentarian Barrot: the President himself, "the Napoleonic hat without a man," as his enemies liked to call him, already had a firm grip of the army and the police. T h e Prince started at once on a policy which he was to pursue until his final triumph. H e appeared everywhere at public functions, spoke simply and well, and became, instead of a mere symbol, a living reality. H e assumed the uniform of a General in the National Guard and passed military reviews in which he was personally acclaimed; France could already visualize him as the Imperator, a single determined figure to whom the troops were doing homage, while the Assembly remained a grey, anonymous mass, dimly writhing. In May 1849, his popularity was at least as great as five months earlier. The Conservatives chose to believe that the tide of reaction, the "wave of the past" which had started even before June 1848, and which had left Lamartine and Cavaignac stranded behind, had already swept past Louis Napoleon. In the light of what hap-

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pened in 1851, we must adopt another explanation. The people did want a presidential regime in December 1848, and they still wanted it in May 1849; but they had no clear way of expressing their desire. Louis Napoleon was a man and a principle, not a party. He could win a plebiscite: he was not prepared to contest 750 parliamentary elections. His name represented order, and the masses chose everywhere men who were locally prominent and averse to disorder. But they expected their representatives to strengthen the hand of their President, not to oppose him; they did not want the old parties to revive. This success of the Conservatives at the polls led them to believe, retrospectively, that they had won the election of December 10 also; that Louis Napoleon was their choice and their tool; and that if, in his ingratitude, he failed to obey them, they could break him. Louis Napoleon's policy was cautious. He did not at once take up the challenge. He knew that between himself and the majority there was at any rate one great interest in common, the prevention of disorder. So for one year, at least, he tried honestly to govern in harmony with the parliamentary majority. But he never abandoned his belief that he, and not they, truly represented the nation as a whole. At the moment of their closest cooperation, there was between them an unacknowledged but irreconcilable conflict. That conflict, as we shall see in the next chapter, came to a head in 1850, and filled the year 1851 with increasing bitterness. The desire of the country was manifest, but the Assembly declined to remove the constitutional obstacles which stood in the way of the people's will, and these were roughly brushed aside on December 2, 1851. That question, at any rate, is clearly settled: the Orleanist-Legitimist majority did not represent the true sentiment of the nation. But it happened that the Conservative elections of May 1849 came at a critical moment in the development of the

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Roman question; we must now attempt to present this imbroglio, in which home politics, foreign affairs, and religious strife were so curiously entangled. Louis Napoleon was trapped and committed to a policy opposed to his clearly defined sympathies and convictions; at the end of twenty-one years he had not yet been able to extricate himself. in We have seen that the humanitarian faith of the Romantic era was most powerfully expressed, in France, by Lamennais, and that Lamennais had been unequivocally condemned by Pope Gregory XVI. When the uncompromising pontiff died in 1846, it was hoped that the long alliance between the Holy See and the Metternich system of reaction would come to an end. Romanticism, in its double aspect of democracy and Utopian socialism, was at that time vaguely Christian, and at least sentimentally Catholic; it was felt that the religion of the poor should readily espouse the cause of the people. Of this hope, Victor Hugo in particular has left several manifestations: a speech in the Chamber of Peers, the first version of his poem "The Pope," and the character of Bishop Myriel, in Les Miseres, an early sketch of the mighty epic Les Miserables. The blessing of the trees of liberty by the clergy, in the spring of 1848, was another indication of the same spirit. Cardinal Mastai-Ferretti, who became Pope under the name of Pius IX, at first fully justified these expectations. He opened his pontificate with an amnesty and with the promise of reforms. It seemed as though he was ready to "laicize" and liberalize the Papal State, and to favor Italian independence against the leaden rule of Austria. But that was in 1846: the revolutions throughout Europe in 1848 had a contrary effect upon people and sovereign. The

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Romans were nerved to demand swifter and more drastic action; the Pope viewed with dismay the outbursts of violence in the various capitals. A crisis was reached when Count Rossi, a statesman of international experience and standing whom he had selected as his Prime Minister, was assassinated on November 15. The Pope had to yield to mob rule; but on November 24 he managed to escape, and took refuge at Gaeta in the Kingdom of Naples. The Romans, against his protest, elected a National Assembly which, on the ninth of February 1849, declared the Temporal Power abolished and proclaimed a Republic. The Romans were belated; reaction had already set in everywhere. The Austrian Kaiser had quelled the insurrections of his peoples; on March 22, Charles Albert of Piedmont, champion of Italian independence, was defeated at Novara, and abdicated. It was then (March 30) that the French Chamber, which was still the old Republican Constituent Assembly, urged the government to intervene in Italy, by force of arms if necessary, in order to forestall the complete crushing of the liberal movement by the reactionary power of Austria. When, a fortnight later, Barrot requested an appropriation for sending an expedition to Civita Vecchia, the port of Rome, it was definitely on the plea of "safeguarding liberal institutions." "Safeguarding liberal institutions" did not mean "saving the Roman Republic"; the French Government had already lost faith in the possibility of such a miracle. It was inevitable, in the condition of Europe and Italy at the time, that the Pope should be restored; but Drouyn de Lhuys, the Foreign Minister, expressed his wish that he be restored as a liberal sovereign. A semi-official mission entrusted to Charles de Lesseps to negotiate with the Republicans was therefore of a very equivocal nature. All that the French Government probably hoped for was to act as a mediator between the Pope and his rebellious subjects. The Roman Re-

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publicans rejected the possibility of such a compromise; and when the troops of General Oudinot advanced on Rome "in an amicable spirit," they were fired upon. The honor of the flag, according to a deplorable tradition, was now at stake; and the Romans were turned from recreant proteges into open enemies. In thus forcing the issue, the Romans placed their hope in the Republican sentiments of the French Assembly. That moribund body did indeed protest, on May 7, against changing so completely the aims of the expedition. But on May 13, as we have seen, the elections gave a large majority to the Conservatives. De Lesseps was recalled at the very moment when he had secured an agreement. The new Legislative Assembly met on May 28; on June 3, Oudinot began the siege of Rome. On June 13, an insurrection broke out in Paris, directed chiefly against the Roman policy of the Government. It was easily repressed, and LedruRollin had to flee. On July 3, Rome was taken, and the temporal power of Pius IX restored. Louis Napoleon's youthful escapade in 1831, when he took part in a liberal insurrection against the Pope, was well atoned for. The Pope who had sought refuge in Gaeta was no longer the open-hearted Pontiff of 1846; his flight, his exile, his fear and humiliation had hardened his hostility to democracy. He refused to make the slightest concession to the hated modern spirit. This was exactly, we must remember, the reverse of Louis Napoleon's original intentions. In a letter to a personal friend, LieutenantColonel Edgard Ney, dated August 18 and made public on September 7, the President stated unequivocally on what terms he had envisaged the restoration of the Temporal Power: a general amnesty, a secular administration, the Napoleonic Code, and a liberal government; and he openly deplored the ingratitude of Rome, which had not a word of thanks for France, after French money and French blood had been lavishly spent in her service.

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T o this the Pope might have answered that he could hardly feel grateful to the French for keeping his friends the Austrians out. Had he been restored by the troops of Francis Joseph, there would have been no nonsense about "the Napoleonic Code" and "a liberal government." Thus was Louis Napoleon caught, and caught he remained for twenty-one years. If he withdrew his troops, he would simply make room for Austria, and suffer a diplomatic defeat. He could not reverse his policy without acknowledging his mistake and siding with the "Reds," with that Ledru-Rollin whom he had sent packing on the thirteenth of June. Even if he had had the moral courage to do so, he would have been compelled to engage a battle with the new Assembly, on an issue most unfavorable to his cause; for his strength lay in the support of the rural masses, and among them the influence of the clergy was still considerable. So the French troops remained in Rome, to support a government frankly inimical to democracy and progress, and later to prevent the Italians from entering the city which they considered as their only possible capital. The impression was created, and it lingers even today, that the Roman Expedition was the result of a deliberate bargain between Louis Napoleon and the organized Conservatives; they supported his candidacy in December 1848, and the restoration of the Pope as an absolute sovereign was the price he had to pay. Against this interpretation stand two facts: the admission by the Conservatives themselves that the election of Louis Napoleon was inevitable, 1 and the President's very explicit letter to Edgard Ney. But it is undeniable that everything happened as if such a deal had actually taken place. The Roman Expedition became an accepted symbol. When in 1850 the Conservative majority in the Assembly forced 1

C f . Hippolyte Thirria, Napoleon

I> 453-454·

111 avant TEmpire,

2 vols. (Paris, 1895-96),

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upon the President a number of reactionary measures, their victory was called "a Roman campaign at home." So long as French soldiers were mounting guard in the Holy City, it was a sign that the Reds were everywhere held at bay. The religious attitude of Louis Napoleon himself is extremely hard to define, which does not mean that it was out of the ordinary. His elder brother, it seems, annoyed by a repressive discipline, had become hostile to the Church. Nothing of the kind happened to Louis. No doubt Philippe Lebas the Robespierrist did nothing to turn him into a devout Catholic; but Hortense, after Flahaut had left her, had become very pious; Arenenberg was described as "swarming with priests," and we know how deeply devoted Louis was to his mother, how great was her influence upon him. If by anticlericalism we mean opposition to certain political activities of the clergy, then the young man who fought against the Papal Government was undoubtedly anticlerical; but so were many of the French kings, not only Philip the Fair of sinister memory, but Louis XIV himself, who defended against Rome the privileges of the Gallican Church, and Louis XV, under whom the Jesuits were suppressed. Louis Napoleon, like the leaders of his generation, like Lamartine in particular, with whom he had so many traits in common, was sincerely religious, Christian, Catholic, and there was no hypocrisy in his professed reverence for the Church; but he was indifferent about theological niceties, and unwilling, in purely secular matters, to submit to priestly rule. In this again, he was simply the average Frenchman. So we had, during this whole period of twenty-two years, a complex, obscure, and extremely bitter fight, not simply between the godly and the ungodly, but within the Catholic fold. The President and Emperor was a Catholic; Louis Veuillot, the great journalist, was a Catholic; Falloux and Montalembert, the con-

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servative-liberal statesmen, were Catholics; and the vast majority of French peasants and bourgeois were Catholics; but by no means in the same spirit. Louis Napoleon's religion, at the core, was that of Lamennais — and Lamennais had been excommunicated; Veuillot was an ardent believer, a man of the people, a born fighter and a tough one, indifferent in political matters, eager to obey the sole authoritative voice in the Church, that of the Pope; Montalembert was no less orthodox, but not so single-minded — social conservation and political liberty remained uppermost in his thought; the bulk of the population was attached to the Church, invincibly although not always fervently, because, for them, without the Church there was no religion, and religion was inseparable from a decent life. T h e four pictures of "Catholicism" could blend most of the time; but on certain points they absolutely refused to coincide. T h e one issue upon which these four brands of Catholics were fairly in agreement was a determined opposition to revolutionary socialism. Then, as in more recent times, there prevailed in many minds a confusion between radicalism and godlessness, with, in other minds, a corresponding confusion between clericalism and reaction. T h e "Reds" had done their best to foster such a confusion. P. J. Proudhon had written: " G o d is evil," and "Property is theft," two formidable paradoxes which take a great deal of explaining. A n d Blanqui had adopted as his motto: " N o God and no master." There were abysmal differences between the two men. Proudhon was an honest and very able thinker, surprisingly moderate in his aims and methods; he was to be denounced by Karl Marx as petit bourgeois. Louis Napoleon had consulted him; Prince Napoleon corresponded with h i m ; Sainte-Beuve, a supporter of the Bonapartist regime and a member of the Imperial Senate, wrote a very searching and sympathetic book about him. Blanqui, on the contrary, was a democrat and a socialist only in

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the vaguest sense of those terms; he was first and last, as we have said, a monomaniac of insurrection. He spent half of his long life in prison; whenever he escaped or was released, under Louis Philippe, the Second Republic, the Empire, or the Government of National Defense, he would rush to arms with a handful of fanatics, and be clapped in jail again. But Proudhon the audacious theorist and Blanqui the eternal insurgent were twin incarnations of the Red Specter; and as both attacked God and Property, bishops and gendarmes stood together in mutual defense. The conflict, as we shall see, raged in Napoleon Ill's innermost circle; for his Spanish Empress was a devout Catholic, his cousin Prince Napoleon a blatant freethinker. It became more tangled and fiercer as the Italian national problem demanded a definitive solution, for a free and united Italy was bound to absorb the Papal State, which lay athwart the very center of the peninsula. Cavour proposed the abolition of the Temporal Power, and "a free Church within a free State." But the Pope hated this freedom, which to him meant libertinism, free thought, mob rule, murder, and the rape of St. Peter's Patrimony. So every aggressive move of liberalism in Europe was countered by a more defiant assertion of Papal absolutism. Of this uncompromising policy, many French Catholics, including Napoleon III himself, were made to feel the full weight. The French Church had long maintained in temporal matters a certain degree of autonomy— a tradition known as Gallicanism; these privileges, under Pius IX, were almost entirely wiped out, and Ultramontanism, the centralizing and autocratic tendency, prevailed. This weakened the position of the Empire; for the sovereign, as successor of the kings, and according to the Concordat, was the temporal head of the French Church, and Ultramontanism was bent on wresting that authority from him. "Liberal" Catholicism, still represented by Lacordaire and Montalembert, was re-

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duced to a position of impotence. Montalembert, an aristocrat, a noted historian, a very fine orator, could still imagine himself the leader of the French Catholics. But this was a pitiful pretense; the Pope took no trouble to conceal his preference for the more docile and more rugged instrument, the Ultramontane journalist Louis Veuillot. In the early 'sixties, the warfare between science and theology was raging. Clemence Royer had translated Darwin's Origin of Species. Ernest Renan had been appointed to a professorship in the highest institution of learning in the country, the glorious College de France, and in his opening lecture he had referred to Christ as "an incomparable man." His Life of Jesus, reverent and tender but frankly rationalistic, was sensationally successful; within a few months, hundreds of books, pamphlets and articles had appeared in praise or denunciation. In Les Miserables, the saintly Bishop Myriel was made to bow before a survivor of the great Revolution, and to ask for his blessing. It looked as though there were a general offensive of free thought against orthodox belief. At that very moment, the Emperor, disturbed by the aggressive policy of Prussia and Austria in the Danish conflict, drawn far deeper than he had anticipated into the perilous Mexican adventure, thought it advisable to cut his Roman liabilities. By a secret convention with Italy, on September 15, 1864, the French troops were to be withdrawn from Rome within two years, or earlier if the Papal army could be reorganized before that time. The king of Italy, on the other hand, gave his word not to attack what remained of the Papal State, and undertook to transfer his capital from Turin to some city other than Rome. The terms of this agreement leaked out; the Ultramontane party in France was fiercely indignant at what it considered a betrayal; and it was partly as a counterblast that the Pope issued, on December 8, 1864, his Encyclical Quanta Cura, and a "Syllabus of

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the Principal Errors of Our Times." These two documents contained nothing strictly new; they reiterated the condemnation of modern tendencies pronounced by Gregory X V I in the Encyclical Mirari vos a third of a century before. They simply made the position of the Vatican manifest, at a moment which every one felt to be critical. Ingenious apologists, including Cardinal Newman, have attempted to tone down these ringing challenges; what Catholics and non-Catholics alike understood at the time can best be summed up in the last proposition of the Syllabus: "Anathema on him who should maintain: that the Pontiff can or ought to be reconciled with progress, liberalism and modern civilization." N o w Napoleon III was committed to the three things expressly condemned by Pius I X ; and, with the greatest reluctance we may be sure, he was compelled to consider the Syllabus as a direct attack on his regime. He treated it as seditious, and forbade its publication in France. True to his Ultramontane principles, Louis Veuillot disregarded the prohibition, and his paper was suppressed. The precarious alliance between the Empire and the clergy seemed to be at an end. But the matter did not come to a sharp issue. The Conservatives were afraid of playing into the hands of the Radicals; besides, many excellent Catholics in France were not in sympathy with the fierce and scurrilous polemical methods of Veuillot.

The

French troops were withdrawn from Rome, as agreed, in 1866. But the change was more nominal than real; for the Papal forces were reorganized by French officers; they comprised many French volunteers; and service under the Papal flag counted for promotion in the imperial army. Even that thin veil of pretense was soon discarded. Garibaldi attempted another of his coups.

Ar-

rested by the Italian government, confined in the island of Caprera, he escaped, and joined a movement against Rome. Napoleon III had to send another expedition, and Garibaldi was defeated at

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Mentana (November 3,1867). That new "victory" of the imperial arms spread consternation among the liberal elements; and the cheering report from General de Failly that "the new Chassepot rifles had done wonders" was received with shame and anger. Garibaldi was already for the French a national hero. The imperial troops were still in Rome in 1870, when the FrancoPrussian war broke out. The Emperor sent his cousin, Prince Napoleon, the son-in-law of King Victor Emmanuel II, to secure Italy's aid against Prussia. The King did not deny his obligation; but he made it plain that the first condition of cooperation was the evacuation of Rome. To this the Conservatives, and particularly the Empress, would not consent. The Papal power under French protection was the symbol of all that they held sacred, their threefold religion: Ultramontanism, the prestige of the imperial eagles, and the duty of resisting the radicals. In addition, the Empress could not forget that the Pope was the godfather of the Prince Imperial. After the first disasters suffered by the French, the King of Italy congratulated himself that he had had a valid excuse for not joining the losing side. The French Empire fell on September 4, 1870; on the twentieth, the Italian troops entered Rome. Only two months before, the Council of the Vatican had defined the dogma of Papal infallibility: the greatest exaltation of the Papacy as a spiritual power thus almost coincided with the loss of its temporal dominion. Henceforth the Pope chose to consider himself a prisoner, until another Caesar arose, with whom the Pontiff felt he could come to terms. The Roman problem thus weighed heavily upon the whole career of Louis Napoleon, as President and Emperor. It made him appear far more conservative than he had any intention to be; it cast a veil of ambiguity upon the origins of his power; it hampered the most cherished of all his policies, the creation of a

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free and united I t a l y ; 2 it increased the difficulties of a reconciliation w i t h the liberal elements during the latter half of his rule; at the very end, it deprived him of an alliance upon which he had a right to count. United does not necessarily mean unitary. Napoleon III wanted Italy to be a single nation, and not merely a geographical expression: but he undoubtedly preferred the federative to the centralized solution. This was made plain in the pamphlet Napoleon III et l'ltalie (1859), written by La Gueronniere but inspired by the Emperor himself: "Faut-il faire un seul royaume de l'ltalie? L'histoire comme la nature elle-meme s'eleve contre cette solution; ce n'est pas l'union absolue qu'il faut poursuivre, c'est l'union federative." If the Pope as a temporal sovereign and the Bourbon K i n g of the T w o Sicilies had been less averse to modern ideas, that formula might have prevailed. Cavour paid France the compliment of imitating her centralized organization; but Bismarck respected the federative principle. 2

CHAPTER VI B Y T H E G R A C E O F G O D A N D T H E W I L L OF T H E PEOPLE C A E S A R I A N DEMOCRACY — T H E COUP D ' E T A T — T H E EMPIRE It seemed to me that democracy had been in the past too narrowly defined and had been identified illogically with some particular economic or political system such as laissez faire or British Parliamentarism. I could imagine a democracy which economically was largely socialist and which had not our constitutional pattern. JOHN BUCHAN, Pilgrim S Way, p. 2 2 2 .

W

E H A V E attempted to define the uneasy alliance between the Conservatives and Louis Napoleon, with the defense of the Temporal Power as its symbol. That alliance, although precarious, was very real: Montalembert in particular, a monarchist and a liberal, but first of all a Catholic, repeatedly came to the support of the Prince President because the French troops were in Rome. But some Conservatives viewed the situation in a different light. Some found it hard to separate the cause of the Church from that of the monarchy by divine right. Others, on the contrary, like Thiers, were old Voltairians who in 1848, in their dread of socialism, had "flung themselves at the feet of the bishops." The Conservative coalition, anti-democratic, anti-socialistic, monarchical, clerical, and ultramontane, was thus far from homogeneous; and not on a single point was it in full harmony with the President. We shall now endeavor to trace the conflict, unacknowledged at first, between the Chief Executive and the Legislative Assembly. This conflict was to culminate in the Coup d'fitat of December 2, 1851. Because of Victor Hugo's attitude in that crisis, we are apt to think of the Coup d'fitat as a crime against

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a democratic republic. It is important to bear in mind that the Assembly which was then illegally dissolved was a reactionary body; and that, as a result, "Democracy" — if we identify democracy with manhood suffrage — was restored. But if the majority of the Assembly had been republican instead of monarchical, the conflict would have been just as inevitable and just as sharp. For it was a contest, not between "reaction" and "progress," but between two principles of government, the Presidential and the Parliamentary. In this struggle, the letter of the law was on the side of the Assembly, the will of the people manifestly with the President. It is customary to blame the many ailments and sudden death of the Second Republic on the ill-conceived Constitution of November 4, 1848. The Due de Broglie said that it had "pushed back the limits of human stupidity"; Thiers, that it was "the most foolish, the most absurd, the most impracticable of all those which have been applied in France." Foreign observers were no less severe, and modern historians, even the sanest, like F. A. Simpson, have endorsed that rigorous verdict. Yet it might be maintained without paradox that the actual terms of the Constitution made very little difference in the course of events; and the same skepticism could easily be extended to all constitutions. What goes by that name in England is a chaos of precedents, many of them insignificant, not a few of them absurd; the active reality is not a code, but a traditional skill at the service of a spirit. The master work of its kind, the American Constitution, was powerless to prevent the one unappeasable conflict the country had to face; when it was copied slavishly, by various South American countries or by the Republic of Liberia, it did not prove to be a panacea. On the other hand, the French Constitution of 1875 was an unlovely and sickly hybrid, actually meant to turn governmental impotence into the supreme law; yet it gave France sixty years

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of order and prosperity, and was able to weather repeated crises, the Boulanger movement, the Dreyfus affair, the first World War. Whenever there was sufficient unity of purpose, it was possible, under that Constitution, to form a powerful Union Cabinet, and Parliament imposed upon itself a strict discipline. If the Constitution did not survive the collapse of the armies in 1940, it was not because the instrument was at fault, but because moral unity had long been destroyed. The impression still prevails — and because of its very vagueness it is extremely hard to eradicate — that the Constitution of 1848 was hastily put together by incompetent journalists and tumultuously ratified by an assembly of immature politicians. The mere list of the eighteen members of the drafting committee should suffice to correct this misapprehension. They were in majority expert parliamentarians, versed in the study of English tradition as well as in French practice, like Dufaure, Dupin, Odilon Barrot. The chairman, Cormenin, was an authority on constitutional law. Tocqueville took an active part in the preparation of the project, and defended its most questionable features; Marrast, who wrote the final report, was an extremely able man. The Committee worked assiduously from May 19 to August 30. The Assembly discussed the project from September 4 to October 30; not therefore in the first glow which attends a popular revolution, but after the sobering influence of the Days of June. The discussion was conducted on a very high level. There was no demagogic appeal ; the speeches even of radicals like Felix Pyat were remarkable for their political sense.1 The Constitution was finally adopted on November 4 by 739 votes against 30. 1

Curiously enough, the future Communard Felix Pyat agreed with the future Opportunist President Jules Grevy in wanting to have no President at all; while moderates and liberals like Dufaure and Tocqueville agreed with the Romantic poet Lamartine, in favor of a President directly elected by the people.

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In one respect only did the Constitution of 1848 differ at the same time from the British and the American: following the precedents of the first Revolution, it was unicameral. It is difficult to imagine what difference a second chamber would have made. The Legislative Assembly elected in 1849 was reactionary; a Senate would in all probability have been more reactionary still, and more averse to the principles of the President. The House of Lords in England is a trace of traditional aristocratic rule; this would not have been acceptable in France, after a democratic Revolution which had abolished all class distinctions in political affairs. The Senate is justified in America as part of the federative system; but there is no need for such a body in a unitary Republic. The election of the President directly by the whole people is often condemned as a disastrous mistake; but it exists in the practice, if not in the letter, of the American Constitution; and, in the United States, such a method has not been found incompatible with democracy and sound government. Finally, the difficulty of revising the Constitution is criticized as a fatal flaw. For the first two years, no change of any kind could be made: but surely a trial period of two years was not excessive, and no harm resulted from that provision. Thereafter, a two-thirds majority was required in the Assembly: a procedure far easier than the one adopted for amending the American Constitution. The great source of danger in the Constitution of 1848 was that it created side by side two incompatible regimes, and naturally failed to harmonize them. The Executive was a President of the American type; his election by the whole people was bound to give him a much greater moral authority than that of an Assembly divided into clashing parties, and in which each member stood for local interests. But although the Constitution piously reiterated the shibboleth of Locke and Montesquieu, "that the three powers in the State should remain distinct and separate," it reverted un-

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consciously to the Parliamentary system, in which this separation does not exist, for the Executive is merely the instrument of the Legislative. The ministers were not simply the secretaries of the President, and responsible to him alone; they were responsible to the Assembly, and were thus supposed to be its agents. This was the fundamental contradiction from which the Second Republic suffered and died. But it must be noted that such a contradiction exists in the political life of the United States. Congress is never satisfied to "legislate," that is to say to pass permanent laws; it considers itself as a Directorate of several hundred members; it constantly seeks to restrain, direct, and control executive action; and many Americans believe that such a tendency is indispensable to the health of the Republic, else we should be in immediate danger of an autocracy. The American Constitution is, quite consciously, an instrument full of checks and balances; and these imply the permanent, the inevitable existence of conflict. Creakingly at times, the system works. A n d so would the Constitution of 1848 have worked — under normal circumstances; indeed it worked smoothly enough for two full years. But circumstances were not normal: this, not a few weaknesses in governmental machinery, is the one essential fact. This is why we have been engaging in the apparent futility of defending an instrument which no one, Right or Left, ever seriously regretted, and which no one desires to revive. We had to brush aside a secondary issue in order to face the fundamental ones; just as, in a discussion of the 1919 settlement, we must not allow the Eupen-Malmedy problem to overshadow the Covenant. The first of these fundamental points is that the political life of France was subjected, from 1848 to 1851, to strains to which England and America were never exposed, not even in 1688 or in 1861: namely the dread, at the same time, of a monarchical reaction and of a social upheaval. The organization of the Republic could do

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nothing to allay these fears; that is why there was such an air of unreality about that pathetic regime. N o one quite believed in it; it was never a settled government, but an anxious interlude. This was felt at the very ceremony of promulgating the Constitution, on November 12; it was a grand pageant in which clergy, army, Assembly had their appointed roles, but there was a death chill in the winter air and in the hearts of the people. The first act of Republican France was to choose a Napoleon as President; the second was to elect Royalists as representatives; while the masses, in the great cities, were nursing hopes of a new revolution. Thus there were three open conspiracies against the defenseless Republic; and Louis Napoleon simply won the race. More important, and less familiar, is the fact that the French people had come to believe in democracy, and would be satisfied with nothing less. The issue had first been clearly raised by Rousseau, nearly a hundred years before. It had been constantly debated in the course of several revolutions. The Romantic humanitarians such as Lamennais, Lamartine, Michelet, had for two decades preached "the sovereignty of the people." February 1848 seemed to have established that principle beyond dispute. But for direct democracy, which the people had been taught to expect, the politicians had deftly substituted "representative government," which may be a totally different thing. Deftly: or perhaps unconsciously. It is easy, without Machiavellism prepense, to fall into such a confusion. Dr. G. W . Pierson 2 notes that Tocqueville, an excellent observer and a cogent thinker, uses the word democratic in four or five different meanings, without being aware that they are different. Under representative institutions, the electorate is a sovereign whose sole prerogative is to 2G.

W . Pierson: Tocqueville and Beaumont in America ( N e w York, 1938), p. 158η. Dr. Pierson believes that he is using democracy "in its strict sense," whatever that may be.

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abdicate in favor of its delegates. It can pass upon men, but not upon laws. This is based upon the assumption that the masses have neither the means of information nor the competence to decide for themselves. It is expected that they will commit their interests to men of a better class, with ampler leisure, larger interests, a more thorough education. In the days before the railroads, the telegraph, the cheap newspapers and widespread literacy, direct democracy was manifestly impracticable: even Rousseau believed that it could work only in small city states. Technical progress has removed these obstacles, and with them a cause of equivocation: if we do not believe in direct democracy now it can only be because we do not believe in democracy at all. A difficult choice: America has never fully dared to face it. The President represents direct democracy; there is much direct democracy in the local governments, in the form of initiative, referendum, and recall; but the "representative" principle still prevails on Capitol Hill; we still shudder at the thought of direct democracy in national affairs. When President Wilson wanted a "solemn referendum" on the League of Nations, he could not secure it; the issue had to be tangled with a host of others in party elections, and the result was confusion absolute. The proposal to consult the people as a whole on the supreme question of war and peace is frowned upon by all sensible men. But the plebiscite that we so uncompromisingly reject in its honest form is surreptitiously introduced by non-constitutional means. A Congressman who is sternly averse to direct democracy will heed a deluge of mail from his constituents, a straw vote, or an informal poll. Our own confusion may help us to understand the perplexity of the French lawgivers in 1848. Their most glaring fault was that they had too much experience — in British Constitutionalism. They did not realize that "the miracle of England," as Andre Maurois calls it, is a miracle indeed, and cannot be transplanted.

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Rousseau himself, unrealistic as he is supposed to be, maintained that a country's institutions should be in harmony, not with an abstract pattern, but with its customs and traditions. N o w , in their history of nearly two thousand years, the French had had thirtynine years only of parliamentary rule, 3 and they had just rejected it. Roughly, obscurely, the old monarchy had been the expression of the national will. T h e king, served by a body of experts, was the leader of the whole people, not the instrument of one party. The unanimous desire of the French in 1789 had been not to discard but to recover their king, who had been hidden f r o m them by the courtiers at Versailles. T h e Bourbon dynasty, partly under the influence of a foreign queen, had proved untrue to its immemorial tradition; it had taken its stand against the people, and chosen to be at the head of the privileged orders. If it had to be removed, it was because it had allowed intermediate powers and special interests to entrench themselves, for their own benefit, between the nation as a whole and the sovereign. It was these powers that the people had struck down, and were ready to strike down again, if they should arise once more under new forms and new names, such as Plutocracy or Parliament. W e are not claiming that the peasants and working men of France had definitely evolved such a political theory, which is far f r o m clear in their minds even today. But it was that unformulated doctrine — direct contact between sovereign and masses — that accounted for their obstinate loyalty to the Capetian dynasty, for their enthusiasm at the dawn of the Revolution, for their willingness to accept Napoleon's rule; under three radically different forms, what they sought was the abolition of privilege. They never attached any other meaning to the word "democracy." A l l political parties, on the other hand, those of the L e f t as well 'Under the Legislative Assembly, 1791-1792; the Directoire, 1795-1799; and from 1814 to 1848.

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as those of the Right, stood frankly or equivocally for a denial of direct democracy, for the privileges of some elite. The Legitimists had insisted on divine right, sanctioning a social hierarchy; the Orleanists, on property qualifications; the Republicans, on a certain "Enlightenment," which meant the possession of the Republican faith. Thiers was, courageously, to attack universal suffrage as the rule of "the vile multitude"; and Victor Hugo, who thought of himself as the High Priest of the democratic ideal, had to draw a subtle distinction between "the People," whose voice is that of God Himself, and the mob, the abject "populace." The "People," of course, are the intelligent workers of Paris, who vote for the Radicals; the "populace" are the rural masses who, deliberately and stupidly, had chosen Louis Napoleon. If people and leaders alike lived in a cloud of ambiguities, there was one man whose thought on the subject was flawlessly clear, and that man was Louis Napoleon. He had expressed his doctrine, not in chance remarks or in thunderous eloquence, but in a cogent little book, published as early as 1839, Napoleonic Ideas. This unequivocal manifesto had reached a vast public. Jules Simon might brand it as worthless, offering as irrefutable proof of its inanity the fact that he had never read it; but the masses had not been so supercilious. Bonapartist propaganda was not merely a vague appeal to the military prestige of the Emperor: it referred definitely to a system of government. The outstanding merit of Louis Napoleon is not to have proclaimed the dogma of absolute democracy; on this point, Lamartine was no less emphatic than he. It was, the dogma once admitted, to have faced the conditions that it implied, and this Lamartine never did. It will not suffice to cry lyrically: "Alea )acta est/ Let God and the people decide!" The more democratic the commonwealth is, the more urgently does it need order and leadership. Else the suppression of the privileged classes, with

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their traditional skills and their inherited responsibilities, would lead only to chaos. Democracy is revolution; it breaks down an ancient discipline, cumbrous and absurd in some respects, but, as a result of long adjustment, tolerably effective. T o guard against anarchy, it must provide a discipline of its own. This discipline must seem rough and even rigorous at first, because it is unfamiliar; it will appear most obnoxious, naturally, to those who were the beneficiaries of the old system. The one justification for its rigor is that it be freely accepted; willing obedience is the reverse of servitude. W h e n the new dispensation has been fully established, in the course of one generation, it will turn into a habit, and lose its stern rigidity. Freedom, in the sense of ease, will grow in the democratic world. But liberty is something to be achieved, not the initial step. In the terms of Louis Napoleon himself, it must "crown the edifice." A t this point, we must remind the reader that we are seeking to understand the France of 1848, and not offering a solution for the problem of the "democracies" a hundred years later. Whether there was any permanent validity in Louis Napoleon's system is a different question. The man and his cause have long been dead, and belong to history, not to current politics. What we are striving to establish is that France, in December 1848, was not exclusively moved by a childish thirst for martial glory at second hand, or by an agony of reactionary fear. These elements did exist: but, deeper than either, there was a program, well known of the electoral masses, and well understood by them. It was that program which was freely endorsed by 5,400,000 votes. 11 W e have said that the thought of Louis Napoleon was clear, so clear that it could be translated into the terms of a brief working constitution. That clearness will be challenged by the modern

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mind. We must remember that Louis Napoleon lived and worked in the Romantic era. He freely used terms which, to realistic politicians of our own days, would seem absurdly mystic. For one thing, he thought of the Leader, who was to be the symbol of democratic discipline, as a "providential man," and he believed himself to be such an instrument of the Divine Purpose. This faith was ever with him; he finally stated it, in the Preface to his History of Julius Caesar (1865-66), with an imperial brevity which makes Carlyle's eloquence in Heroes and Hero-Worship seem rather turgid. But he only expressed, in the language of the time, what the innumerable company of the safe-and-sane would name "legitimate ambition." A man proposes himself to the suffrage of his fellow citizens because he feels himself called to lead. Belief in his own mission is an indispensable characteristic of the apostle. Once more, we must attune ourselves to the Romantic key. Compared with the style of Mr. Stanley Baldwin or of President Coolidge, that of Louis Napoleon's pamphlets is highflown; compared with that of Lamennais, Enfantin, Barrault, Pierre Leroux, Lamartine, Michelet, Quinet, Hugo, George Sand, it is singularly quiet and sensible. His faith in himself was "gently obstinate," not blatant; in spirit, in tone, as well as in appearance, he was the most unassuming, the least apocalyptic of political prophets. We can translate Romantic Humanitarianism into terms of practical politics, and Louis Napoleon himself did it efficiently; but a far worse cause of confusion was Napoleon-worship. He considered himself as the champion of a truth, but also as the heir of the Emperor, legally and in the spirit. This it was that had given him his start, both in his thought and in his political fortune. He was not moving on the same plane as other theorists of democracy: he was singled out by the faith and the prestige that went with his name. Yet we must remember that if in his mind "Napoleon" and "Democracy" were inseparable, Democracy was

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the permanent cause to be served, Napoleonism only the instrument. He never claimed power for himself by dynastic right, as a Napoleon; his name made him simply the defender of the people against selfish interests. In 1836, in 1840, he asserted that his sole aim was to give back to the nation her right to choose her own form of government. In 1848, he accepted the Republic. So we believe that he was sincere when he affirmed, in his halting speech before the Constituent Assembly, that he was a candidate, but not a pretender. Had Cavaignac or Lamartine been elected and remained democrats, it is at least conceivable that he would have served under them. The source of his power, this can never be sufficiently insisted upon, was the free election of the tenth of December. He could not cut loose from his Napoleonic origin, but his democratic ideal was prospective. His regime was not a feeble caricature of the First Empire, but something altogether different, and, in our opinion, of far more vital interest.4 One last problem must be considered before we take up the chain of events that led to the Second Empire: that of Louis Napoleon's honesty. Was he sincere when he swore loyalty to the Constitution? Was he candid when he accepted the cooperation of the Conservatives? If the reader will take no answer but a downright Yes or No, Louis Napoleon stands condemned. The question cannot be settled in such blunt terms; it requires the cautious, the scrupulous treatment that goes by the hated name of casuistry. Like that of a sailing ship tacking before the wind, Louis Napoleon's course was at the same time inflexible and tortuous. He had his goal, which we may call Caesarian democracy. He believed that, through his election, he had morally attained his goal. So long as his opponents respected the verdict of the people, he had no quarrel with the forms of the Constitution, and 4

In this we agree with a number of British historians, F. A. Simpson, d'Auvergne, Robert Sencourt.

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his oath remained binding. If the letter of the Constitution were invoked against the manifest will of the nation, then he would feel released from his bond. The alliance with the conservatives is a more complicated affair. Obviously, when the Legitimists and Orleanists of the Rue de Poitiers Committee supported him, they had no thought of furthering the Bonapartist cause. They accepted him as "the lesser evil" or hoped to use him as their unconscious tool. He, on his part, had no desire to act as a mere garde-place, to prepare the way for a Royalist restoration. Thiers may have been foolishly Machiavellian in his hope to dupe the President; but on the whole, the alliance, although precarious, could not be called dishonest. President and Assembly agreed upon an immediate policy, the suppression of disorder. Beyond that, their ways would part. Ledru-Rollin played into the hands of reaction through his illadvised insurrection of June 13,1849. 0 The movement was crushed without difficulty, and led to measures of rigorous repression. It was then that the President used the phrase which best expresses the conservative aspect of his doctrine: "It is time that the good should be reassured, and that the wicked should tremble." So, throughout 1849 a n d during the first half of 1850, the President's policy was honestly in agreement with that of the Right. One of the results of this cooperation was the Falloux Law, which restricted the monopoly of the State educational system and granted important privileges to Church schools. This was considered as a great victory for the Catholics; but that victory over "liberalism" was won in the name of liberty, and in accord with the ideas defended by Lamennais twenty years earlier. Then an 5

Ledru-Rollin was no fool; but he allowed himself to be carried along by a movement for which he was not fully responsible. It might have been on this occasion that he uttered the words, so apt and so often quoted that they must be apocryphal: " W h e r e are you going?" — " I don't know; but I am their leader,

so I have to follow

them''

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event occurred which gave reaction a new fillip. Thirty-one representatives had been deprived of their seats, because they were compromised in the insurrection of June 13, 1849. On March 10, 1850, special elections were held to fill these vacancies. Of the thirty-one seats, ten were won by the "Party of Order"; but, instead of hailing this as a victory, the Conservatives were chiefly impressed by the fact that twenty-one had remained in possession of the Reds. Still further "complementary elections" took place on April 28,° and Eugene Sue was returned for Paris. Now Eugene Sue was a man of fashion who, oddly enough, had scored his greatest successes with his popular romances, The Mysteries of Paris and The Wandering Jew. Dandiacal though he was, he stood as the candidate of the Extreme Left. His triumph in the capital was considered as a challenge to established society: the wicked had refused to tremble, and the good were not reassured. It was to meet that Red menace that a new electoral law was passed, by 433 votes to 241, on May 31. It required three years' residence in a district before a man could vote; it was hoped by this means to eliminate from the electoral body the floating population, the scum, which Thiers so vehemently denounced as "the vile multitude." In addition, on June 9, political clubs and meetings were placed under the ban. In all this Louis Napoleon concurred. This was the high-water mark of the alliance between President and Assembly, the culmination of "the Roman campaign at home." Yet Louis Napoleon had made it plain that, in his mind, the defense of order did not mean reaction. Early in 1849 his cousin, Prince Napoleon, the son of King Jerome, had expressed his fear that the President would become the tool of the reactionaries. Louis Napoleon wrote to him: "You should know that I am taking orders from no one, and that I shall constantly govern in the " A s a candidate could stand for several constituencies, if he happened to be elected in more than one, new elections were necessary.

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interest of the masses, not in the interest of a party." His letter to Edgard Ney on the Roman question was explicit. By the middle of 1850, one could discern that President and Assembly no longer were fellow travelers. The Conservatives did not conceal their plans for a monarchical restoration: Thiers, Mole, de Broglie went to visit Louis Philippe at Claremont shortly before his death; Berryer, La Roche jaquelein paid a similar homage to the Count of Chambord, "Henry V," at Wiesbaden. The lines were being sharply drawn. In this warfare, the President intensified the strategy which he had adopted ever since he came to power; the elect of the people, he went to the people. In August 1850, he toured Central and Eastern France — Burgundy, Lyons, Strasbourg, Metz, Rheims. Some of the Eastern cities were said to be strongly hostile to him; but he displayed his usual quiet daring, and no unpleasant incident marred the journey. Nowhere was there any demonstration in favor of the Assembly; practically everywhere, he was received with every mark of determined support. His visit to Lyons in particular, on August 15 and 16, was remarkable for the enthusiasm of the population. It happened to coincide with the birthday of Napoleon I, so the cries: "Vive Napoleon! Vive rEmpereur!" went both to uncle and nephew. If the temper of the people was unmistakable, so was the tone of his speeches unequivocal: "I must tell you frankly who I am and what I want. I stand for no party: I represent those two great manifestations of the national will which, in 1804 as in 1848, have desired to save, through order, the great principles of the French Revolution. I belong to the country, whatever it may require of me. . . . The elect of six millions executes, and does not betray, the will of the people. . . . If criminal claims flared up anew, I should reduce them to impotence by invoking again the principle of national sovereignty, for no one has a better right to act as its representative than I

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have." This was the direct challenge of Caesarian democracy to its rivals, be they royalist or republican. If he claimed power, it was not for power's sake, or merely for the defense of order; he had very definite ends in view. " N o more destitution for the workman stricken with sickness, or for the one whom age compels to rest from his labor": a simple social program which has not yet been fully realized. And again, prosperity must revive, "but material interests develop only when proper attention is given to moral intersts. The soul rules the body. So a government would be strangely mistaken, if it were to establish its policy on avarice, selfishness and fear" — a cruelly clear definition of Orleanism. Immediately after this triumphal tour, the President started on another, this time in Normandy; the response was even more unanimous. When he returned to Paris, he used another favorite method of his, and a more questionable one. Bonapartism is inseparable from military prestige, and the heir of Napoleon held a series of great reviews in which he was acclaimed by the Army. This was not an appeal to the soldier against the people, but it did contain an element of pretorianism. The climax came on October 10, at Satory. The cavalry, in particular, shouted vociferously: "Vive VEmpereur!" One division however marched past in correct silence; its commanding officer, General Neumayer, had forbidden all political demonstrations. A few days later, he was transferred to a post away from the Paris region. The Assembly fretted, but the constitutional right of the President was unquestionable. Having scored his point, Louis Napoleon adopted a conciliatory attitude. He disbanded of his own accord the Society of the Tenth of December, devoted to Bonapartist propaganda; and on December 12, he sent a message to the Assembly, couched in courteous and even friendly terms. But this was a mere lull. The next blow was sharp. On Jan-

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uary 3, 1851, he abruptly dismissed General Changarnier, the one man who could have disputed his hold on the army. Changarnier had won his spurs in Algeria, and he was popular with the soldiers. It was Louis Napoleon himself who had made him commander both of the National Guard and of the regular troops in the Paris region. But Changarnier affected openly to despise "the melancholy parrot," as he called the head of the State, and vowed that at any moment he could clap him in the fortress of Vincennes. For all his bluff joviality, Changarnier was an uncertain factor. He felt himself indispensable, but he could not make up his mind to whom. He toyed with the idea of being a General Monk, but he dallied too long. He accepted his dismissal without a gesture of protest. The Conservatives, who had counted on him, were not so easily resigned. The Elder Statesmen, or "Burgraves," as they were mockingly called 7 — Dupin, Mole, Thiers, Odilon Barrot, Berryer, de Broglie, Daru, Montalembert — waited on the President, urging him to rescind his order. They got no satisfaction; Louis Napoleon knew that this was a decisive engagement. Thiers, the keenest mind among the Burgraves, drew the inevitable conclusion. "There are now," he told the Assembly, "two powers; if we yield on this point, there will be only one. . . . And if there be only one . . . name and time matter little: the Empire is made." 8 A last effort was made by the President to secure his ends within the framework of the Constitution. Undoubtedly he would 7

After the drama of Victor Hugo, which, in spite of epic beauties, had caused both tedium and amusement. 8 A minor battlefield had been the appropriation for the President's expenses. He lived on a lavish scale, princely rather than presidential, and repeatedly had to ask for a supplement. This money went into travel, display, and liberalities openly intended to enhance the President's prestige at the expense of the Assembly. That body, when the conflict had become open, pardonably declined to provide weapons against itself.

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have preferred to avoid the risk and the stigma of a Coup d'fitat. In 1852, he would have to return to private life after an uneasy and barren term of office; Article 45 prohibited a second term. But this could be amended. A t Dijon, on June 1 , 1 8 5 1 , Louis Napoleon openly requested that the Constitution be revised on that point; and in so doing he delivered a deliberate and impressive warning: " F o r three years, I have been seconded in the work of repression, thwarted in every measure meant to improve the condition of the people. . . . If France believes that no one had the right to dispose of her without her consent, she has only to say so: my courage and my energy will not fail her." T h e Assembly, when it heard this ultimatum, was in an uproar. But no step was taken. Changarnier, the "strong man" among them, could only resort to high-flown eloquence, flout the possibility of a Coup d'fitat, and assure "the delegates of the country" that they could "deliberate in peace." T h e proposed amendment came before the house in July. In the meantime, seventy-nine Departmental Councils against six had endorsed it. The Assembly was bewildered. T h e Radicals, believing that the next elections would be in their favor, were against revision, for they understood that Louis Napoleon would be a formidable rival for the popular vote. T w o of the President's cousins, Napoleon and Pierre, took sides with the extreme republicans. Those of the monarchists who had openly broken with the Elysee, such as Thiers and Changarnier, followed their example. But most of the "Burgraves" and the rank and file of the Conservatives, realizing that a revision might avert a catastrophe, voted for it. The Party of the Elysee, no longer negligible, naturally supported the President's request. A f t e r a heated debate, the vote in favor of amending Article 45 stood at 446; against, 278. A handsome margin, but a majority of three-fourths (543 against 1 8 1 ) would have been necessary, and

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9

the motion was lost. Every one understood that this was the end. The President had in his favor his 5,400,000 votes, his increasing popularity, the overwhelming support of the Departmental Councils, a substantial majority even in the Assembly; against him, a technicality. He felt no longer bound by the letter of a Constitution barely three years old, and which had never been ratified by the people as a whole. He determined to end what he could not mend, "to ignore legality and restore the fundamental law." Ill He openly got together the team that was to carry out the Coup d'fitat: a dashing Algerian officer with a chequered career, Leroy de Saint-Arnaud, as Minister of War; Magnan as commander of the Paris troops; Maupas as Prefect of Police. His halfbrother de Morny and the faithful Persigny were waiting in the wings. A n d he borrowed money for the supreme throw — from the Spanish Ambassador Marshal Narvaez, Duke of Valencia, and again from the beauteous and bountiful Miss Howard. He had been hesitant and even reluctant, but now he was ready. The date was postponed at Saint-Arnaud's request, and there were two last moves in the complicated game. On November 4, the President asked for the abrogation of the Electoral L a w of May 31, 1850, that law directed against "the vile multitude." He affirmed that the need for it was past; he also claimed that he had been deceived about the extent of its effects. He had been told that only 600,000 men would be deprived of the franchise: but 3,000,000, out of a total electorate of 10,000,000, were affected, and "universal suffrage," the great conquest of 1848, had become a mockery. By a narrow margin of six votes, the Assembly turned * In the same way, a minority in the Senate prevented the United States f r o m joining the League of Nations and the World Court.

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down the proposal. Again the President stood as the champion of democracy thwarted by the oligarchs. This victory for reaction incensed the Republicans, who began to fear the possibility of a monarchical coup d'etat in 1852. Their distrust balked the last feeble effort of the Assembly to organize its own defense. The three "Quaestors" responsible for its safe functioning proposed that its chairman should have the right, in case of need, to call directly upon the public force. Frankly, this desperate remedy foresaw the possibility of troops receiving conflicting orders; it was a step toward civil war. The moderates hesitated before such a decision; the Republicans and the Party of the Elysee were strongly against it. So, on November 17, the measure was defeated by 408 against 300. The President had the country behind him and was armed; the Assembly stood for nothing but its own confusion, and was defenseless. On December 1, the President, after a quiet little dinner party, was holding his usual Monday evening reception at the Elysee. He took aside Colonel Vieyra, of the National Guard, and asked him: "Can you hear great news, and give no sign of emotion?" "I can." "Well: it is for to-night." The share of Colonel Vieyra in saving Society was to have all the drums of the National Guard slashed, so that the Legions could not be called to arms. The guests left early. By ten-thirty, six men were gathered in the President's study — the Prince himself, Mocquard, his official and confidential secretary, his half-brother de Morny, the "master mind," whom he appointed there and then Minister of the Interior, Persigny, for fifteen years the apostle of militant Bonapartism, and the chosen instruments, civil and military, Maupas and Saint-Arnaud. The bundle of papers labeled "Rubicon" was opened; the last details rehearsed; the proclamations sent to the National Printing Press, where the workers were kept under close watch by a detachment of soldiers. "Now we are in for it," said

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Morny; "every one is risking his skin." "Not much of a venture for me," said Mocquard; "my skin is pretty well worn out." "I am confident," said the Prince. "I am still wearing a ring of my mother's with the device ' H o p e ! ' " At eleven, all was over, and the Elysee was asleep. Between five and six in the morning, Paris was placarded with white posters. By decree, the Assembly was dissolved; the law of May 3 1 , 1850, abrogated; universal suffrage restored; and the French people, as supreme judge, convened to approve or condemn the acts of the President. With this decree appeared a brief proclamation to the soldiers, and an appeal to the people, giving an outline of the proposed Constitution. Before dawn, seventy to eighty political leaders, such as Thiers, were arrested in their homes. Prominent among them were the generals who might have led a movement of resistance, Cavaignac, Lamoriciere, Bedeau, Changarnier. Changarnier's only comment was " W h y does he take all this trouble ? He would have been reelected anyway." 1 0 Colonel Espinasse occupied the Palais-Bourbon, seat of the Assembly, and soon the three bugle notes sounded, which by agreement meant "Complete success." In the dreary winter light, little groups gathered round the white placards, commenting freely. There were no curses, and some laughter; the prevailing impression was " A clever move!" About ten, the President, with his uncle, K i n g Jerome, Generals de Saint-Arnaud and Magnan, and an escort of officers, went to pass in review the troops stationed near the Elysee and the Tuileries. He rode ahead, un10 Nearly a century after the event, Octave Aubry, a judicious historian, agrees with Changarnier. We are not convinced. Louis Napoleon could not have announced himself as a candidate in 1852 without defying the Constitution, which had not been amended. This in itself would have been a coup d'etat, exposing the President to arrest — unless he defended himself. The partisan books of E. Tenot, La Province en Decembre 1851 (Paris, 1865) and Paris en Decembre 1851 (Paris, 1868), prove that there was some genuine, although futile, resistance. It would have been worse in 1852.

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guarded and unharmed. He was hailed with applause. The cries: "Vive la Republique!" were not a rebuke; they could be interpreted as: "Vive le President Γ There was barely a show of legal resistance. A few deputies managed to slip into the Palais-Bourbon and root out their most reluctant chairman, Dupin. But they could not get him to lead them in protest. He answered them with Latin tags and bade them good day. The Legitimists, with Berryer, made a gesture; but their defense of the Republic and the Constitution was not very convincing. Their little group, gathered in a District Hall, was placed under arrest, and, as they were marched to the Quai d'Orsay barracks they were chaffed by the passers-by. From the barracks, police wagons took them to sundry prisons and fortresses, Mazas, Vincennes, Mont-Valerien. They were released as soon as the trouble was over. The reactionary Assembly evidently had no friends, and the second of December might be counted as a complete victory for the President. The masses had not moved. On the third of December, some deputies of the Mountain tried to rouse the historical center of revolution, the district of politically conscious artisans, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. They failed; a few sketchy barricades were raised, only to be abandoned as soon as the troops approached. The best-remembered episode of the whole crisis offers irrefutable evidence of that failure. A representative, Dr. Baudin, was urging the workers to resist. They answered, "Do you think we are going to get killed so that you may draw your twenty-five francs a day ?" "Citizens," he replied, "I am going to show you how one dies for twenty-five francs." He went up to the abandoned barricade, and was shot. These historic words are part of French folklore, and accepted by all parties. Their authenticity is not established beyond cavil. Only two things are certain, that Dr. Baudin was killed, and that the workers refused to fight.

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Meanwhile, a few Republican representatives, Victor Hugo among them, were playing a game of hide-and-seek in which, it was unkindly said, there was more hiding than seeking. Victor Hugo's Histoire d'un Crime is not great literature, like his epic satire Les Chätiments, but it is even worse history. We have no thought of sneering at him and his fellow radicals, who were defending, honestly, courageously, what to them was a high ideal. We can only imagine their secret despair as they realized that, although they might gather a handful of insurgents, the masses were not with them. A conflict had developed between two constitutional powers: Demos absolutely refused to identify the Assembly with Democracy. The third of December was thus an indecisive day. The sporadic attempts at insurrection had petered out. But, if there was no serious resistance, there was no outburst of enthusiasm: Paris was sullen. The President held audiences, but he did not appear again in the streets; Maupas and Magnan, afraid of a stray bullet which would undo all their work, had implored him to remain at the Elysee. This chilly reception in the capital was not unexpected, and would not have harmed the new regime; its consecration was to come later, from the country as a whole, through the plebiscite. But on the fourth affairs took an evil turn. Instead of constantly patrolling the city, General Magnan had removed all his troops from the danger spots, the Eastern and Central districts. The Republicans, thus left to themselves, could imagine that the President was weakening. Wild rumors reached them — that the provinces were successfully resisting, that General Neumayer was marching upon Paris. Barricades sprang up everywhere; in those narrow streets an overturned omnibus, a few paving stones, odd pieces of furniture formed an efficient breastwork. The soldiers advanced upon them, and captured them with trifling losses on

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either side; the resistance was perfunctory. By evening, order had been completely restored. But the Coup d'ßtat was completely spoiled. Instead of being a bold democratic move to break a constitutional deadlock, it appeared as a victory of the soldiery. This interpretation, among all the enemies of the Empire at home and abroad, became the sole orthodox truth. When Melchior de Vogüe, some forty years later, referred to the Second of December not as a crime but simply as "a rather rough police operation," his words roused indignant protest. For most Englishmen, Kinglake's version was accepted as authentic, Bagehot's as a clever paradox. 1 1 For this brutal and disastrous turn of events, the blame has been placed on two men, Morny and Magnan. It was said — and repeated by as late and as sound a historian as Albert Thomas — that de Morny, the perfect type of the capitalist and profiteer, wanted a showdown. H e who later was to be noted chiefly for the velvet glove desired, at the start of the new regime, to make the people feel the iron hand. Some kind of an insurrection there must be, if the spirit of the working classes was to be broken. A show of resistance would enable de Morny to round up all the dangerous characters, and have peace for a generation. Beside, he may have feared the leanings of his half-brother Louis Napoleon toward socialism. Like the Roman expedition two years before, the Coup d'Etat was turned into a symbol of social conservation: "It is time for the good to be reassured, and for the wicked to tremble." Magnan was the general upon whom Louis Napoleon had relied at the time of his Boulogne venture. H e was unscrupulous, but not reckless. In 1840, he might have seconded Louis Napoleon, if " A . W . Kinglake, The Invasion of the Crimea ( 1 8 6 3 ) , I, 2 0 5 - 3 1 7 ; Walter Bagehot, "Letters on the French Coup d'fitat, addressed to the editor of ' T h e Inquirer' (January-February 1 8 5 2 ) , " Complete Wor\s (Hartford, 1 8 9 1 ) , vol. II.

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the enterprise had shown any sign of success; when it failed, nothing could be proved against him. He showed the same spirit in 1851, that of the gambler protected by an insurance policy. He was ready to be the instrument of a coup d'etat, provided he had no initiative and no responsibility. He was kept officially in the dark until the last moment, and then he acted, like a good soldier, in passive obedience to the orders of his chief, the Minister of War. With such a man, every suspicion is open. It may be that Magnan desired to magnify his share so as to win a higher reward. If there was no serious trouble, he would appear merely as a policeman; if an insurrection had to be crushed, he would rank among the Saviors of Society. These hypotheses are plausible, but they are unproved, and they depend for their validity upon the psychology of men too shrewd to reveal their secrets. The blunder can be explained in more obvious terms. Both de Morny and Magnan were afraid of the third day, which had proved fatal to Charles X in July 1830 and to Louis Philippe in February 1848. In a feverish city, the troops themselves, after forty-eight hours of exacting duty, grow nervous. Small patrols may be defeated, individual soldiers may be won over; discipline and morale are difficult to maintain in a hundred street scuffles. It is better to let the trouble come to a head, and then crush it with one brutal blow. This had been the strategy of Cavaignac in June 1848, and it had proved a costly one. The mistake of de Morny and Magnan, if we accept this hypothesis, was their failure to realize that their position was infinitely stronger than that of Cavaignac. The opposition in June 1848 was fiercer, and more widely spread; the government had been caught by surprise, and resistance had to be improvised. In 1851, on the contrary, the government was well prepared; a large army was in control of all the strategic points. One man saw the situation clearly — the Prefect of Police, Maupas.

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When Maupas kept asking for patrols to prevent incipient disorder, de Morny affected to believe he was "jittery," and rebuked him in coarse and insulting terms. H a d de Maupas been in sole charge, there would have been no withdrawal on the third of December; and as a consequence, not even a pretense of fighting on the fourth. T o make matters worse, a tragic accident happened on the Boulevards. A shot was heard; some soldiers, believing themselves to be attacked from the windows, countered with a volley. In a few minutes, like a prairie fire, without any command, against the efforts of the officers, a crackling fusillade caught one unit after the other. When the panic was over and order restored the boulevard was strewn with dead. These were not insurgents; it was a quiet, well-dressed crowd, which was watching the military parade merely as a show. N o one, not even the most rabid republican, has ever claimed that this senseless massacre was premeditated. It might have wrecked the Coup d'fitat. As a matter of fact, it proved how little opposition there was to the President's move. In 1830 and in 1848 incidents which were trifling in comparison had sufficed to cause Paris to rise in fierce rebellion. In this case, the catastrophe was deplored, but the city remained quiet. It was not that the capital had been overawed: but, on the evening of the fourth as well as on the morning of the second, Paris had no desire to fight for a squabbling and reactionary Assembly. But the equivocation was created, never to be dispelled.

It

enabled the Conservatives, once more, to "muscle in" and to endorse a winner whose principles were the very reverse of theirs. If Republican and Socialist leaders were shot, transported, or exiled, the "good," thoroughly reassured at last, felt that all was right with the world. So liberal royalists like Montalembert and Barante approved openly of the Coup d'fitat, and Louis Veuillot gave it his blessing.

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On the twenty-first and twenty-second of December, as promised, the Coup d'£tat was submitted to the verdict of the people. We have strong reasons to believe that the masses were overwhelmingly in favor of Louis Napoleon, but it is not the quasiunanimity of the returns — 7,400,000 against 600,000 — that determines our conviction. There was no terrorism, and, according to the cautious republican historian Charles Seignobos, there was no fraud; but there was a great deal of moral pressure. If the election of December 10, 1848, was unquestionable, the plebiscite of December 21-22, 1851, was vitiated in its very origin; like similar consultations by modern dictators, it offered no alternative but acceptance or chaos. The Empire was made. With his puzzling blend of audacity and caution, Louis Napoleon waited for nearly a year before restoring the name. The new Constitution 12 was put into effect; the Prince again toured the provinces; again he was received everywhere with tumultuous applause; and everywhere cries of "Vive I'Empereurl" greeted the President of the Republic. The Empire had a prestigious sound; it evoked the glories of the Legend; it tore up the last shreds of the hated Diktat of 1815; it promised to guarantee stability; and most of all, it seemed to preclude any return to the looseness and incompetence of parliamentary rule. 12

This was the Constitution sketched in the Appeal to the People on December 2, 1851. It provided: ( i ) a responsible Chief Executive, elected for a term of ten years; (2) ministers dependent solely upon him; ( 3 ) a Council of State, a group of distinguished experts, to prepare the laws and direct their discussion before the Legislative Body; (4) a Legislative Body elected by universal (manhood) suffrage; ( 5 ) a second assembly of "illustrious men," to act as a "ponderating" power, and as the guardian of the Fundamental Pact and of public liberties. It was a modernized, simplified version of the Consular regime, without the superfluous Second and Third Consuls, without the odd splitting of the Legislative into a Tribunate which could talk but not vote, and a Legislative Body which could only vote in silence; without also the complicated and anti-democratic electoral system devised by Sieyes. When the title of the Head of the State was changed, ample means were provided to maintain its dignity; the Emperor's civil list was fixed at twenty-five million francs.

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Nothing stood against it but the very fame of the first Napoleon; if the Empire evoked the idea of glory, it evoked also the dreaded thought of war. "No," answered Louis Napoleon at Bordeaux; "I'Empire, c'est la paix: the Empire means peace." With this solemn assurance, the die was cast. Back in Paris, the Prince "yielded to popular demand," and gave his Senate a nod. On a motion of that illustrious body, the people were formally asked whether they wished the Empire to be restored. This new plebiscite was held on November 21, 1852. Seven million eight hundred thousand votes approved, 250,000 registered protest. On December 1, the Senate, the Legislative Body, and the Council of State went to Saint-Cloud to notify the Prince; and it was as Napoleon III 1 3 that on the morrow he celebrated jointly the anniversary of his uncle's coronation, of the battle of Austerlitz, and of his own Coup d'fitat. 1S T h e title Napoleon III was natural enough, for the K i n g of Rome had been formally recognized by a regular Parliament, although his reign had been a brief and tenuous shadow. Hugo had used Napoleon II as the title of a well-known poem. Napoleon III, however, made it quite clear that he was invoking, not heredity, but the will of the people; "his reign did not begin in 1832, but in 1852."

PART II THE EMPIRE

CHAPTER VII T H E E M P E R O R A N D HIS CIRCLE Seigneur, vous m'avez fait puissant et solitaire: Laissez moi m'endormir du sommeil de la terre. ALFRED

DE V I G N Y ,

Moisc

A P O L E O N III was alone. All sovereigns are under sentence of solitary confinement; there can be no familiarity with the Lord's anointed, or with the historic incarnation of a principle. But there may be some alleviations to that harsh destiny. Some royal families are large, united, congenial. The proudest king, brought up in an ancient court, may breathe with ease its artificial atmosphere; Louis X I V , for all his Divine Right, was a gentleman entertaining gentlemen. His ceremonial life had become second nature, and he thoroughly enjoyed, not merely the serious work, but the very pomp and circumstance of his kingly trade, son metier de roi. Henry IV had gone through the rough and hazardous schooling of the camps, at the head of an army which at times was little more than a hunted band; so, when he reached power at last, his court was loose, slightly disreputable, but natural and jolly. Napoleon I, in his civilian capacity, was bored by the etiquette he had imposed upon his ill-assorted courtiers — survivors and transfuges from the Ancient Regime, converted Jacobins, profiteers, rough soldiers transmuted into resplendent dukes and princes; but at any rate, he could find refuge in the army, the only home he had ever known; he could talk to the common soldiers in their own language, and to the very end, at Waterloo, he used the vigorous obscenities familiar to every veteran. Napoleon III had no such haven. He had not

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grown up with the French aristocracy, the French court, the French army, the French people. He remained on the throne an enigma, an adventurer, an exile. Yet he was the most "national," the most "popular" sovereign that France ever had. But his popularity went to his principle, not to his person, which remained veiled. His heart was with the people; and the masses, in the provinces at any rate, understood and responded. But between cheering crowd and sovereign there could be no intimate communication. The warm, spontaneous enthusiasm of the common folk remained a vague background; all that could be definitely recorded was the conventional acclaim, the official ceremonies in which bishops, generals, prefects, and mayors kept up an impassable barrage of fulsome addresses. Even if he had lived in a constant din of popular applause, he would still have been gloriously and pathetically alone. As the visible head of a great nation he was adequate and at times even impressive. H e was no histrion, but he could play his part. The insignificant figure we have seen shuffling and slouching into the Assembly on September 26,1848, had by 1852 achieved color and a style. A general's uniform gave him distinction. If his legs were short, his torso was long, so he looked taller on horseback, and, in contrast to Napoleon I, he could ride admirably. The long waxed moustache, the imperial goatee, set a fashion which is still unforgotten. 1 The remote lacklustre gaze of his grey eyes, now that it was fraught with destiny, could be declared sphinx-like or prophetic. In private conversation he had no small talk, few flashes of wit. But his gravity, his courtesy, his gentleness impressed all who approached him. He could win children, princes, scholars — and women, alas! — all too easily. Even Albert the Good and the Fastidious capitulated to his quiet charm. 1

Oddly enough, the last "Second Empire" physiognomy we remember was that of Anatole France.

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Yet even in the most intimate circles the invisible barrier could not be removed. There were too many aspects to the man, and they could not be brought to the same focus. If he revealed himself, disconcertingly, "something of a German savant," that only made the French Emperor more inexplicable. It seemed that Napoleon III, like the great stoic poet Alfred de Vigny, who sincerely admired him, "never was on familiar terms with any one, not even himself." This secretiveness was an early trait, and probably part of his heritage. It might be considered as a milder form of his father's hypochondria. The consciousness of a mission set him apart, even as an adolescent, even when he was enjoying social pleasures in London. The long years of imprisonment favored studiousness, but also brooding. Among his early companions, Lebas, his Jacobin tutor, broke with him entirely. With Vieillard, who had taught his elder brother, he kept in closer touch; but they had little in common — neither age, nor social standing, nor political beliefs. He had a few devoted servants — his valet Thelin, his confidential secretary Mocquard — and perhaps two veritable friends. One was Dr. Conneau, his companion from the days of Arenenberg, who shared his prison at Ham and remained with him to the end; their sons were brought up together. The other was Hortense Lacroix (Madame Cornu), almost a foster sister, for years a faithful and candid correspondent. With his accomplices in the Coup d'fitat he was linked by the force of circumstances, but he never became intimate. In his own terms, he had to drag Persigny and Morny "as a convict drags his chain and ball." This loneliness of the sovereign was due, first of all, to the paradoxical nature of his regime. As an hereditary monarch, he had to surround himself with a court; and every one in his court stood for some kind of privilege, those very privileges which, as

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a democratic Caesar, it was his mission to destroy. H e is reported to have said: " H o w could you expect the Empire to work smoothly? T h e Empress is a Legitimist; Morny is an Orleanist; my cousin Napoleon is a Republican; I am known to be a Socialist; only Persigny is a Bonapartist, and he is crazy." T h e anecdote is probably too neat to be authentic, yet the perplexing facts are literally true — true of his immediate household, true of the court, true of the imperial personnel as a whole. H e had with him a f e w transfuges of the old nobility, but the bulk of that class kept sulking in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. H e had with him some liberal bourgeois, but the upper bourgeoisie as a class was Orleanist through and through, and, from their stronghold in the French Academy they carried on a futile and irritating warfare against him. H e had the support of the Church, but the Roman problem was a constant thorn. H e had the rising power of the industrialists on his side, but they lived in dread of his "Utopias," now socialism, now free trade. H e had the army, but he was at heart the reverse of a military man. Sovereign by the will of the people, he was hemmed in by those who did not believe in the people. Thus Napoleon, in order to impose his own policies, had to conspire against his own servants. L i k e Louis X V , he had his "secret"; his diplomacy ignored official channels, his commercial treaty with England came as a surprise, and had to be imposed upon a reluctant Chamber by a sort of coup d'etat. This was often ascribed to inborn or ingrained tortuousness; it was rather a necessity of his strange position. For eighteen years, he enjoyed the overwhelming support of the French people, but encountered the distrust of his official instruments. H e had to play a lone hand and keep an inscrutable face.

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II General Bonaparte, First Consul of the French Republic, was free not to establish an hereditary throne; he could have become a French Washington, and it seems that at first he was tempted by the part. There was no such choice before his nephew; his course was strongly influenced, if not wholly determined, by the formidable precedent of the first Emperor. Although he was, in almost every respect, radically different from Napoleon I, his raison d'etre was to be his heir. The dynastic and the democratic ideals were fused in his mind. He did not claim the crown as his birthright, but he had no doubt that the French people, of their own free will, wanted a Napoleonic Empire. A dynastic system, however, offers a great drawback: it raises to the most conspicuous position in the state not the elect of the nation alone, but a whole family. Bonapartism, in 1852 as in 1804, was saddled with the Bonapartes. On the whole, Napoleon III might have been less fortunate in his relatives. Several branches of the clan had already died out. Among Lucien's innumerable progeny, only two were irredeemable blacksheep. One was a granddaughter, a true cosmopolitan, whose father was an Englishman, and who married an Alsatian, Solms, an Italian, Rattazzi, and a Spaniard, Rute. She dabbled in literature and in radical politics. As Princess Marie de Solms she made herself unendurable to the Prince-President, and had to be expelled from Paris. The other was a son of Lucien's, Pierre. His chequered career would be a fit subject for a picaresque romance. At fifteen, he was plotting against the Pope. He turned up a major in the Colombian Army. He was the chieftain of a revolutionary band, which might have been a gang, in the Maremma. He suffered imprisonment in the Castle Sant'Angelo. He ventured into the

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wilds of Albania, was set upon by tribesmen, and killed three with his own hands. In 1848, he entered French politics as a deputy from Corsica and an extreme Republican. He joined the Foreign Legion, was transferred to the regular army, but, leaving his post just before the attack of Zaatcha in Algeria, he was cashiered. Although given the title of Prince, he was not recognized as a member of the imperial family, and was decidedly not persona grata at the Tuileries. He lived with a working woman, honorably married her, and vaguely attempted literature. In 1870, as we shall see, he broke tragically into the news. He had challenged a Republican journalist, and, when his opponent's seconds waited upon him, he shot one of them dead. He was acquitted by a special court, but the scandal rocked the none-too-secure regime. After the downfall, he lived obscurely in London, where his wife opened a millinery shop. All Bonapartes are by definition adventurers: Napoleon had thought of hiring himself to the Grand Turk or to some Rajah. Pierre was a simplified, excessive version of the type — prince or bandit, but never satisfied with the beaten path. Balzac or Stendhal would have reveled in the unrolling of such a destiny. In their exalted sphere, Louis Napoleon and Napoleon (Jerome) had in them something of the Pierre Bonaparte element: they too are disquieting, they elude normal classification; they are both Caesars and declasses? But, with these two colorful exceptions, the descendants of Lucien were presentable, and even dignified. Charles Lucien published many learned memoirs on ornithology; his son Lucien took holy orders and in 1868 became a Cardinal; Louis Lucien was a scholar, versed in the mysteries of the Basque language, who in the Senate sedulously held his peace. The Murats were more 2

Strangely enough, Pierre's son, Roland, became a scientist, married abundant money (from Monte Carlo), kept a princely establishment in Paris; thus thoroughly respectable, he could enter royal circles, and his daughter became a Princess of Greece.

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vivid, but likewise unobjectionable. And those members of the imperial family who stood closest to the throne, the children of King Jerome, were certainly not effete or commonplace. K i n g Jerome himself, who survived until i860, was cherished as the living link between the two Empires. It was a curious whim of fate that forced such historic dignity upon the most amiable and — next to lovely Pauline Borghese — the most irresponsible of the Bonapartes. Napoleon's youngest brother, he had been an acceptable naval officer, a merry monarch on the puppet throne of Westphalia, and a rather inept corps commander in the Russian campaign. Adversity ripened him; in 1815, to his great credit, he managed to escape from Trieste and to join Napoleon in Paris. At the head of a division, he acquitted himself well at Waterloo. Then followed long years of exile. Jerome was no more eager than Joseph or Louis to rush into fresh Bonapartist adventures; he wholly disapproved of his nephew's madcap attempts at Strasbourg and at Boulogne. His one desire was to make his peace with Louis Philippe; he returned to France in 1847. Louis Napoleon, as President of the Republic, made him Governor of the Invalides: what could be more fitting than to entrust the Emperor's tomb to the care of his last surviving brother ? A little later he became a Marshal of France. Before the Coup d'fitat, K i n g Jerome preserved an ambiguous attitude. But if he was a gay old epicure, and in politics a skeptic and a trimmer, he was not devoid of courage. On the fateful morning of December 2, 1851, he appeared on horseback behind his adventurous nephew. He was appointed by the dictator President of the newly created Senate. After the restoration of the Empire, he received the Palais Royal, the former residence of the Orleans, with a handsome allowance — never quite sufficient for the needs of the inveterate spendthrift. Napoleon III always displayed the most touching respect for the Prodigal Uncle, and liked to praise in public his long experience

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and his unfailing common sense. T h e "sterling qualities" of K i n g Jerome, like the "virtues" of the Empress Josephine, were among the pleasant fictions of the Tuileries Court. T h e initiated had learned to accept them with a straight face. By his first wife, Miss Elizabeth Patterson of Baltimore, Jerome had a son whose family took an honored place in American life. But Napoleon I refused to sanction this juvenile romance. Not so stubborn as Lucien, Jerome meekly accepted the annulment of his marriage, and wedded the Princess Catherine of Württemberg. His first son died in 1847; his other two children, Mathilde and Napoleon, were destined to play a difficult but brilliant part in the society and in the politics of the Second Empire. Mathilde was born in 1820. Young Louis Napoleon fell in love with his strikingly handsome cousin, and their betrothal was almost official. But the Strasbourg fiasco incensed K i n g Jerome, and the engagement was broken. In 1840, Mathilde was married to a Russian prince, Anatole Demidoff. K i n g Jerome was, as usual, in debt, and the Prince was fabulously wealthy. But Demidoff, by all accounts, was impossible, and after five years, the Tsar himself granted a separation, with a princely allowance for Mathilde. When Louis Napoleon became President, she did the honors of the Elysee for him. But their cousinly idyl did not revive in this official atmosphere. If it had, the course of the Second Empire might have been changed; Mathilde, for all her cosmopolitan origin, upbringing, and experience, was thoroughly French and vigorously liberal as Eugenie never was. They would not have been happy; gay and expansive, Mathilde was exasperated by the taciturnity of Louis Napoleon. Once she said " I should like to break his head, to find out what there is in it." She probably was not moved purely by personal pique when she fought, as bitterly as she could, her cousin's marriage to "the Spanish woman." Under the Empire, she contracted a quasi-morganatic union

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with Count de Niewerkerke, whom she made Superintendent of Fine Arts and one of the decorative figures of the regime. She loved to associate with artists and writers; she and her brother were the "intellectuals" of the imperial world, for in these realms the pair at the Tuileries were wholly devoid of discrimination. Her prize lion was Sainte-Beuve. This does her mind great credit, for there was no glamor about the searching and disenchanted old critic. She overwhelmed him with delicate gifts, invaded his modest abode, forced him into the somnolent and respectable Senate, where his defiant anti-clerical Free Thought created much consternation. Like her cousin the Emperor and like her brother, she combined advanced political ideas with the most orthodox Napoleon-worship. She broke with her friend of many years' standing, Taine, because his portrait of the Emperor, in his Origins of Contemporary France, was not wholly flattering. She preserved both her connection with the artistic world and her Napoleonic faith to the end, in 1904. Her brother, Prince Napoleon, "Plonplon," 3 offered the same characteristics in bolder and less pleasant relief. Even more than his father, he bore a striking resemblance to the hero of the family, a resemblance totally lacking in King Louis and his two sons. Prince Napoleon was described, with malicious accuracy, as "a Napoleonic medal — with a coating of German fat." Louis Napoleon, his senior by fourteen years, had treated him as a younger brother and helped him with his studies. To the end, in his relations with his volcanic cousin, the Emperor showed delicate affection and infinite patience. All of his stubborn gentleness was needed, for their difficulties began in 1849 and did not end with the catastrophe of Sedan. When he became President, Louis sent the young man as ambassador to Spain. But Prince 3

It seems that this -nickname was given him in childhood, long before his soldiers in the Crimea made it both popular and uncomplimentary.

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Napoleon was already denouncing his cousin's conservative policy in unmeasured terms, and had to be recalled. He kept aloof at the time of the Coup d'Etat: but his republican principles did not prevent him from accepting the rank of Imperial Highness, in line of succession for the throne. Like the rest of the family and the whole political personnel, he strongly opposed the marriage of Napoleon III to Eugenie; he believed that a match prompted by a mere infatuation would weaken the dynasty so recently restored and still very frail. The other opponents, when they had lost the fight, rallied to the new Empress: Prince Napoleon never did. Between him and Eugenie there was a feud which the years could not assuage. His hostility extended to her son; and in return, the boy was taught to consider the first Prince of the Blood as his mortal enemy. In this irreconcilable attitude there was a blend of personal animosity, dynastic concern, thwarted ambition; but the chief element was political antagonism. For the Empress, strongly attached to the Church and devoted to the memory of Marie Antoinette, stood at the extreme right of Bonapartism, and Prince Napoleon at the extreme left. He was indeed a Jacobin whom chance had made a Bonaparte. Two obvious paths were open before him. He could, with republican austerity, have refused all titles and functions; or he could have been, like his cousin Lucien, the Basque scholar, a neutral decorative figure in the imperial family. He chose neither alternative. It is too easy to say that he wanted to eat his cake and have it too, to enjoy at the same time the spiritual luxury of democratic convictions and the material advantages of princely privileges. But there was a sounder justification for his ambiguous attitude. Like Mathilde, like Louis Napoleon himself, he believed that democracy and Napoleonism were one. He thought that in his radicalism he was truer to the Napoleonic gospel than Napo-

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leon III, who compromised with reaction. He felt in himself, and could not see in his cousin, the surge of Napoleonic energy. H e sincerely believed that the imperial countenance betokened imperial genius; he constantly felt that he, and not his lacklustre cousin, was cast by destiny for the part of a Caesar. In the spirit, he was the true heir, and Napoleon III a usurper. So Prince Napoleon accepted from the Emperor the most outrageous favors, not as flagrant nepotism, but as a grudging tribute to his rights and merits. He was given unparalleled opportunities, as soldier, diplomat, administrator. In every case he showed ability, but also a woeful lack of discipline, self-control, and perseverance. As an improvised General, he did well enough in the Crimea; but he hastened to take sick leave and left the army under a cloud. He directed efficiently the great Exposition of 1855, and was to assume the same functions for the Exposition of 1867; but family quarrels prevented him from completing the task. He edited — perhaps with excessive regard for dynastic considerations — Napoleon's enormous correspondence. He made another promising start as Minister for the Colonies and Algeria, and soon complained that his hands were tied. In the Italian campaign, he had a safe command, resented the heat, vaguely hoped to become Grand Duke of Tuscany. As a last avatar, he revealed himself, in the grey and muffled Imperial Senate, as an orator of uncouth and compelling eloquence, in defense of radical and anticlerical ideas. Half a century after Prince Napoleon's death, it is still a hopeless task to appraise him. " A n outcast Caesar," as his friend Edmond About called him? A n incomplete, thwarted genius who needed supreme power for the full exercise of his faculty? A n unscrupulous man of pleasure like his father, but without the excuse of irredeemable frivolity? Most probable of all, a clever, ill-tempered, spoilt child. His private life was notorious, even in

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that age when questionable examples came from above and reached very deep. His young wife, Princess Clotilde of Savoy, ruthlessly "annexed" for reasons of state, had to suffer in pious self-effacement. On the other hand, his intellectual gifts and interests were manifest. His speeches, letters, and books rank high in Bonapartist literature; careless in form, they have at times a tense quivering vigor which Napoleon III never attained. Even more freely than Princess Mathilde, he associated with artists, men of letters, and independent political thinkers. Without him, our picture of the Second Empire as a period of surprising intellectual freedom would not be complete. He corresponded with Proudhon, a "one-man Terror," and with George Sand, who in her calmer old age had remained at heart a democrat and a socialist; and both were far above the lure of snobbishness. He was a member of the Magny dinner group, which counted some of the keenest minds of the time; Sainte-Beuve, Taine, Renan, were among them; all were sharply opposed to conventional conformities, and for that reason, all were loosely called positivists, materialists, or even atheists.4 He had Renan as his guest on a cruise to Norway when the Franco-German war broke out. He hurried back, but fate was against him to the last. He was sent post-haste to his father-in-law Victor Emmanuel to claim the promised support of Italy; but he was prevented from accepting the one indispensable condition — the withdrawal of the French troops from Rome. So, through no fault of his own, he failed. On the fourth of September, a chance allusion to him brought nothing but a sneer. 1

The Magny dinner was so called from the restaurant where the group usually met. Once — at Sainte-Beuve's — it happened that a meat course was inadvertently served on Good Friday. This regrettable slip was taken by the Catholic world as a premeditated and vulgar insult. The Prince's friendship with Renan would suffice to refute the accusation, for the great scholar was fastidious and despised coarseness — particularly the anticlerical brand.

Winterhalter

Madrid: EMPRESS EUGENIE

Coll. Dttkc of Alba

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If, as we believe, the real strength of the Empire was in its democratic character, the attitude of Prince Napoleon, the outand-out democrat, might seem more consistent and more farsighted than that of the Emperor itself. W e shall meet that problem when we discuss the political evolution of the Empire. W e are now interested only in the personality of the Prince. If he hoped that the Republicans would accept him as their leader, he was strangely deluded. T h e First Prince of the Blood, showered with dignities and favors, never had any standing with them. They could not forget that twice the Bonapartes had strangled a republic. The one justification of the imperial system was to be above parties, the integration of all truly national energies.

A

partisan Empire, an Empire of the Left, was therefore an absurdity; just as much of an absurdity as the dream of the Empress, an Empire of the Right, at the service of the Church. It might have been healthy for the political life of the Empire that the two conflicting tendencies it sought to harmonize should thus be represented in the innermost imperial circle; but the necessity for balance and compromise should have remained uppermost. Of this cautious and finely shaded attitude neither Prince nor Empress was capable. Both were vivid, undisciplined personalities. Both were apt to mistake conceit for genius, and an unruly temper for energy; both were exasperated by the opportunism of the silent ruler; both ascribed his caution to mental hesitancy or flabbiness of will. As a matter of fact, they represented the Emperor's most glaring failure; he who strove to unite all Frenchmen could not reconcile his wife and his first cousin. He was a shrewder realist than either, and a more generous idealist too. For he genuinely desired to serve, in their daily lives, men of flesh and blood; while the Empress was thinking of her son's throne, and the "democracy" of Prince Napoleon was not an intimate feeling, but an eloquent abstraction.

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The Bonapartist world, singularly free from Victorian squeamishness, gave great prominence to the natural members of the imperial connection. Count Leon, the first son of the great Emperor, was hopeless, and had to be kept at a distance; but the second son, Alexander Colonna Walewski, became a dignified if not an important personage. It was he who, as special envoy, announced the Coup d'Etat to Palmerston, and secured his approval. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, he was French plenipotentiary at the Congress of Paris after the Crimean War. He was later Minister of State and President of the Legislative Body. Although he was accused of conceit, he was by no means a bloated nonentity. The Walewski salon rivaled in intellectual brilliancy that of Princess Mathilde. 5 If Walewski never boasted of his imperial origin, Count de Morny showed less reserve. He placed on his coat-of-arms an eagle rising out of a Hortensia (hydrangea) bush, with the indiscreet device: Τace sed memento. Queen Hortense's secret was common property. Between the son of Flahaut and his imperial half-brother the physical likeness was unmistakable. Morny, although prematurely bald, was the better looking — taller, of easier gait, with a nose not so beak-like as Napoleon Ill's. Psychologically, the resemblances were hardly less pronounced. Forced to carve for themselves, through daring and wit, a destiny commensurate with their E Walewski, whose handsome presence was strikingly Napoleonic, was paradoxically loyal to both his fathers and to both his countries. He was brought up as a Polish patriot, and transferred his allegiance to France when the insurrection of 1830-31 ended in disaster. He joined the French army, did some miscellaneous writing, and from political journalism entered the diplomatic field as a protege of Thiers. His brilliant career was pathetically hollow: Napoleon III did not take his Minister of Foreign Affairs into his confidence. With Countess Walewska, a Florentine, the Emperor had one of his manifold cosmopolitan affairs.

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origins, the two men stand out in history as the perfect models of aristocratic adventurers. Thus they were fated to be gamblers, but for the highest stakes; unhampered by bourgeois scruples, ruthless when the cause demanded it, cool in the hour of danger. Sons of a lovable woman, they were not cruel by nature. Both were princes in the perfection of their manners, with more simplicity on the part of Napoleon, with a dash of eighteenth-century impertinence on the part of Morny: the blood of Talleyrand did tell. Although free from parvenu vulgarity, they, like all gamblers, could not repress their fondness for display, as the badge of their triumph. Gambler-like again, and grandsons of Josephine, they played ardently, even in advancing years, the treacherous game of chance which the French oddly call L'Amour. It is well to have this composite picture before our eyes, for there was a Morny in Napoleon III. But diere was much more in him also — a humanitarian, a "man of 'Forty-eight," whom the clever and realistic Morny could never fathom. The aristocratic adventurer is a stock character in romance; Morny evokes at once in our memory a number of fascinating and elegantly sinister figures in Balzac's teeming and writhing world, La Comedie Humaine. Morny is l'homme fort, whose brutal ambition loves to veil itself in apparent futility, the Balzacian dandy. He was a Lucullus, exacting when he dined alone the same perfection as though he were entertaining twenty famous gourmets. His clothes, his horses and carriages, his receptions, his picture gallery, were the pattern of fashion. The arbiter of masculine elegance, he was as autocratic in his realm as the Empress on the feminine side. It was his ambition, after collaborating in the blood-andthunder drama of the Coup d'Etat, to win applause as a writer of farces, and, under the name of M. de St. Remy he scored a few minor successes. He prized the Jockey Club far above Parliament, or the nondescript Court of the Tuileries. His wife — a Princess

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Troubetzkoi, whom he won when he was a magnificent Ambassador in Saint Petersburg — added to his household a supreme note of delightful irresponsibility, half exotic, half childlike. Their unique establishment at the Petit-Bourbon, with priceless art treasures, a famous Chinese drawing room, and a large cage of monkeys, 6 was too well appointed to be called Bohemian; but it was whimsical almost to the point of self-irony. The social life of the Mornys hovered between Louis-Quinze refinement and the nervous gaiety of an Offenbach operetta. This willful extravagance screened realities which were solid and at times sordid. Morny was first of all a man of affairs. He had grown to his full stature as promoter and manipulator under Louis Philippe. But, like Balzac himself, he was ahead of his generation: the petit bourgeois timidity of that period did not give his wizardry full scope. In the sudden economic expansion of the Second Empire, he flourished exceedingly. The disciples of Saint-Simon, as we shall see, and Napoleon III among them, were the builders of that prosperity; Morny was the profiteer par excellence. He had a genius for speculation; his secret information and his great influence as a statesman were freely used to foster his private schemes. N o matter how daring the enterprise, it was sufficient to whisper "Morny is in it" to send the stock soaring. Naturally, legend amplified his financial black magic as well as his amorous conquests. He was long accused of having promoted the Mexican adventure for the sake of a cut in the bonds held by a Swiss banker, Jecker. In this case, his best alibi is his infallible cleverness; just because he was a consummate gambler, he was daring, but not mad. In politics, he was no Bonapartist. He was well satisfied with the plutocratic regime of Louis Philippe, and throve in it. He did 6 Morny rather resented the monkeys. He vented his feelings by calling them all Glais-Bizoin, after a Republican representative whom he found most obnoxious.

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not seek his half-brother until the latter had risen high. Then he rallied to the second Napoleon, as his grandfather Talleyrand had rallied to the first, and for exactly the same reason: of the three competing systems, the republican, the royalist, and the dictatorial, the dictatorial stood the best chance and was most likely to revive business. Incidentally, under a Napoleonic Empire, his birth would be an asset. So he took a leading part in the Coup d'fitat; for once, the proverbial iron hand was sharply felt under the velvet glove. For once. He was one of those calculating transgressors satisfied with the single perfect crime that will enable them to be honest ever after. He dreaded democracy, even in its Caesarian garb. A n Orleanist in spirit, he resigned when, shortly after the Coup d'fitat, Louis Napoleon confiscated some estates of the Orleans family and used them to endow philanthropic foundations.7 The personal relations between the two brothers always remained something of an enigma. He was, as we shall see, an ideal President of the Legislative Body. His prestige, his tact, his well-known belief in Parliamentary institutions flattered the deputies and made them forget that their sole function was humble acquiescence. Had he lived, the delicate adjustment between the plebiscitary system and the representative, attempted in 1870 and cut short by the war, might have been successful; for he alone would have remained cool, while fimile Ollivier was stampeded like the rest. The compromise for which he worked, and which doctrinaires declare to be inconceivable, bears a paradoxical likeness to the American Constitution. ' A c c o r d i n g to ancient custom, the K i n g ' s estate became the property of the realm; France and her sovereign were wedded indissolubly. Louis Philippe, wealthy in his o w n rights, shrewdness and caution personified, made over his fortune to his sons before accepting the crown, so that his property would not revert to the State. Louis Napoleon declared this donation illegal, and claimed the domains f o r the nation. Louis Philippe's action had been a clever move, but no theft; he can hardly be blamed for anticipating, in 1830, what actually did happen in 1848.

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He died at fifty-four, burnt out, half poisoned by the quack stimulants which quickened his fevered lust for power and pleasure. The Empire he had done so much to create and uphold gave him a state funeral of unparalleled magnificence. No one thought of him as a good man, or as a great man. Yet he was felt to be not decorative merely, but indispensable. He was universally regretted, even by his wife. IV

We have repeatedly alluded to the love affairs of Louis Napoleon. This is not a romanced biography, still less a chronique scandaleuse', we are interested in the man only as a "maker of modern Europe." It is not cynical to admit that, in public affairs, private morality is not of primary importance. The greatness of kings is not measured by their chastity. Henry of Navarre and Catherine of Russia were better sovereigns than Louis XIII or Louis XVI. But, if we have no desire to indulge in belated backstairs tattle, we cannot forget that Napoleon III was no mere figurehead, no crowned scarecrow guarding the fields of property, no passive tool of a ravenous band. The Second Empire was essentially a personal regime. It could not have been brought into being if the Bonapartist claimant had been King Jerome, or a son of Lucien. It took Louis Napoleon to create the Empire, and he created it in his own image. It differed strikingly from the bourgeois monarchy and the bourgeois republic that preceded and followed it. Like its ruler, it was free from bourgeois pettiness; but it also lacked some of the bourgeois virtues. Because Napoleon III was the Empire, every flaw in him weakened the government and the country; and his sensual temperament, which he preserved even when he was old and sick, was undeniably a flaw. In London, his friend Count d'Orsay had made him acquainted

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with Miss Howard. She was a superb courtesan, but she was a great deal more. Victorianism was not yet oppressive, and a free lance could strive for social and political influence. Louis squandered on her much of his father's heritage; but when he was candidate for the Presidency of the Republic she placed all she had at his disposal. He brought her to Paris, established her near the Presidential palace, paraded her in a semi-official capacity. She followed him on his propaganda tours through France, and was billeted in the homes of officials — a great strain, at times, on their loyalty. She evidently hoped that this equivocal situation would become permanent and at least tacitly recognized; other sovereigns had had life-long favorites. Preposterous as it may seem, she dreamed perhaps of a formal marriage and the crown; after all, Theodora and Josephine were illustrious precedents. When Eugenie appeared upon the scene, Miss Howard was handsomely pensioned off as Countess de Beauregard; and — with the assistance of the police — she ceased from troubling. We need to remember this questionable background if we want to understand the dismay with which the imperial circle, family and confidential advisers alike, viewed Louis Napoleon's deepening passion for Eugenie de Montijo.8 Although he had "saved Society," his regime was still of precarious repute. An alliance with an old princely house, were it one of the least in the second part of the Almanack de Gotha, would add to the new Empire a much-needed touch of respectability. Or, if he wanted to emphasize the national, democratic, and modern character of his dynasty, he could marry the daughter of some great French industrialist. There was indeed nothing to commend the Montijo connection. For all their triple grandeza of Spain, the ladies had lived 8

Her name was (in part) Dona Eugenie Guzman y Palafox y Portocarrero. Montijo, Teba, Banos, Mora, were family titles. Her sister became Duchess of Berwick y Alba.

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for years a vagabond existence which, for the untraveled French, seemed that of titled adventuresses. In the eyes of the Bonapartists, this affair was only one of his innumerable fancies, and it would pass like the rest. But he was harder hit than usual. He was forty-five, a perilous age for inveterate amorists, the last chance for a consuming and rejuvenating passion. And he had to deal, his friends thought, with an extremely clever pair. The mother was an old campaigner, and looked the part. The girl, supremely beautiful, with her Titian hair and sapphire eyes, was no inexperienced ingenue: twenty-seven, used to the freedom of cosmopolitan resorts, she could be trusted to play her cards well. And, in all purity of purpose, she did. Accustomed to easy conquests, Louis Napoleon considered the least show of resistance as a token of the rarest virtue. Eugenie herself forced the issue; she declared herself insulted by the attitude of the official world, and announced her determination to retire. Napoleon obeyed his passion, his sense of chivalry, and his desire to assert his autocratic power. He begged her to stay, on her own terms. Gently obstinate as ever, he ignored the protests of uncle, cousins, accomplices, and dignitaries. On January 30, 1853, Napoleon III and Eugenie were magnificently wedded at Notre Dame. The union, like everything else in that strangely mottled epoch, was a blend of triumph and disappointment. Its worst effects, ultimately, were not in the least those that the Bonapartes had affected to fear. The Emperor did not lose his popularity. There was no increased coolness on the part of foreign courts. The Empress won, and preserved for nearly fifty years, the friendship of Queen Victoria. The Countess de Montijo, who was a trifle too vivid even for the gaudiest Empire, was denied a position at court. Eugenie herself, in spite of her flighty airs, was thoroughly virtuous. She knew and enjoyed the power of her beauty, and liked to have men fall desperately in love with her; but there was no

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Diamond Necklace scandal, not even a Fersen romance, in her life. Scurrilous abuse did not spare her; but all fair-minded enemies of the dynasty pronounced her above reproach. It was the Emperor himself who wanted her — as though she needed much urging — to become the leader of fashion; lavishness was part of his policy, as thrift had been part of Louis Philippe's. In this role she was admirably successful; the supreme craftsmen of Paris never had a more splendid mannequin, and Eugenie styles, in their delightful absurdity, are still periodically revived. But in these triumphs she was only keeping just ahead of the questionable ladies w h o were such a feature of imperial Paris, Cora Pearl, Anna Deslions, Juliette Barucci, Blanche d'Antigny, la Pa'iva, a quaint fauna of "lionesses, does and cranes" (lionnes, biches, et grues).

Even though she took lessons from

the great actress Rachel — as Napoleon I had taken lessons from Talma — she never was absolutely convincing. The tragic years imparted majesty at last; but had she died at the height of the imperial festival she would be remembered as Empress just as Hortense Schneider is remembered as "Grand Duchess of Gerolstein." The Austrian Ambassadress, Princess Pauline Metternich, far more unconventional and pleasure-crazy than Eugenie, drew the line with pitiless accuracy: "I wouldn't advise our Empress to do this or that," she said; "but you see, ours is a real Empress." Eugenie did her best to be a real Empress. In the morning, she would visit the poor incognito, in semi-disguise. She actively supported many charities. During an epidemic of cholera, she went to the hospitals with simple courage. W h e n Orsini and his accomplices threw bombs at the imperial pair her gown was bespattered with blood, but she entered the Opera House on the Emperor's arm, outwardly composed. They called her "the Spaniard," as they had called her idol Marie Antoinette "the Austrian." In her case, this was hardly fair. She was absolutely loyal to her adopted

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country. Her father had been an Ajrancesado, one of the few Spaniards who had espoused the Napoleonic cause, and he had fought for it to the end. She was pious, but no fanatic. Her education had been cosmopolitan. She had attended the Sacred Heart Convent in Paris, the most enlightened of the Catholic girls' schools. Among her mother's friends were Merimee and Stendhal, both confirmed Voltairians. Merimee remained an honored member of her household to his death; and she remembered, with an odd touch of respect, "Monsieur Beyle," who took her and her sister on his knees and told the little girls the wonderful legend of the great Napoleon. She could be capricious, quick-tempered, haughty. Even those who worshipped her did not feel for her the depth of pathetic affection that the Emperor could arouse. She was vivacious, but not clever; interested in great affairs, but not intelligent. Augustin Filon, tutor to the Prince Imperial, who admired her profoundly, tells us with charming circumlocution: "She was but little moved by that power which lies in the continuity of argument, in the classification of facts, or in the logical march of thought toward a rigorous conclusion." And he adds, "I doubt if she often read a book through from cover to cover." 9 At first, Eugenie had no ambition but to reign over the feminine realms of elegance and charity. Like the rest of France, she had unbounded faith in the mysterious wisdom, or the favoring star, of the Emperor. After a few years, however, she insisted upon a share in the government. For this evolution there were many causes. She had become the friend of Queen Victoria, who ruled in her own right and taught her that husband and wife should have all their interests in common. She was devoted to the memory of Marie Antoinette and accepted the conventional view that at the time of the Revolution the Queen had shown more fore* Augustin Filon, Recollections of the Empress Eugenie (London, 1920), p. 63.

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sight, dignity, and courage than her consort. She loved her one delicate son passionately and felt that she had to defend his heritage even against the blunders of his father. She was conscious of abundant vigor and knew that Napoleon III was fast declining. She was a staunch Catholic, and feared that the Emperor might at any moment abandon the cause of the Pope. Both as a mother and as a believer she distrusted and dreaded Prince Napoleon; it was incumbent upon her to combat his baleful influence. Most of all, perhaps, she was wounded in her principles and in her pride by the Emperor's constant infidelities. Power for her was a pitiful compensation for the loss of her conjugal happiness. For, if Napoleon had truly loved Eugenie with more than sensual passion, if he kept loving her with deepening tenderness and increased respect to the last moment, his demon was stronger than all good resolves. There was in him something of Baron Hulot, whose pathological case is so mercilessly analyzed by Balzac in Cousin Betty. His flesh was weak, and temptation was incessant. In 1855, Cavour despatched to Paris the "divine" Countess de Castiglione, in the hope that she would prove an effective diplomatic agent. In this Cavour miscalculated; Napoleon kept amours and policies on two separate ledgers. The Countess was a splendid beast of prey, shameless, rapacious and stupid; she could have no influence upon such a man as the Emperor; he enjoyed the costly gift, and went on his taciturn way. But the open scandal wounded Eugenie to the quick. And the monotonous gilded inferno continued for fifteen years. At times, the Empress would break into violent scenes — with a listener behind every door in the Tuileries. At times, she would take sudden flight — to Scotland in the most dismal season, to Schwalbach in Germany. She had to realize that she could not hold her own even against a vulgar grisette like Marguerite Beilanger. She craved for power as a derivative; and Napoleon, with his enfeebled

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resistance and his guilty conscience, found it increasingly difficult to deny her that one consolation. W h a t use did she make of that power ? Impartiality is hard to attain. She was not popular under the Empire, even among the conservatives; public opinion made her responsible for the most questionable features in the regime. A t present, we may be swinging too far in the other direction. She had the field to herself; the Bonapartist faction that was hostile to her died with Prince Napoleon in 1891; she survived until 1920, and found many confidants w h o became able apologists. T h e old chivalrous bias for a beautiful woman in distress, which even now preserves the absurd idealization of Marie Antoinette, worked steadily in her favor. It cannot be proved that she was exclusively responsible for any fateful decision; the words ascribed to her in 1870, "It will be my war!" may very well be apocryphal. But her influence was steadily exerted in one direction, which was reactionary. Her unquestioning attachment to her religion committed her to the defense of the Pope's temporal power, the one obstacle to Franco-Italian cooperation. For the same reason, she gave a favorable ear to those Mexican exiles w h o were seeking to restore the property, privileges, and domination of the Church. She was frankly averse to the liberal evolution of the Empire. She wished the fimile Ollivier experiment to fail. If she did not urge war in 1870, at least she was in open sympathy with those w h o desired it — chiefly in the hope that victory might lead to the restoration of absolutism at home. Finally, after the first disasters, she opposed the return of the Emperor to Paris, which had been advised by all competent authorities. She herself summed up — and spurned — the accusations of her enemies: la femme

futile, puis la femme fatale.

In

this epigrammatic form the indictment is crude; but it cannot be dismissed as absurd.

CHAPTER VIII T H E EMPIRE STANDS FOR PEACE THE FOREIGN POLICY OF NAPOLEON III

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N its glittering surface, the Second Empire, no less than the First, was a military regime. As soon as he was elected President, Louis Napoleon assumed a General's uniform. He showed at once his solicitude for the welfare of the common soldier and for the prestige of the army. The great reviews in which he was acclaimed by the troops were an essential part of his political strategy; he posed as Imperator years before he became Emperor. When the imperial title was revived, this aspect of his government was further emphasized. Officers were privileged visitors at the Tuileries. The days of bourgeois drabness were over; the Court was gay with gold braid and epaulets. Paris and most of the provincial cities were constantly entertained with military concerts and parades. This martial display is inseparable from the atmosphere of the Second Empire; in my youth, a quarter of a century after the downfall, its memory lingered, frivolous and nostalgic; and the people of Paris still looked with familiar affection at the four great troopers of stone decorating the Alma Bridge. The enormous drum major and his little drummer boys, the dapper cantiniere, the long-bearded sappers with shining axe, tall busby, and white leather apron, the voltigeurs, grenadiers, zouaves, hussars, lancers, guides, carbineers, dragoons, cuirassiers, evoke in our minds, for the last time, the old army and the old wars. Before Sedan, in spite of defeats, hardships and the insufferable

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tedium of barrack life, the glory had not fully departed. War was still a popular romance of bravery and high adventure, a blend of the circus, the tournament, and the quest. There was a dash of gaiety about it all, under Napoleon III, which had not been so evident under Napoleon I. The legendary "Grumblers" and their leaders give an impression of sternness and of toughness almost akin to brutality. They were not un-French; but the army of the Second Empire was French in a superlative degree; it was Gallic. It kept in touch with a more ancient tradition than the earnest fighting of Carnot and his heirs: that of the courtly contestants at Fontenoy, of great Conde leading an assault to the music of violins, of Henry IV the heroic jester, of Francis I in his Renaissance glory, of Froissart's futile and resplendent knights, of the bragging uproarious peers in that strange medley, "Charlemagne's Pilgrimage." It is the spirit of Cyrano and d'Artagnan — humor and elegance, absurd bravado and faultless courage, fused in a rich and baroque harmony. Of this Second Empire beau sabreur type, the perfect model was Marquis de Galliffet — pungent wit, duels, affairs, fancy-dress balls, guerrilla warfare in Mexico, and, as a climax, the heroic despairing charge at Sedan which compelled King William of Prussia to exclaim: "Oh! the brave fellows!" 1 The military character of the Empire went deeper than mere conspicuous waste. It was the army that had checked any resistance to the Coup d'fitat, and for two decades the army was held in readiness against any possible uprising of the democratic great 1

Sedan was not the end of beau sabreur General Marquis de Galliffet, Prince de Martignes. As a lieutenant of MacMahon, he repressed the Paris Commune with the ruthlessness his feudal ancestors had shown when they massacred rebellious "Jacques." He rose to the highest rank under the Republic, a cavalry expert of European renown. Unconventional to the last, he followed his conscience, not his caste, in the Dreyfus Case, and became Minister of War in the Pro-Dreyfus cabinet of Waldeck-Rousseau.

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cities. Indeed Karl Marx suggested substituting for the old device "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," the less equivocal words "Infantry, Cavalry, Artillery." Barracks were built at strategic points in Paris; Haussmann's new boulevards, wide and straight, were intended to permit cavalry charges, or the decisive whiff of grapeshot. When Napoleon III asserted "Material order is my responsibility," his hand was on the hilt of his sword. And the ambiguous prestige that France enjoyed then in the counsels of Europe was due in no small degree to the fact that the French army, at least until 1866, was held to be without a peer in the world. But, if there was no lack of grim realism under the brave show of the army, it must be said that in spite of military forms the rule of Napoleon III never was militaristic. In this it differed radically from the Prussia of the Sergeant-King, or from modern Japan. The army was an instrument in home and foreign affairs, impressive, and ultimately delusive; but at all times it was merely an instrument. It had helped — and botched — the Coup d'fitat: but the real strength of the President at that time was in popular support. Only during a brief crisis did the army again play an active part in state affairs. In January 1858, after Orsini and his accomplices had attempted to kill the Emperor, the country was placed under what amounted to martial law. France was divided into five great commands, each under a Marshal. But this flurry was soon over. Right up to 1870, the power of the Emperor rested, not on the loyalty of the soldiers, but on the seven million votes which had again ratified the regime. France was not, for twenty years, a concentration camp held in awe by sentinels with loaded rifles. The atmosphere was radically different from that of modern dictatorships. The thought of the time was strikingly free, and the temper of the nation singularly cheerful. This is even truer of the Empire's foreign policy. It cannot be

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said that the Crimean War, the Italian War, the Mexican expedition, were urged by the militarists for the sake of their prestige or for strategic reasons. Even in 1870, civilians of all degrees, from Cabinet ministers to Parisian mob, were the first to lose their heads and shout "On to Berlin!" The only flare of the martial spirit originating with the army was due to the Orsini outrage. The plot had been hatched in London, the traditional haven of political refugees. The colonels of all the French regiments, in addresses of loyalty to the Emperor, denounced England as "a lair of assassins," and wanted to dictate police measures to the British government. English public opinion bridled up at once. A Volunteer Force sprang into being. The fragile Entente between the two countries was shaken; peace itself was imperiled. But a soldier undid the harm that soldiers had done; Marshal Pelissier was sent as Ambassador to London. As the former Commander-in-Chief in the Crimea, he was admirably received; in his bluff manner he proved an excellent diplomat; and the fiery colonels were hushed. Louis Napoleon had promised at Bordeaux, "The Empire stands for peace." This has often been denounced as a deceitful pledge, like his oath of loyalty to the Constitution. There is good reason to believe that he was sincere — no less sincere than Presidents Woodrow Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt when they gave similar assurances. Louis Philippe believed neither in war nor in the army; Louis Napoleon believed in the army, but not in war. If this be an absurdity, it is one which has been professed through the ages by many honest thinkers. Epee porte paix, Si vis pacem para bellum, are ancient adages; and Marshal Lyautey simply refurbished them when he said, "Display your might so that you will never need to use it." We shall see that Napoleon III wanted also to ensure peace by preparing for peace. But public opinion at home and abroad made his task well-nigh impossible; and the bellicose mask he had to wear could no longer be torn from his face.

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In his military capacity — or incapacity — as in all things he was an undefinable blend. He had, paradoxically, many of the qualifications of the warrior. A n d the first of these is the vocation, which is another word for faith. The heir of the great conqueror, he believed implicitly that he was born a soldier for the same reason that he was born a prince. But it was faith without works; his only experience of army life, in his formative years, was as an officer in the Swiss militia. His knowledge in army matters was extensive, and not purely theoretical; his interest in armaments was actually keener and more enlightened than that of the first Napoleon. The uncle used with incomparable virtuosity the artillery of Gribeauval, which he inherited from the ancient regime; but he discouraged invention and experiment. The nephew looked forward and, against his conservative advisers, he promoted the breech-loader, the Chassepot rifle, the machine gun. His technical knowledge, however, did not prevent him from fumbling when he commanded peace-time maneuvers. He had no lack of physical courage; he could face a mob, an assassin, or, at Sedan, murderous enemy fire. But he had no dash; a gleam of bravado might have saved the day for him at Strasbourg in 1836. Not that a modern commander-in-chief needs to be a Murat or a Galliffet; physical energy counts only as the token of mental alertness. The mind of Napoleon III was complex, tortuous perhaps, and perhaps profound, but it was not swift. He could not improvise in the Assembly, and was derided by the glib; in the same way, in the Italian campaign, he had no flash of intuition, no capacity for sudden decision; his thought was geared to decades, not to minutes. At Magenta, without the excuse of age or disease, he was sluggish, almost paralyzed. When Frossard came with the news: "Sire, a glorious victory!" the queer "victor" could hardly credit his luck: " A n d I was going to order a retreat!" At Solferino, his day of glory, he had a clearer conception of the en-

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gagement; he did conceive and order the decisive move. But even then, he was well served by chance, and by the utter mediocrity of his opponent, Francis Joseph. We need not dwell on the tragedy of 1870; he was desperately sick, and commanded only in name. Above all, he was ünmilitary in his ineradicable gentleness. A true soldier may be kind at home, but in his profession, he must face cruel sacrifices unflinchingly. Napoleon I was no monster, but he could say in matter-of-fact tones: "I have an income of two hundred thousand men a year," and "What does a man like me care about a hundred thousand lives ?" Napoleon III was horrorstricken at the spectacle of the Italian battlefields; this was not squeamishness, but plain humanity. Magenta and Solferino made martial glory hateful to him; he gave his full support to Dunant, the founder of the Red Cross. At Sedan, a prolonged resistance, although hopeless, might have saved some of his prestige; but his one thought was to cut short the agony of his soldiers. An Emperor should be of sterner, perhaps of coarser, stuff. A character in Lesage's comedy Turcaret exclaims with a sneer: "Too kind! Too kind! What business had he then to go into business?" A philanthropist at the head of an army is a pathetic absurdity. But the personality of the Emperor does not suffice to account for the flaws and for the fate of his army. As we saw above, he was in active command only once, in 1859, and chance, unduly kind perhaps, gave him victory. Because the military pageant of the Empire ended in disaster sudden and irretrievable we are apt to believe that it was a sham from the very first. Clio is a capricious muse: Napoleon I abandoned his soldiers not once but four times, yet he retains his halo of invincibility; Sedan on the contrary is a stain which blots out all previous achievements. We are not in the least interested in rehabilitating the army of Napoleon III; our desire is to understand the man and his regime, and in that regime the army was the most conspicuous if not the

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most essential element. Sedan seems a final confirmation of the Victor Hugo-Kinglake thesis: the Empire was run by a band of middle-aged adventurers, well able to arrest deputies in their beds and to mow down innocent bystanders on the boulevards, but not equal to the stern ordeal of war. N o w the facts tell a different story. The shadow of "the crime of December" did not darken the military establishment. Among the military accomplices of Louis Napoleon in his Coup d'Etat, only Leroy de Saint-Arnaud was rewarded with a high command. He showed ability and courage in the Crimea, and died long before the issue of the campaign was decided. Magnan was not entrusted with a vital position. For Fleury, a younger man and a personal friend, the splendid elite regiment of the Guides was revived, and he was employed in diplomatic missions; but he never led an army. Under Louis X V , favoritism and the frivolity of Court life greatly hampered the efficiency of the high command. There was little of that blight under Napoleon III. Dashing young aristocrats like Galliffet and Massa were juniors, without influence upon organization or strategy. The great Bonapartist families were given safe and decorative charges, but not even Prince Napoleon was allowed to jeopardize a campaign, as his father, King Jerome, had done in Russia. It was rumored that, toward the end, a few generals, de Failly, Frossard, perhaps Le Bceuf, owed their promotion to their obtrusive piety and the influence of the Empress; but they can hardly be held responsible for the downfall. On the whole, the generals of the Second Empire won their rank through hard work and personal courage; men like Canrobert, MacMahon, Bosquet, Regnault de St. Jean d'Angely, Baraguey d'Hilliers, Cousin-Montauban in China, young Faidherbe in Senegal, were unquestionably fine officers. Pelissier was a truly great leader; Niel an excellent organizer. Three men were in supreme command in 1870: MacMahon and Bazaine in the field, Trochu in Paris. The

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regime cannot be blamed for selecting and trusting them. MacMahon had a long and glorious record; Bazaine had cruelly but efficiently driven the organized forces of Juarez out of Mexico; Trochu had a great reputation as a learned strategist. Not one of them was a "Court general"; MacMahon was known to be a Legitimist at heart, Trochu was not persona grata at the Tuileries, Bazaine, "our glorious Bazaine," was the favorite of the advanced opposition and was forced upon the Emperor by public opinion. The notion that, for eighteen years, the Empire was but a glorified Franconi circus is at best a wild caricature. All that glitters is not pinchbeck. We might be tempted to reverse the terms of the usual verdict: it was not the eighteen years of impressive success that should be considered as a fluke, but the final collapse in seven weeks. France was caught in the process of rearmament and reorganization, at the very hour which best suited her adversary. We shall see in our closing chapter that the responsibilities for the disaster were very widely divided, and that the republican opposition was far from guiltless. But such excuses, although they have their degree of validity, fail to meet the main issue. The chaos that prevailed in 1870 was no mere accident. A disorder hardly less profound had existed during the Crimean, the Italian, the Mexican campaigns. It is true that other armies, the British, the Russian, the Piedmontese, the Austrian, without counting the ragged bands of Mexico, were in even worse condition. Russia was loosely knit, and still semi-barbaric. Austria already deserved to be called "a ramshackle Empire," ever "one year, one army, one idea behind the times." Piedmont was a small country assaying a disproportionate destiny. The initial fumbling of England in land warfare is a cherished part of her tradition. The Second Empire had no such alibi; it was rich, it was modern, it was military. And, in all

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other fields, it was remarkably efficient. The bureaucracy might be heavy, but it functioned with smoothness. The financial policy might be daring, but it was not unsound; France, in 1871, was richer than Bismarck had dreamed. The gigantic public works of the time were carried out with rapidity and success. Showy at times, the achievements of the Empire were not shoddy; after three quarters of a century, the harbors, the viaducts, the monuments of the period stand with Roman solidity. By a curious contrast with the land forces, the navy was singularly up to date. Its share in distant expeditions — the Crimea, Syria, China, Mexico — was creditable. In technical improvements, it was ahead of its larger but more sluggish British rival. France had used floating armored batteries against Sebastopol years before the Merrimac and the Monitor. Dupuy de Lome built the first fast screw-propelled battleship of the line, Le Napoleon, and the first high-seas ironclad, the frigate La Gloire. The maladministration of the army was therefore not the symptom of a general disease, but an exception. Here is a baffling paradox: the most pampered of the services was also the worst. Our interpretation is that the army was paralyzed by the crushing memory of the First Empire. In all other realms, Napoleon III was himself — boldly modern and practical. In military matters, he was an epigone, or, in the less classical language affected by Victor Hugo, an ape. Glory may be a disastrous heritage. For this inner flaw of the Empire, history offers a clear precedent, and also a tragic later instance. Nearly half a century after Rossbach, the Prussian army was still basking in the triumph of Frederick the Great. Outwardly it preserved its fine discipline, but it was scattered like chaff at Jena and Auerstädt. Between the two World Wars, the French General Staff lived in the aura of Marshal Foch; their complacency was the chief cause of a second and far more crushing Sedan.

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T h e Empire that "stood for peace" was an original and vigorous regime; in its warlike aspect, it was an imitation, and feeble at the core. Most of the contemporaries were fooled. W h e n their eyes were opened, they swung stiffly round; and posterity imagined that the whole regime had been but a pretentious show. Even today, we find it hard to combat this counter-delusion. In the same manner, because there had been some exaggeration in propaganda between 1914 and 1918, a "lost generation" chose to believe that the case for the Allies and for Wilsonism was based entirely on audacious lies; public opinion has a way of poisoning itself with antidotes. The imperial army was better than its showing at Sedan would indicate; and the Second Empire was far better than its army. II

In March 1854,

on

the eve of the Crimean War, Napoleon III

said in his address to the Legislative Body: "I have gone as far as honor permitted me to go. . . . Europe knows that France is seeking no aggrandizement. . . . The era of conquests is over, and cannot return; for it is not by extending her territorial boundaries that a nation in our days can be honored and powerful; it is by placing itself in the lead of generous ideas, by causing everywhere the rule of law and justice to prevail." These words, which have the same ring as the Atlantic Charter, represented his earnest conviction and his hope. H e was not, like Alexander, Louis X I V , Frederick II, and Napoleon I, crazed with the spirit of conquest. Yet the record offers a very different picture. In eighteen years, the Empire waged three wars with major European powers, and in addition, sent three important expeditions overseas. T h e contrast between principles and performance is glaring. But the key to this contradiction is not to be found in mere

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cynicism, as in the case of Frederick II, who after completing his refutation of Machiavelli, grabbed Silesia against his solemn pledge. Napoleon III was committed to a democratic dogma, the doctrine of nationalities. To him, it was the very condition of permanent peace; but it was bound to disturb the status quo. This conception was in his mind when he spoke of "taking the lead in generous ideas" and "causing justice to prevail." Quieta non movere was to him not so imperious a command as Fiat justitia. The oppression of one people by another seemed to him an intolerable wrong. In this he was in full harmony with the romantic humanitarians of his time, with "Young Germany," with Mazzini's "Young Italy," with Michelet, with Proudhon. On the throne, and to the great scandal of his fellow sovereigns, he remained attached to the faith he had professed when he was a conspirator and a Utopian publicist. It is not for us to sneer: his ideal was essentially the same as Woodrow Wilson's principle of self-determination. If he had been understood and supported, his aims could have been achieved through peaceful readjustments. For that policy was for him neither a vague dream like the Grand Design which Sully ascribed to Henry IV, nor a selfish plan to be imposed by force, like the "New Order" of Bismarck and Hitler. He had a definite method in view which would have been a substitute for war. His constant desire was to convene a European Congress which, like that of Vienna, would have reorganized the continent, but with nationality instead of legitimacy as its guiding thought. In this he was frustrated by the diplomats of the old school, too "realistic" to believe in anything but sacro egoismo and the balance of power. The only Congress that Napoleon III was able to hold, at Paris in 1856, was a tribute to his material prestige but a defeat for his ideals: it achieved very little besides registering the paltry results of a senseless war. Thereafter, every suggestion for a

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Congress was rejected with ironical deference. Napoleon III was thwarted and derided, as Alexander of Russia had been, and as W o o d r o w Wilson was to be. A Congress was intended merely to raise and define the questions to be solved; but no Congress of Powers had any right to take the decision out of the hands of the ultimate judge, the people. National existence and political regime, according to his doctrine, should have the same foundation — the consent of the governed. T h e will of the people, in both domains, should be ascertained in the most direct fashion, through a plebiscite. T h i s method was applied w h e n Nice and Savoy were annexed to France. Napoleon III secured an ambiguous pledge that it would be used in Slesvig; but the pledge was not redeemed — under compulsion — for another fifty-five years. T r u e to his humanitarian democracy, Napoleon III was not a "nationalist" in the narrower sense of the term, "Ourselves alone."

A

nationality for h i m was a family within the Eu-

ropean community; he was first of all a good European.

His

economic conceptions, which w e shall examine in our next chapter, went beyond the frontiers of the country he ruled. Instead of the snarling autarkies w h i c h were to torment Europe between the two W o r l d Wars, he was looking forward to freer trade; and he had to impose his liberalism upon the French business world. In curious harmony on many points with Henri de Saint-Simon, 2 he had a Saint-Simonian faith in public works as factors of general prosperity; and he thought of them on an international scale. W h e n he was a prisoner at H a m , he grew interested in the pro2 C f . in particular: De la Reorganisation de la Societe Europeenne, ou de la necessite et des moyens de rassembler les peuples de l'Europe en un seul corps politique en conservant a chacun son independance nationale, par Μ. le Comte de Saint-Simon et par A. Thierry, son eleve (Octobre 1814), with an introduction and notes by Alfred Pereire and a preface by Henri Jouvenal (Paris, Les Presses frangaises, 1925).

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posed Nicaragua Canal. The Suez Canal was one of his favorite projects, and he promoted it against the stubborn opposition of England. The one solid achievement of the Paris Congress in 1856 was to create the Danube Commission for the improvement of that great European river. He favored the first Alpine Tunnel, under Mont Cenis, between France and Italy. He attempted to establish a universal monetary union. He made a start in 1865, with the "Latin Union," which comprised France, Italy, Belgium, and Switzerland. In 1867, in connection with the International Exposition, he summoned a monetary conference; again, he had to encounter the full force of British conservatism. He happened to be fully three-quarters of a century ahead of the safe-and-sound. His support of Henri Dunant, the founder of the Red Cross, was not sentimental and platonic; it required vision and courage. We find it hard to imagine today what difficulties this admirable institution had to conquer. The military resented it; Marshal Randon, Minister of War, declared that Dunant's Recollections of Soljerino was an attack on the honor of France. For conservative and "patriotic" officials everywhere, any international organization was anathema.3 The "gentle obstinacy" of Napoleon III again won the day. Cautiously but unswervingly he was striving for a new world order. Fraternal nationalities without national jealousies, self-determined, self-governing bodies within the European Commonwealth: such was the dream of 1848, and for three Bismarckian generations it seemed but the vainest of dreams. Conservative French historians, favorable on the whole to the home policies of Napoleon III, still condemn his "principle of nationalities" as a dangerous Utopia and the cause of all his disasters. Yet that ideal ' It was not until 1882 that the efforts of Clara Barton at last bore fruit, and that the American Congress ratified the Geneva Convention; there were isolationists in those days.

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was revived with apparent success within the Soviet Union; and it remains our hope for the Europe of tomorrow. Napoleon III expected irreconcilable opposition from those powers which were first of all "Empires" in the strict sense of that ambiguous term — loose masses of heterogeneous nationalities, held in subjection by a ruling race, a caste and a dynasty, Romanov, Habsburg, or Ottoman. In a democratic, scientific, industrial Europe, they were living fossils, impressive rather than formidable. They were weakened by their lack of organic unity, by their congenital sluggishness, by their paralyzing dread of modern thought. Already Greece had been emancipated; Napoleon III was most active in the creation of Rumania; the liberation of Italy, the resurrection of Poland, were part of the same program. But the realization of this plan, with the strict minimum of violence, demanded the close cooperation of all the progressive forces — the forward-looking, liberal nations — and, for Napoleon III, these were England, Piedmont, and Prussia. This was the foundation of his foreign policy. He sought to preserve the Entente Cordiale at any cost; as late as 1870, he was still counting on the Italian alliance; and until 1866, at any rate, his constant desire was for a friendly and active understanding with Berlin. In all these hopes, he was disappointed; England was a dubious friend, Italy a broken reed, Prussia a constant and determined enemy. It was a tragedy for Europe that no one was found, in England and in Prussia, generous and far-sighted enough to understand and to support his aims. But we cannot lay the blame altogether on the selfishness of British and Prussian statesmen. There was enough ambiguity about the very nature of his regime, and about the temper of the French people, to justify every suspicion. He knew England well; and, as a modern sovereign, he was deeply impressed with her economic development. He was aware that the Holy Alliance had never been popular in Britain, even

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among the staunchest conservatives; and he believed that, in continental affairs, England would always be found on the liberal side. So he deliberately sought England's friendship. T o do so demanded boldness. There was no trace of Germanophobia at that time in France, but Anglophobia was rampant; and was he not the devoted heir of England's captive, the "martyr" of St. Helena ? These prejudices he managed to conquer, in himself and in other Frenchmen. He won over the fiery Palmerston, an old enemy of France, Queen Victoria, and even Prince Albert. But these were personal victories; under a tone of acidulous or ironic courtesy, the policy of the English government was consistently anti-French; and English public opinion spurned even that diplomatic veil. From the contemporary numbers of Vunch, for instance, one might gather the impression that England and France were constantly on the eve of war. According to these cartoons — and to the solemn pages of Kinglake — Napoleon III entrapped England into the Crimean W a r simply to avenge a personal slight and to win respectability for his imperial swindle. John Bull did all the work, the French Frog claimed the glory. Because Napoleon III favored the union of the Danubian principalities, Moldavia and Wallachia, England opposed it. English opinion was overwhelmingly pro-Italian and anti-Austrian; yet as soon as Napoleon intervened, English diplomacy sought to hamper him at every step. T h e Druses of Lebanon were massacring the Maronites; the Sultan was unwilling to stop these outrages, and France, as the mandatory of Europe, had to send an expeditionary force; but Lord John Russell treated the Emperor as though he, and not the Druses, were the arch-criminal. At the time of the Polish insurrection, England refused to cooperate with France in the defense of that martyred nation. W e have already seen that in economic affairs, such as the proposed monetary union or the Suez Canal, England had but one guiding thought: whatever

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France advocated, right as it might seem, must infallibly be wrong. This bickering policy resulted from a strange but irresistible coalition of causes, some of them as ancient as the two countries themselves. There are now many orthodox Napoleon-worshippers in England, but in those days, the dread and horror inspired by the Corsican had not yet been fully exorcized. The Duke of Wellington, symbol of the great struggle, was still alive at the time of the Coup d'fitat. If a nephew of Adolf Hitler should proclaim himself German Führer some forty years from now, our sympathies might not be wholehearted. Then England was committed — and remained committed until 1939, alas! — to the balance-of-power fallacy. Whatever country appeared to dominate the continent had to be humbled, debellare superbos, so that England's rightful supremacy could not be challenged. It was constantly feared — and not without cause — that France might seek to annex Belgium, and England believed that she could not afford to have a great power in possession of the Belgian coast.4 A curious delusion: from the strategic point of view, it was not Antwerp or Ostend that mattered, but Dunkirk and Calais; but in diplomacy, formulae are all the more potent for being hollow. The completion of the Cherbourg naval base, the expansion and striking technical progress of the French fleet caused natural misgivings in a country destined to rule the waves. By the side of these stubborn and selfish prejudices, England's hostility to France had causes of a higher moral character. Liberty and Parliament were inseparable in English eyes, and the brutal fact was that, with the aid of the army, the President had dissolved the Assembly and destroyed the Constitution he had sworn to defend. Bagehot offered a less rudimentary interpretation of the There were also purely dynastic considerations; K i n g Leopold I of the Belgians was the kinsman and respected friend of both Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. 4

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Coup d'fitat: but it was dismissed as paradox or casuistry. British society had little use for the Republican and socialist refugees, but the second of December was none the less considered a crime. To be sure, a military man, Oliver Cromwell by name, had also been guilty of a coup d'etat; and Carlyle had recently (1845) turned him into a national hero. But Cromwell had one redeeming feature, like Frederick the Great he was a Protestant. The French Empire was not merely tainted in its origin and loose in its morals, worst of all, it was Papistical. The lucubrations of the Reverend Michael Paget Baxter, Louis Napoleon the Destined Monarch of the World, were not a mere oddity.5 Many thousand copies of his horrific prophecies were sold; and what he dared to put into lurid apocalyptic terms many an earnest soul believed in a blurred but obstinate fashion. There was a baleful Satanic aura about the mysterious figure at the Tuileries, and his number was that of the Beast. Back of it all, there was the deep-seated aversion of nineteenthcentury England for anything that savored of radicalism. The Second Empire, with its unconditional manhood suffrage and its plebiscite, might be in theory and practice more democratic by far than Westminster was in those days; but it was not a "settled government," one under which "Freedom slowly broadens down from precedent to precedent." And the same objection held against its foreign policy. What Napoleon III offered might be in harmony with the desire of liberal Englishmen, but he pro6

The very title is a pamphlet in itself: Louis Napoleon, the Destined Monarch of the World, Foreshown in Prophecy to confirm a seven years' Covenant with the Jews about seven years before the Millennium, and (after the resurrection of the Saints, and Ascension of Watchful Christians has ta\en place two years and from three to five wee\s after the Covenant) subsequently to become completely supreme over England and most of America and all Christendom, and to cause a great persecution of Christians during the latter half of the seven years, until he finally perishes at the descent of Christ, at the end of the War of Armageddon, about or soon after 1824 (19th thousand, 1867).

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posed it in the name of a general idea, and it involved revolutionary changes. T h e ruling caste in England — and it ruled almost without a challenge until the Second World W a r was well under way — kept true to the spirit that had deplored the victory of Navarino as an "untoward event": of course the end of Turkish misrule was devoutedly to be wished; but only by gradual steps, and not for a f e w centuries. Napoleon III, on the contrary, an incurable adventurer, seemed to have no reverence for the wisdom of prejudice, the inevitability of gradualness, and the sanctity of vested interests. Ill T h e difficulties with Italy were simpler, but no less insuperable. Louis Napoleon might be called an Italian patriot, even if he never was affiliated with the Carbonari. H e had fought for Italian liberty in his youth; he never espoused with the same ardor the cause of other oppressed nationalities such as Hungary or Poland. Not that there was anything Italian in his character: ethnic types are delusive myths, but if we admitted their existence, Louis Napoleon would have to be defined as a German rather than as a Latin. It simply happened that the Italian problem was to him an immediate reality, whereas the Polish and the Hungarian questions were but the corollaries of a principle. Napoleon I had, directly or through his lieutenants, ruled the whole peninsula; it was he w h o had created the magic term K i n g d o m of Italy; Hortense's brother, Eugene de Beauharnais, had been an excellent viceroy of that kingdom. Louis Napoleon believed that he was destined to abolish the treaties of Vienna; and that meant, among other things, driving the Austrians out of Italy. Immediately after the Coup d'fitat, he had publicly expressed his desire to help the Italian cause. A t the Congress of Paris, he tried in vain to have the problem considered. Romantic or melodramatic episodes, the

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all-too-obvious wiles of Countess de Castiglione, the bombs thrown by Orsini,6 neither hastened nor deflected the Emperor's purpose. In 1859, after a secret agreement with Cavour, he had his way at last: he waged war on Austria for the liberation of Italy. He entered Milan amid indescribable enthusiasm — one of the great moments in that strangely contrasted career. But the difficulties began immediately upon the lame armistice of Villafranca. He had rashly promised to free the country "as far as the Adriatic," and he had to stop far short of his goal; Venice remained in Austrian hands. Instead of unity, Italy was offered a loose scheme of federation under the presidency of the Pope. Napoleon's victories, we must remember, had been touch-and-go; the hardest part of his task, reducing the great quadrilateral of Austrian fortresses, remained ahead; Germany was arming on the Rhine. Italy's disappointment was unmeasured; in Turin, portraits of Orsini appeared in the shop windows. The oddly assorted protagonists of Italy's liberation, Victor Emmanuel, Cavour, Garibaldi, were sensible enough to recognize that Napoleon III had done his best, and that his intervention had been decisive. Minor difficulties were smoothed away. If Napoleon III ever had vague dreams of substituting his hegemony for that of Austria, by restoring the Murats in Naples and by making Prince Napoleon Grand Duke of Tuscany, this unspoken ambition remained the merest velleity. He secretly favored, while not only sanctioning at first, the union of Parma, Modena, Tuscany, Naples, and Romagna with the new kingdom. The annexa"Orsini's defender, Jules Favre, abandoned any thought of saving his client's life; he turned the whole trial into a plea for the Italian cause. This was strengthened by a direct and eloquent appeal by Orsini himself to the man he had attempted to kill. Aristocratic, fearless, a martyr to a great mission, Orsini became a popular hero in France. Even the Empress, no friend of Italian unity, was won over by Orsini, and wanted to visit him in his cell. Napoleon III undoubtedly wished to pardon him; but there had been too many innocent victims, and justice had to take its course.

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tion of Savoy to France was in agreement with the principle of nationality; that of Nice was more questionable; but both were confirmed by a plebiscite, and until Mussolini came to power, Italy never raised a serious protest against either. But the Roman question remained to poison the relations between the two countries. Napoleon III had a clear view of the situation. He knew that the spiritual power of the Papacy was not linked with the possession of a minor Italian principality. He was persuaded that the independence and dignity of the Pontiff would be sufficiently safeguarded if he retained sovereignty over a Papal Rome on the right bank of the Tiber. This was the solution adopted in the Lateran treaties of 1929. But Pius IX rejected any compromise, and the French Catholics followed him unhesitatingly. The Emperor felt that he could not break with the conservatives who, so far, had been the mainstay of his regime. As we have seen,7 the Roman question was not purely a religious symbol. So long as the French troops remained in Rome, the Emperor was still "the Savior of Society," the bulwark against revolution. Napoleon III must have been sorely tempted to take his stand openly with his cousin Prince Napoleon. But we must never forget that he was a "democrat" in the full sense of the term. His mission was to carry out not his personal views but the will of the people; and he was persuaded that the majority would not support him in a conflict with the Church. From i860 to 1870, he repeatedly tried to escape from the Roman trap. If he had preserved the mental and physical energy of his earlier years, he might have succeeded; one clear-cut sovereign will may go a long way to shape a nation's confused desires. But he was weary of strife; when he fell on the fourth of September 1870, the puzzle had not been solved. The Italians, who denied their aid in his hour of distress, cannot be accused of ingratitude. After i860, Napoleon III was no longer the generous ' Chapter V.

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ally who had defeated their Austrian oppressors; he was the foreign agent of international reaction who prevented them from entering their own capital. IV

In the case of Germany, the problem was considerably more tangled, and responsibilities even harder to assess. We repeat that in those days there was no Germanophobia in France, and, except among Prussians of the strictest observance, no deep Gallophobia in Germany. The liberals in both countries agreed in considering Prussia as the natural leader of a modern German nation. The French were still under the delusion which had made Frederick the Great popular in Paris; in the "enlightened despot," they chose to see the Philosophe rather than the unscrupulous conqueror. From 1814 to 1848, Europe had groaned under the Metternich system; Austria was a reactionary dynasty, not a living people; so it was to the King of Prussia that the democratic Frankfurt Parliament offered the imperial crown. This faith in Prussia may seem to us naive: but we must remember that a whole decade later, the Prussian Diet, in the name of the modern spirit, was stubbornly opposing Bismarck. Physically, intellectually, morally, Bismarck was the exact antithesis of Napoleon III. The two men met as friends; Bismarck's impressive bulk, his shrewd and caustic wit veiled in bluff heartiness, made him an oddity but also a favorite at the Tuileries. But cooperate they could not: they lived in two different epochs. Napoleon III saw the essential aims of Bismarck, the unity and greatness of Germany, and did not disapprove of them; but Bismarck, more rudimentary, utterly failed to understand Napoleon. Hence his contempt for the French Emperor: "from afar, something; near at hand, nothing"; "a great misunderstood incapacity." They were the incarnations of two incompatible conceptions. Bis-

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marck was a Romanticist; his loyalty to his liege and to him alone, his mystic belief in the sword, were frankly medieval. He belonged to the age of Wagner; in the industrial era, his dream of German glory was harking back to Barbarossa. Napoleon III had a realistic sense of the new world, the world which is still ours today. But the fossil had better cards than the forerunner, played a more unscrupulous game, and won the stakes to the applause of all good "realists." His triumph retarded by three-quarters of a century the normal evolution of Europe. But it would not do to make Bismarck alone responsible for the conflict. There was much more to Germany, and even to Prussia, than mere Bismarckism; a nobler leader might have crystallized the confused mass of German aspirations in a totally different way. Still it cannot be denied that all the questionable elements we call Bismarckism were there, waiting only for leadership. On the other hand, Napoleon III and his people did not stand unequivocally for Michelet's ideal — all nations free and equal within a fraternal Europe. Powerful individualities in high places do make a difference; the surface of events, at any rate, would not have been the same if Bismarck and Napoleon III had not reached supreme command. Yet the misunderstanding between France and Germany was not created by them, and it is doubtful whether it could have been dispelled by them; for the only cure was to be found in cool analysis, and dispassionate analysts are never entrusted with power. The conflict resulted from historical confusions which, on both sides, blurred and distorted the nationalistic principle. The Germans, divided into jealous petty sovereignties, were struggling toward some form of national unity, and in this they had the full sympathy of many French democrats, especially Napoleon III himself. But at the same time they were still haunted by the romantic ghost of the Holy Roman Empire. They could

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not make up their minds — they have not made up their minds even today — whether they desired to form a purely German family, among other national families, or to be the overlords of Central Europe. Thus the conception of German Reich was indefinitely extensible. It might mean every land where German culture prevailed; it might be all the countries where the Germans were a ruling minority; it might include the immense shadow of the old Empire; and even beyond those misty limits, it might reach for everything that the Reich would need to live, grow, and prosper. These Protean aspirations — a menace for all Europe — found their common symbol in the red, black, and gold of romantic Nationalism. Napoleon Ill's clear-cut doctrine of selfdetermination could not cope with this rich, organic, dynamic and turbid diversity, which appealed at times to the will of the people, at times to history, at times to philosophy, and constantly to sentiment. But Germany had no monopoly of "Metapolitics," if by that term we understand learned and passionate nonsense. The incurable disease of Hungary and Poland, for instance, is that they are at the same time present-day realities and dim gigantic memories; they will not allow the Arpads and the Jagellons to sleep in their graves. France — rational, realistic France — was not free from that blight; and Napoleon III, good European as he was, with a valid and definite principle to guide him, yet shared in the common delusion of his people. There also history was to blame — a history which claimed to be immemorial, but was in fact very recent. At the time of the Revolution, the French had convinced themselves that the Rhine was their "natural frontier." This boundary they had reached in 1795, and kept until 1813. They lost it as the result of Napoleon's defeat; but as late as 1870, they had never abandoned the hope that it should be theirs again. They were sincere in their con-

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demnation of "conquest." They did not seriously regret the precarious booty heaped by the Grand Empire until 1812 — the Illyrian Provinces, the Hanseatic cities, vassal rulers in Naples, Madrid, and Warsaw. But the left bank of the Rhine was different; although they had held it for so brief a period, they thought that it had always legitimately belonged to them, and that in 1795 they had at last come into their own. The Romanticists like Victor Hugo who were most friendly to Germany still insisted that France should recover "what God himself had given her." The conflict flared up fiercely in 1840; mediocre but ardent war songs by Becker and by Müsset were hurled across the Rhine. Thiers, with his defiant attitude, had rivaled one of Napoleon's achievements: he had made Germany one at heart, united in the defense of the common Fatherland. The peace-at-any-price policy of Louis Philippe and Guizot caused a lull; but that policy, resented by the French, was one of the reasons why the bourgeois monarchy fell in February 1848. The election of Louis Napoleon proved, among other things, that France had never accepted the Diktat of Vienna, ratified by a government of Quislings. Louis Napoleon's reassuring words at Bordeaux, "The Empire stands for peace," were received with misgivings by the advanced elements. "Does that mean," growled Proudhon, "that we are endorsing the treaties of Vienna?" Note that peasant and bourgeois, in their secret heart, wanted peace as much as Louis Philippe ever did. But they wanted a "peace with honor," in other words a tacit capitulation under a blare of defiant bugle calls. So true it is that in every national spirit there is a blend of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza! A similar ambiguity prevailed in the mind of Napoleon III. He was no firebrand. He believed in peace; he believed in democracy, or the consent of the governed, as the foundation of permanent peace. But he had made it part of his mission to avenge

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Waterloo and tear up the hated treaties. He could not bring himself openly to renounce the "natural frontiers" fallacy. So Europe, and particularly Belgium and Germany, were in constant dread of his aggressive ambition. The annexation of Nice and Savoy, harmless in itself, seemed the indication of an unswerving purpose. Today the Alps; tomorrow the Rhine. The "purpose" was a phantom; but a phantom can be most effective in creating a scare. So far as Belgium was concerned, the "purpose" did exist, at least as a velleity, and there was some excuse for it. Belgium, subjected in turn to Spain, Austria, France, and Holland, had never been free until 1830; and at that time the liberal bourgeoisie, which seemed entitled to speak for the whole nation, had desired union with France. The veto of England, not the will of the people, had prevented that Anschluss. The Rhine provinces were a different affair. Napoleon III knew Germany too well to believe that Aixla-Chapelle and Cologne wanted to become French. Had he followed his own principle, the problem would have ceased to exist. Yet, taunted by the opposition, he made half-hearted demands for "compensations," begging with feeble threats for what Bismarck bluntly called "tips." He thus accepted the two very worst guides in diplomacy, "balance of power" and "prestige." The result was one humiliation after another. Germany could not abandon even a few thousands of her sons in order to appease a saber-rattling neighbor and strengthen his rule at home. She knew that every concession, instead of satisfying France, would simply revive the impossible demand for the whole left bank of the Rhine. With every pretension, with every rebuff, irritation grew. If Napoleon III desperately needed prestige, so did Bismarck. In order to overcome local jealousies he had to show himself the uncompromising defender of the German heritage. Yet the worst peril, the Luxemburg affair, was safely overcome. In the early summer of 1870,

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it could be said that "there was not a cloud in the sky." We know how delusive was that apparent calm. Napoleon III, the forerunner of Wilson, was in advance of French public opinion and centuries ahead of Bismarck. But his share of blame is heavy, for he equivocated with his own thought. The principle of nationalities, followed in simple honesty, would never have led to Sedan. But the heir of Napoleon the Great attempted to combine his peace ideal with the trappings of military glory. The pageantry of Empire did not seem an empty show; Europe resented it as a perpetual menace. The very brilliancy of the spectacle was a cause of weakness; not unreasonably, the opposition believed that the imperial army was exceedingly strong. So, as we shall see, Republicans and Liberals were at the same time urging a spirited foreign policy and refusing their support to the very measures which might have made that policy reasonably safe. Unfortunately, for fifteen years at least, Napoleon III as a military ruler bluffed Europe and France; it is pretty certain that, long before the end, he was no longer bluffing himself; and he did not fool Bismarck.

CHAPTER IX SAINT-SIMON ON HORSEBACK T H E E C O N O M I C A N D S O C I A L P O L I C Y O F N A P O L E O N III II faut blique, annee, entend

T

admettre en ce pays un essor soudain de pareil ä celui de la Renaissance ou du siecle on a fait 3000 kilometres de chemins de mieux la France et son siecle qu'aucun de H . T A I N E , Carnets de Voyage

la prosperite pude Colbert. Cette fer. L'Empereur ses predecesseurs. . . . 1863-1865

H E economic and social policies of Napoleon III are no less perplexing than his management of foreign affairs. Here again we find inner conflicts concealed for many years under the veil of apparent success; the reconstruction of the great cities, the display of material progress and almost insolent wealth at the Exposition of 1867 were more than a match for the impressive Congress of Paris in 1856, or for the triumphal return from the Italian campaign. Here again we believe that, deeper than all contradictions, there ran a steady purpose, which belonged to the Emperor alone. And in this case also, the guiding principle is "dark only with excess of light." Louis Napoleon expressed it early, repeatedly, and in plain, unmistakable terms. Dreamers and profiteers, doctrinaires of the Right and doctrinaires of the Left, stubbornly refused to listen; but, after nearly a hundred years, the gentle, persistent voice can still be heard. Just as the keyword of the First Empire was Glory, that of the Second was Prosperity; for two generations, the "good times" under Napoleon III were remembered. But there are two preliminary problems that demand elucidation. The first is, was that

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prosperity genuine ? The second, if we admit that it was real, to what extent was it due to the regime and to the ruler ? The stock expression comes to our mind again, "the gaudy Empire." It cannot be denied that there was in imperial Paris, particularly during the last few years, a glaring element of parvenu display. The heavy gold service that appeared on the Tuileries table was ruolz — not solid, but plated; Charles Garnier's Opera, the architectural masterpiece of the time, was dazzling with gilded bronze and marbles of many colors. It is a truism that we should not be duped by appearances; but we often forget that the caution should work both ways. The drab is not always the good; conspicuous waste may be a sign of genuine wealth; a garish taste is not incompatible with solidity. The barocco churches of Italy and Southern Germany are no less ostentatious than the most questionable buildings of the Second Empire; the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles is as resplendent as the Foyer of the Grand Opera; Bismarck did not lose his narrow vigor of mind and his iron will because he could dress up, magnificently and absurdly, as a white Cuirassier; and if a touch of meretriciousness were sufficient to damn a period, the reign of Queen Victoria would stand condemned with the gorgeous Albert Memorial. There have been civilizations in which the fabulous luxury of a court stood out brutally against the distress of the masses. This was true of India, of Tsarist Russia, and, not so glaringly, of Mexico under Porfirio Diaz. Such was not the condition of France under the Second Empire. Not only the cosmopolitan adventurers at the Tuileries and in the Faubourg Saint Honore, but the nobility old and new, Parisian and provincial society, the professions, the staid traditional bourgeoisie, the newer classes of industrialists and business promoters, all were caught in the same whirl. Even the masses had their popular theatres and their cafes. We are quite willing to denounce much of this luxury as vulgar; at any

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rate, it was very generally spread; and Puritans could accuse the regime of corrupting, but not of impoverishing, the whole nation. But luxury was only one of the signs of a general activity. If the onyx stairway of La Pai'va's residence in the Champs-Elysees attained a succes de scandale, there was in the same years an enormous amount of slum clearance, and great parks were created for the poor. It is hardly fair to consider an international center of pleasure and display like the Paris Opera as the only valid symbol of the whole period. The Emperor ordered that the reconstruction of the Opera should be kept behind that of the General Hospital, or Hotel-Dieu. In the same captious spirit, critics denounced the concessions at the Exposition of 1867, and overlooked the main exhibits, admirably organized by Le Play. And while Garnier's triumph of the lavish and ornate has been pastiched all over the world, Baltard's Central Market, les Halles, a model of economy and "functionalism," has likewise served as a universal pattern. Everywhere in Paris, in provincial France, in Algeria, the true monuments of the Second Empire are its public works. There had been in French history moments of artificial stimulation which could give an impression of fevered prosperity: the time of the Mississippi Bubble, a hectic flare under Calonne on the eve of the Revolution, the phosphorescence of the Thermidorian reaction and the early Directoire. They did not go deep, and they did not last long. The Second Empire lasted for eighteen years. Karl Marx said in 1852: "To the four million official paupers, vagabonds and prostitutes that France numbers must be added five million souls that hover over the precipice of life. . . . " 1 If there be any truth in this gloomy picture, it would be the best justification of the Second Empire, for certainly there was no misery on that scale in 1870. Business was grumbling as usual, 1

Karl Marx: The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, translated by Daniel de Leon (Chicago, 1917), p. 150.

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and the opposition jeered at "the fantastic accounts of Haussmann." 2 But the country was soon to give a striking proof of its substantial wealth. Sedan came, but in the economic field there was no Sedan. The invasion was destructive, as things went in those simpler days; Gambetta's heroic resistance was reckless of cost; the Commune and the repression of the Commune added to the crushing burden; Bismarck exacted five billion francs, assured that France would be bled white for a generation. Within two years, France had liberated herself. The Assembly solemnly praised Thiers for that achievement. Thiers did but organize the modes of payment; the riches which made that miraculous recovery possible had been accumulated under Napoleon III; and for nearly a decade, France remained wealthier than her conqueror. The Second Empire was not favored with miraculous luck. Immediately after the Coup d'fitat, there was a unanimous feeling of confidence and hope; yet the first few years were by no means easy. In addition to the Crimean war, there were disastrous floods, poor crops, a near famine, and an epidemic of cholera; in 1854 and 1855, for the first time in the century, more deaths were registered than births. To the end, the Empire had to contend with economic troubles not of its own making. There was a disease of the silkworms, and at that time France was producing a notable proportion of the silk needed by the weavers of Lyons. The vine, one of the great assets of the country, suffered from two blights — first the oidium, then the phylloxera. The American Civil War disturbed the cotton trade. Mexico engulfed men and goods without return. Yet there were no signs of impoverishment. But these, although very real, were after all minor difficulties. We have no desire to ignore the dominant fact: the sudden ex2

Les Comptes Fantastiques d'Haussmann (Paris, 1868), by Jules Ferry, a punning allusion to Hoffmann's Tales, Les Contes Fantastiques d'H offmann.

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pansion of industry was at that time transforming the face of the world. It happened under Napoleon III; it was not created by Napoleon III; his regime, at its proudest moment, was but a cork bobbing on an irresistible stream. In this we firmly concur. If history be written on a scale vast enough — and it may be the only scientific manner of writing history— personalities and individual events disappear altogether. Napoleon I has long ceased to be a living influence; he survives only as the hero of a colorful legend. Our successors will be able to describe the evolution of our century without mentioning Lenin or Hitler. What matters is the trend, not the eddy. But if we are writing on a human scale, in terms of the experience of living men — perhaps in the hope of helping living men in their present perplexities — then individuals and accidents acquire great significance. The "industrial revolution" began before James Watt, and its possibilities are not yet exhausted; within that vast cycle, the foresight, the determination, the blind obstinacy, the frivolous ignorance of actual leaders were of vital importance. We may call the period 1830-1930 the century of the railroads; Thiers, the embodiment of bourgeois common sense, sneered at the new invention; Lamartine had a prophetic vision of its possibilities; it was not a matter of indifference that before 1848 and after 1870 France was ruled by the congeners of Thiers. The stream itself does not care whether you are pulling with it or against it; to you, it means wasted efforts, frustration, defeat, or the full enjoyment of increasing powers. Ultimately, wars do not count; they are but the useless friction caused by resistance to "the wave of the future"; but, in our brief generation, how much blood, sweat, and tears would be spared if we were able to determine the path of the wave! Now, it is our contention that Napoleon III had, as no French ruler before, that sense of the future; a sense which was not Uto-

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pian, not even prophetic, but practical; a sense which impelled him to steer, and not simply to resist or to drift. The transformation of Paris, his personal conception, may serve again as a symbol. In eighteen years, he achieved much more in this field than all the regimes since the downfall of the old monarchy. After 1870, the work was slowed down; by 1940, his original plan had not yet been fully carried out; and we are convinced that, if his spirit had continued to prevail, that plan would not have remained static, but would have been expanded to meet changing conditions. Yet, incomplete and faulty, it was so nobly conceived that, after half a century, it was still adequate. The administrators of Paris today would be well inspired to say, not "Back to Napoleon I I I ! " but "Forward with Napoleon I I I ! " In the same manner, we feel that his whole social plan, like his scheme for the reconstruction of Europe, could still be our starting point. There are manifestoes issued at present, with a bold and confident ring, 3 which to the student of European history evoke the far-off, half-forgotten and derided spirit of 1848; and of that spirit Napoleon III was the servant. T o test our own aspirations, it may not be amiss to measure his achievement and probe the causes of his failure. II

The essential point about Napoleon III is that he was a Socialist. This ought to be a truism: he said so himself; friends and enemies concurred. The English editor of his pamphlet on The Extinction of Pauperism remarks: "It will be apparent that this project is only a modification of Socialism or of Communism (we are hardly clear which is which), and as such repugnant to all sound principles of political economy and the dictates of common 3

1 am thinking in particular of "The Price of Your Freedom," by Vice-President Henry A. Wallace, with its seven-point Bill of Duties; The American Magazine, July 1941.

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sense." 4 According to Karl Marx, Guizot, the profound philosopher of history, "characterized the Second of December as the complete and final triumph of Socialism."

5

T h e reader will re-

member the dictum ascribed to Napoleon III: " T h e Empress is a Legitimist; Morny is an Orleanist; my cousin Napoleon is a Republican; I am a Socialist; there is but one Bonapartist among us, Persigny, and he is crazy." Discount the definite, epigrammatic f o r m ; the substantial truth of the story has never been challenged. T h e problem is to agree upon what is meant by Socialism. W a s it not Sir William Harcourt, last of the old Whigs, who asserted " W e are all Socialists n o w " ?

The socialism of Napoleon III is

not hard to define. It was not Utopian, and it was not doctrinaire (or if you prefer, it was not scientific).

Doctrinaire and Utopian,

by the way, are strangely akin. Both imply a radical change in human conditions, due to the discovery of a new principle; the Utopian imagines, the doctrinaire prophesies; each in his fashion is revealing eternal verities. Socialism with him was more than a sentiment, for sentiment revels in its own beauty, or at best gluts itself on charity. It was a tendency, that is to say, an incentive to action, and a guide. There are two kinds of government, the negative and the positive. T h e first is a police for the protection of vested interests, the second an agent for collective progress. Both the conservatives and the laissez-faire liberals take the negative attitude. T h e only difference is this: for the conservatives, or pessimists, repression is an essential function; the police performs a sacred duty; according to Joseph de Maistre, society reposes ultimately upon the executioner. For the liberals, or optimists, the police is but a temporary evil. Napoleon III was committed to the positive side, the gov4 Political and Historical Wor\s of Louis Napoleon Bonaparte (London, 1852), II, 94. 5 Karl Marx, The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, tr. by Daniel de Leon (Chicago, 1917), p. 140.

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ernment as an agent of collective progress. In his mind, the first concern of the State was "to improve the moral and material condition of the most numerous and poorest class." 6 The second step is even more definite, but much harder to appraise. The good of the community demands confidence, security, order. Ay, there's the rub: to many, who deem themselves good citizens, the word order has a sinister ring. It evokes at once the shadow of traditional Bonapartism: the rule of a Super-Policeman, with his staff of generals, bishops, and prefects, mounting guard round the money bags. But does the defense of order inevitably mean the protection of privilege ? And is stability synonymous with stagnation? The despised Metternich system posed as the champion of order; it was aptly summed up in the phrase "Quiet is the burgher's first duty." This implies a moral and physical passivity, alien to the progressive and somewhat venturesome temper of the Second Empire. What Napoleon III would have said — and did say in almost every one of his addresses — was "The immediate duty of the State is to curb violence." Every government, autocratic or liberal, must be a government, or abdicate; and the function of a government is first of all to enforce the law, that is to say, to put down lawlessness. The debate between "legitimate resistance to oppression" and "respect for the law" is a very tangled one, and we have no absolute criterion to offer. Every one of us, looking over the record of history, favors in some instances the rebels, in other cases the constituted authorities. There are "great and glorious revolutions" which challenged an "order" identified with injustice. The cost is heavy, but it is injustice that must bear the blame. "The most dangerous enemy of his country," said Louis Napoleon himself, "This formula belongs to Saint-Simon; but its equivalents, particularly "the welfare of the masses," are found in many speeches of the Prince-President and Emperor. We have already quoted Queen Hortense's conception of Napoleon I: ". . . his chief purpose had always been to uplift the masses. . . ."

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"is the man who makes a revolution necessary." But the purpose of a revolution is not to abolish the concept of law; it is to create, or to restore, a more natural order, a more legitimate law. In the contest between revolt and the forces of an organized government, we cannot assume that insurgency is inevitably the nobler cause; there is no such thing as the divine right of the barricades. If Cavaignac, who was a staunch Republican, shot down the working men of Paris in June 1848, it was not because they were democrats but because they were violently challenging democratic law. In this case, and in the case of the Commune in 1871, there had been criminal clumsiness on the part of the government before the outbreak, and there was criminal ferocity in the repression. Still, although our feelings are divided, we are compelled to recognize that the law had to prevail. The Bolsheviks came into power because the Kerensky government, committed to a suicidal war policy and undermined by White disloyalty, was unable to maintain order. The first step of the Soviets after their hard-won victory was not to proclaim the glorious anarchy of the Golden Age, but to create a discipline compared with which the sternest measures of Napoleon III were idyllic. We have discussed this point before, and we shall have to dwell upon it again, for it is the very center of his enigmatic career. We are not attempting to disprove the existence of Napoleon III the Policeman; what we are seeking to establish is that Napoleon III the Policeman was not in contradiction with Napoleon III the Socialist. Socialism is first of all an orderly society, and the first step toward Socialism is the restoration of order. We remember that in London, at the time of the great Chartist demonstration, he offered himself as a special constable, although his sympathies were most probably on the Chartist side. We must add that we are attempting to interpret the sovereign himself, not every one of the five, seven, or eight million voters who chose and endorsed him in

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1848,1851,1852, and 1870. A m o n g them, it is manifest that many thought of material order more exclusively than he did. There was throughout rural France, after June 1848, a tidal wave of anger against les partageux, the "share-the-wealth" people. In the campaign literature that prepared the Coup d'fitat, a pamphlet, "The Red Specter," has remained a b y w o r d ; 7 and in 1870, the solid peasant masses swamped the vote of the cities and supported the Empire because they were afraid of revolution and civil war. N o doubt Napoleon III had the backing of reactionary elements. But we contend that this fails to tell the more important part of the story. W e must repeat that if France had voted in an agony of resentment and fear, it is Cavaignac, the Butcher of June, the ruthless Savior of Society, who should have been elected in December 1848. In the complex triumph of Louis Napoleon, it is hard to analyze the share of the imperial heir, the policeman, the promoter of prosperity, the social reformer. A t any rate, it was upon the constructive aspect of his program that Louis Napoleon constantly insisted, not upon the restrictive. W e have seen that for a whole year before the Coup d'fitat, he engaged in an open dual with the Legislative Assembly and carried the debate before the people. He thus separated himself from "the Party of Order" in the narrower sense. He complained that, supported by the deputies whenever he had to take repressive action, he was thwarted every time he attempted to do anything for the welfare of the masses. T h e line was clearly drawn. W e believe that his paper Le Dix Decembre (June 5, 1849) gave a true interne

Spectre

Rouge

year before L'Ere

de 1852 ( 1 8 5 1 ) , by A u g u s t e Romieu. H e had written the

des Cesars; both w o u l d be timely today: w e have not improved

on their anti-democratic virulence.

Romieu was a caricature of Bonapartism at

its worst — ruthlessness coupled w i t h levity. H e was first of all a humorist, and sought modest f a m e in light literature — farces, songs, and gastronomy.

These

efforts are forgotten; but his mystifications and practical jokes have become legendary. T h e cream of the jest is that he became an important official personage; he was a Prefect under the stodgy bourgeois reign of Louis Philippe.

Carpeaux

LA DANSE

Pans: IS Opera

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pretation of his election when it declared: "In raising him to the highest position, France said: Ί want order . . . but I want that all those who suffer may have reason to hope.'" W e have been attempting to show that a leader could be at the same time a champion of order and a socialist. W e are now venturing a bolder paradox: namely, that a true socialist may also seek to foster prosperity. A n y regime that deliberately attempts to increase wealth is open to the charge of materialism, and is apt to be called, as the Second Empire was, a Paradise for Profiteers. A monastic, Spartan, Rousseauistic, or Tolstoyan ideal of simplicity is undoubtedly attractive, especially to those who admire it from afar; still, we wonder whether any modern government has avowed virtuous impoverishment as its goal. If "Share the wealth" be the essence of socialism, surely creating wealth is at least as important as dividing it. The Second Empire took pride in the expansion of riches. Its reports on national progress had almost the same lyric note as the great ode by Alfred, Lord Tennyson: "Fifty years of ever-expanding commerce!" With this tone we are familiar enough: it is that of our Chambers of Commerce. But the optimism of our Boosters' Clubs sounds dull and lifeless compared with the lyric clangor of Soviet statistics. The USSR glories in the fact that it is creating wealth at an unprecedented rate; but for the war, the gigantic increase in production facilities would have been turned into consumers' goods, that is to say into comfort and even luxury. Prosperity is not invariably the enemy of the people. There is a difference. The Soviets, assuming control of an utterly ruined community, had to start from the bottom and attend to the most elementary, the most pressing needs of the masses; as in a besieged city, conspicuous waste became a crime. Napoleon III, taking hold of a country which was bewildered, dispirited, sluggish, but unravaged, healthy, and at peace, did not have to

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use such drastic methods. His socialism could be progressive, not apocalyptic. But it was genuine socialism, that is to say, genuine concern with the welfare of the most numerous and poorest class; and his policy, social in its intent, was also social in its methods. For although he was ready to leave the freest field to individual initiative, he was resolutely opposed to laissez faire. Government, according to him, was not an "ulcer," but an instrument for the common good. He believed in organization and planning. This conviction he had expressed in his pamphlet, On the Extinction of Pauperism (1844). This little work, much briefer than its political counterpart, On Napoleonic Ideas, is also, in our opinion, far less able. Still, it presents, sketchily yet definitely enough, two pregnant ideas, land utilization and the organization of labor. Briefly, his plan was to take over six out of the nine million hectares 8 of uncultivated land, and settle on them colonies of the unemployed, financed by a loan of three hundred million francs from the State. The colonists would be supervised by foremen or prucThommes elected by themselves, one for every ten; these would be the non-commissioned officers of the labor army. For an army it would be, living on the rough, cheap, and healthy level of army life. Above the prud'hommes, there would be technical directors and a governor. Every year, the governors would meet in Paris, to prepare their plans with the Minister of the Interior. These settlements would not be purely agricultural. They would produce manufactured goods for their own consumption. It was not expected that the colonists would remain permanently in the "collectives." Normally, they would be reabsorbed by free industry. They would form a reserve army of labor, living under decent conditions, doing fairly useful and therefore self-respecting work, establishing a minimum standard below which private enterprise could not fall. This crude scheme of a hundred years 8

One hectare = about two and a half acres.

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ago reminds us of many contemporary proposals and organizations, the C C C , the P W A , and most of all perhaps Upton Sinclair's E P I C plan. In spite of elaborate and impressive figures, it is difficult to believe that in an old country like France the State could take the worst land, turn it over to the worst workmen (at best not trained agriculturists), and expect to make the scheme self-supporting and even profitable. Louis Napoleon relied on the economy of semi-military life, and the greater efficiency of large-scale production. In this his colonies resembled the Sovkhozes and Kolkhozes of present-day Russia. H a d Louis Napoleon been a mere publicist, this slim pamphlet would have attracted scant notice; in the same line of thought, Louis Blanc, for one, had done far more serious work. But the author happened to be a Pretender; the little book stamped him as a socialist. A s soon as he had a free rein, in 1852, he started a program of activities quite in the spirit of his proposals of eight years before. L i k e Mussolini, he drained marshes, in Sologne for instance; in the Landes, the eighteenth-century plans of Chambrelent and Bremontier, long neglected, were carried out with energy, and the shifting sand dunes were planted with pines. T h e work was seldom spectacular; but in every rural district some progress was accomplished. Between the Second Empire and the July Monarchy or the Third Republic there was a decided difference in tension; from the "dreamer" at the Tuileries there seemed to radiate a constant flow of energy. in Napoleon III was the elect of the small farmers, and he did his best for them. England, through Free Trade, deliberately sacrificed agriculture to manufacturing and commerce; the Emperor of the French did nothing so radical. H e was attempting to keep

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a balance between the different elements of national prosperity; he refused to commit himself to a purely agrarian policy. H e understood that the modern world was to be essentially industrial. In the course of many centuries, the best land had been tilled by the hard-working peasants of France; in that domain, there was no room for sudden expansion. The methods of cultivation could certainly be improved, but in many cases, technical progress would reduce the need for human labor. Already, under the Empire, in many country districts the population was decreasing, and the eternal cry of the conservatives "Back to the land!" was futile. Not for three or four decades would the urban population actually overtake the rural; but the trend was manifest, and the thought of Napoleon III dwelt in the twentieth century. In 1852, he read the future of France more clearly than Premier Meline in 1896, or Marshal Petain in 1940: if France remained attached to an economy of peasant proprietors, her destiny would be irremediable decadence. His chief interest was industry.9 That interest was not purely intellectual, it was intimate. Napoleon III felt that, as a Bonaparte, he ought to be a soldier; but he never was fully convincing as a military man. His patronage of the arts was perfunctory, and less disastrous because of that very indifference than the aggressive Philistinism of Louis Philippe. In modern England, even radical leaders fancy themselves as country squires, and Mr. Lloyd George, like a character in P. G . Wodehouse, is proud of his prize-winning pigs. Napoleon III never played that bucolic role. His heart was not in any of these; it was in industry. His very hobbies were mechanical. F. A . Simpson, a sincere admirer, but a don of the old school, makes gentle fun of him as the White Knight of Lewis Carroll, surrounded with gadgets, all of his own invention. When he died, he was " Appropriately enough, the first large public building erected under his reign was the lumpy but honest Palais de l'lndustrie.

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working on an economical stove for the poor. Jules Verne, who anticipated so much of our modern world, found his path and wrote his best books under the Second Empire; there was a Jules Verne, or, if you prefer, an H. G. Wells in Napoleon III — a romanticist whose dreams were of the future, not of the past, and translated themselves into terms of engineering.10 France had long achieved fame in the arts and crafts; at no time more brilliantly than in the exquisite eighteenth century. Industry, on the contrary, was comparatively new; and although not alien, it seemed uncongenial. The days of the good artisan, who loved his trade and his tools, who created an individual piece of work for an individual and appreciative purchaser, have not vanished altogether. But the bulk of our goods will have to be machine-made, and the machine demands different methods and a different ideology. This is not yet fully realized even by responsible leaders. The cultural lag is a universal phenomenon: in England, business men are proud to assume feudal titles, and industrialists pose as gentlemen farmers; in America, great engineers cling to the economy of The Village Blacksmith·, they belong to the eighteenth century, and in some cases to the fifteenth. Napoleon III realized quite simply that, by its very nature, modern industry is collectivistic. It implies the necessary cooperation of the many to serve the needs of the many. It is perfectly possible to conceive of socialism, and especially of communism, without machine production: primitive tribes, and the Christians of the apostolic age, are examples in point. But it is impossible to conceive of an industrial age founded on sheer individualism. In the early nineteenth century, Parisians had water brought up to their lodgings at a few cents a pail by independent carriers, 10

Cf. Jules Verne, a Biography (London: The Cresset Press, 1940), by Kenneth Allott: not a monograph about a prolific writer of juvenile fiction, but a penetrating study in cultural history.

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usually robust Auvergnats; in the latter half of the same age, water was piped to each apartment, and the rugged individualist who trudged up four flights of stairs with his few gallons was doomed to disappear. This revolution in technique was collectivistic. It mattered comparatively little whether the management of the waterworks was entrusted to a purely "capitalistic" company, to a company closely associated with the city, or directly to the city itself. Only doctrinaires will maintain that a single abstract principle must prevail, either rigid coordination, which is totalitarianism, or absolutely free competition, which is anarchy. But, in the necessary adjustment between the two, the machine caused a definite shift; in the economic field, collectivism became the norm. Napoleon III, who had a steady purpose but no hard and fast doctrine, did not much care which form this indispensable collectivism would assume. He encouraged and subsidized the cooperative system; but he knew that it could not be imposed upon consumers or producers, and the French, on the whole, failed to respond. He was not afraid of State Capitalism, or direct operation by the government: if officials could conduct such vital and intricate "big businesses" as the army, the navy, education, the postal service or public works, was it absurd that they should be able to run a mine or a railroad ? But he accepted also as a genuine form of collectivism the corporation, created under the State, supervised by the State in the interest of the community. It represented a definite step away from strictly private property, jus utendi et abutendi, "I can do what I please with my own." Of this pragmatic attitude, his railroad policy was a clear example. It was nonsense to consider railroads as purely personal concerns; individuals could not build them and operate them with the same sturdy independence as Auvergnats carried their water buckets. T h e fiction that railroads should be left entirely to pri-

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vate initiative and unlimited competition simply led to an orgy of speculation, for any one could start a railroad — on paper. Napoleon III consolidated the innumerable lines into six regional systems, with a ninety-nine-year franchise, a minimum dividend guaranteed by the State, and definite responsibilities to the State. It was easy to pass from these six semi-public corporations to a single "National Company," still capitalistic in form; and from that to direct operation by government officials. The collectivistic revolution came with the railroads themselves, not with the change in their administrative set-up.11 P. J. Proudhon called this policy "a new feudalism"; he was not wrong. But we must consider that feudalism in theory was superior to the eighteenth-century notion of absolute individual ownership. In good feudal doctrine, no one possessed anything outright: authority, which was not clearly distinguished from property, was simply delegated; it conferred privileges, but it entailed obligations. The system — if it ever was a system at all — had become fossilized long before the end of the ancient regime, and deserved to be swept away; but its long-forgotten principle, encrusted with absurdities and abuses, could be revived and prove fruitful under modern circumstances. In that sense, every concessionnaire is indeed a vassal, and he may have vassals in his turn, sub-concessionnaires and contractors. The \ol\hoz also is akin to a fief. The profit motive is not denied, but it is held in definite subordination to the common good. Of this general interest, the sovereign, whatever his title may be, remains the supreme guardian. In such a spirit, and with such a method, industrial enterprise proceeded with an enthusiasm which was clearly lacking under Louis Philippe, and which waned under the Third Republic. The loss of momentum after Sedan is undeniable. Just as, in many 11

T h e Second Empire formula was practically adopted by England in 1921, as as aftermath of the first World War.

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parts of France, we come across churches which were left uncompleted because the medieval dream had faded, so we find many great projects which remained mere indications because the Empire fell. The engineer w h o created the modern sewers and water supply of the capital, Belgrand, had a very practical plan for making Paris a seaport. In 1940, after seventy years of petit bourgeois rule, the scheme was still held in check by a coalition of private interests. In a boundless and untamed land such as America was in the nineteenth century, individualism could mean pioneering and be a creative force; in an old and small country like France, individualism shrank to anxious self-protection — "Let every one stay at home and mind his own business" — a perfect recipe for stagnation. The collective sense, the social sense, required an organ. The imperial power was not the ideal solution; but it was a workable solution, and the need was undeniable. Planning on a large scale and at long range required a revolution in finance, nothing less than the substitution of credit for thrift as the most efficient method of meeting the cost of a new enterprise. This is so familiar to us now that we hardly realize what a radical change it involved in the thought and habits of the French people. The peasant and petit bourgeois ideal had been: spend a little less than you earn; with the hoarded pennies, buy another field, another house, another government bond; the key to wealth is abstemiousness. A s a result, investors were struck with congenital and hardened timidity. The constant trickle of small savings was absorbed by small enterprises; and these had to be safe beyond the least doubt, for it would be criminal to endanger the fruit of so much toil and such long privations. John Law, early in the eighteenth century, had revealed the magic of credit; but he was only a 'prentice wizard, soon drowned by the flood of paper riches he had evoked and could not control.

A

hundred and fifty years afterwards the safe and sane were still

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shaking their heads in reproof. For bourgeois and peasant alike, credit meant gambling, and gambling was mortal sin. Now Napoleon III was not, in this respect, the average French citizen. He was something of a gambler, for the highest stakes; he had ventured and lost three fortunes on his road to power. But he was not a mere gambler, and his reign was not a fabulous Monte Carlo. He was at heart an industrialist, not a financier. He knew that wealth can be created only by intelligent labor; but he knew also that, in an expanding world, it is not absurd to capitalize on intelligence, and to expect from the harvest more than you have actually sown. The origin of wealth is creation rather than abstention. His economy was dynamic. The term implies danger as well as progress; of the many gambles in which the Second Empire indulged, a few ended in bankruptcy. But these were minor engagements in a great campaign which, on the whole, was a triumph, and seems to us, many decades later, not to have been unduly bold. In the diplomatic, the military, the political field, the Empire closed in a catastrophe — perhaps not wholly deserved. In the economic, it was justified of its works: the State itself, the great cities, the banks, the chief individual enterprises, were in a healthy condition. Credit means speculation, which is linked in our minds with the enrichment of the parasites; and by the side of Napoleon III we descry, almost a double, the figure of de Morny, his halfbrother, and the most urbane of profiteers. We do not deny de Morny; we deny that the Empire was created for him and for his kind. Once more, by whatever name you call a regime, the fact remains that all planning means risking immediate resources for the prospect of future gain. To build a railroad or a canal may be a reasonably safe bet, but it is a bet; for the French, Suez was a profitable venture, Panama a disaster. In constructing their new world, the Soviets are gambling constantly and heavily. Under

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Socialism, the whole people is staking its labor for the sake of a richer tomorrow — a common investment for common profit. In pure Capitalism — if such could be conceived — only a very few would dare, and fewer still would reap, although the losses would be shared by all. The world of Napoleon III was transitional. He tried to escape from the domination of the half-dozen great bankers, particularly the Rothschilds, who held the whole market in fee. He sought to make credit not oligarchic, but bourgeois and ultimately democratic; in this, he was heading in the direction pointed out by P. J. Proudhon with his "universal and free credit." One of the methods of this financial democratization was to offer State and municipal loans directly to the masses, and not exclusively through the banks; in this way, there could be a State capitalism on the grandest scale, without a special class of capitalists. Another was the development or creation of credit institutions of a semi-public nature, part of that "economic feudalism" that Proudhon had criticized. Among these were the Bank of France, with renewed privilege, closer cooperation with the State, and branches in every department; the Credit Fonder (1852), a national building loan association, lending on mortgages to departments, cities, and private owners; the Credit Mobilier (1852), which with the Pereire Brothers played an immense part in the economic development of the time, financing railroads, ports, public utilities, navigation companies; the Credit Industriel (1859); the Credit Lyonnais (1863); the Societe Generale pour Favoriser le Developpement du Commerce et de l'Industrie en France (1864): a name which sums up the program of the Empire itself. The Credit Mobilier paid the price of excessive daring. The other financiers, jealous of the Pereires, forced them out, and the institution had to be reorganized in 1867, with heavy losses to the general public. It was a defeat for the spirit of the Second Em-

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pire, comparable to the humiliations of Sadowa and Queretaro. But the others remained. They remained, and formed the financial armature of the Third Republic. But after 1870 they were no longer subordinated to a general purpose. Instead of a government using the capitalists, on the whole for social ends, there was a government which distrusted the capitalists, yet did not dare to challenge them. In feudalism, as soon as the suzerain falters, the vassals pursue selfish ends, and the result is anarchy. So it was with the financial feudalism encouraged by the Empire; when the central authority weakened, finance strove to influence the state. Thus it was that the Republic, far worse than the Empire, was the era of politicofinancial scandals. In his campaign for mass prosperity, Napoleon III used every available means and every available man. De Morny was his right hand in the Coup d'fitat, and Achille Fould had backed him heavily; both of them were first of all financiers, and they were given high positions. Rothschild was not disturbed; he remained a byword for fabulous wealth. On the other hand, the Emperor borrowed ideas from Louis Blanc, and even from Proudhon, who, for many, was Terror incarnate. 12 And he also welcomed fellow travelers from the right. Auguste Comte, the Positivist Pope, who had become an extreme conservative, endorsed the Empire. Frederic Le Play was one of the Emperor's most trusted advisers. 32 P. J. Proudhon was above all contradiction made flesh. The very idea of contradiction was the basis of his system; he belonged to the same romantic type of thought as Blake, Hegel, and Nietzsche. Advocate of "anarchy," asserting that "Property is Theft" and that "God is Evil," he was in reality not timid, but curiously moderate. He wrote a book, La Revolution Sociale Demontree par le Coup d'fctat (1852), more penetrating than Karl Marx's brilliant but purely journalistic pamphlet, The 18th of Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. He also composed a highly technical Manuel du Speculateur ä la Bourse (1855), kept up his correspondence with Prince Napoleon, and even solicited a railroad concession. A great writer, but bewildering.

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Now Le Play's attitude was frankly anti-democratic and antiCaesarian. He distrusted equally the State and the masses. For him the only possible instrument of social progress was patronage, by which he meant the enlightened leadership of the upper classes. He recognized that these classes had become intellectually sluggish and morally corrupt; but, purified through religion, they should again assume command, assuring order, prosperity, and social peace. Napoleon III used to the full the good will, the vast knowledge, and the organizing capacity of Le Play, and rewarded him generously; but he did not commit himself to his ideology.13 Quite obviously, Napoleon III was not a Marxian, nor a Fourierist, nor an Owenite; and in spite of his indebtedness to Louis Blanc and P. J. Proudhon, he cannot be called their disciple. His relation with Saint-Simonism offers a more difficult problem. He never was, in any definite sense of the term, a member of the sect. His only direct contact with it would have been through Vieillard, his brother's tutor, for whom he retained affectionate respect and whom he made a Senator. Vieillard was once interested in SaintSimonism, but the subject does not figure in their correspondence. The Saint-Simonian spirit was something much wider than the Saint-Simonian group. Napoleon III was called "Saint-Simon on horseback." 14

No

"Frederic Le Play, 1806-1882, was a mining engineer. He published among other things Les Ouvriers Europeens (1855), thirty-six monographs; La Reforme Sociale en France (1864). He organized the Expositions of 1855 anc ^ 1867; the latter has remained an unsurpassed model. Auguste Comte and Le Play, with their insistence on social hierarchy, the family, and religion, were among the prophets of the Maurras-Vichy regime. 14 The expression "Saint-Simon on horseback" was given currency by SainteBeuve. T h e great critic was too intelligent, too cautious, and perhaps too selfish, to commit himself fully to any school or regime. He never was an out-and-out Bonapartist, but a Senator of the Empire and a friend of Prince Napoleon and Princess Mathilde. He never was a full-fledged Saint-Simonian, but he was sufficiently in sympathy with the group to promise to write a Preface for an Encyclopaedia they were planning.

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picturesque epigram has the value of a scientific formula; but the description is strikingly accurate. In order to realize all its implications, we shall have to turn back a full quarter of a century, to the strange career of Henri, Count de Saint-Simon (1760-1825). This distant cousin of the great Memorialist and very remote descendant of Charlemagne might be considered as the type of the crackbrained Utopians who flourish in an age of revolution and romanticism; and his school, which turned into a religious sect, amused and scandalized Paris in the early years of the July Monarchy.

But

Saint-Simon,

undisciplined

though

he

was,

teemed with ideas which proved more vital than those of the scoffers. His fundamental principle was the necessity of an organic relation between the various aspects of a culture — religion, science, art, government, economics.

But he did not assert, as some

Marxians were to do, that the spiritual elements should be subordinated to the material; he claimed they must be harmonized. A world which professes brotherhood on Sunday and ruthless competition on Monday is an absurdity: the principle of brotherhood should pervade the whole social order. This was the essence of his " N e w Christianity," which might be called Christianity restated and applied. As a corollary, the first duty of the (NeoChristian) State is to promote the spiritual and material welfare of the most numerous and poorest class; for brothers cannot remain indifferent to the distress of their brothers. So far, this is nothing but the humanitarian democratic feeling of Lamennais, which inspired the whole romantic generation. But Saint-Simon contributed a very definite element: he was conscious of the industrial revolution fifty years at least before Arnold Toynbee gave it a name. Many socialists had been thinking in terms of more equitable distribution; he believed that industry, with its capacity for producing riches, could be made the

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best servant of the people as a whole. Industry thus assumed in his eyes a quasi-religious character. Industrial production on a vast scale demands organization; only an economy of individual craftsmen can be satisfied with laissez faire. Organization implies hierarchy. Saint-Simon restores the "orders" of the ancient regime, a clergy of artists, scientists, inventors, a nobility of engineers, managers, bankers, with a sense of noblesse oblige. This nobility is a directing, not a fighting, caste; instead of the knight in armor, we need the captain of industry.15 T o keep pace with the expanding power of production, the industrial society requires the pooling of resources, bold investments as a part of general planning, in other terms a vast expansion of credit. Neglecting innumerable side issues, this close association between the humanitarian ideal on the one hand, the industrial and financial method on the other, is the key to the thought of SaintSimon as well as to that of Napoleon III. The Saint-Simonians were slow in recognizing him as one of themselves. Their daily, Le Credit (November 1848-August 1850), opposed him. Gradually, the kinship between the two ideals became apparent. The patriarch of the sect, Father Prosper Enfantin, rallied to the new regime. Gueroult, Lambert, Duveyrier, were in accord with the socialist-industrial sovereign. Michel Chevalier, responsible for the commercial treaty with England in i860, had been a SaintSimonian. The Suez Canal, so typical of the Empire in its daring and practicality, had been promoted by Enfantin and his group. Paulin Talabot, Enfantin, were among the prominent railroad administrators of the time. Emile and Isaac Pereire had a share in all the great enterprises of the reign. This industrial and financial activity does not mean that the Saint-Simonians had recanted and lost their mystic fervor. To the end, these bankers and great 15

Ironically enough, the much older term chevalier d'Industrie means swindler.

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executives published books of truly religious inspiration. Once at the Emperor's table, as one of the guests was deriding the theories of the Saint-Simonians about women, another stood up and said: "I am the son of Lambert, the son of Enfantin, the son of Olinde Rodrigues, the son of Saint-Simon." Among those present, one senator and three cabinet ministers could have made the same claim.16 This does not mean that Napoleon III was obediently following the blueprints left by Saint-Simon; it means that Saint-Simon and Napoleon III, independently, came to the same interpretation of the industrial era. And it seems to us that this interpretation, in its broad lines, is more valid today than all the conventional sects, parties, and doctrines. We need a thorough reclassification of ideologies. The Second Empire was certainly more akin to the world of Saint-Simon than to the world of Napoleon I. Twentieth-century America, even before the New Deal, looked as though it had been drafted by Saint-Simon rather than by Adam Smith. Soviet Russia is far closer in spirit to Saint-Simon than to Karl Marx. The Saint-Simonians who were religious enthusiasts in 1830 worked happily in the imperial France of i860; they would have found themselves even more at home in the United States or the USSR of 1942: the three regimes, so glaringly different on the surface, have deep elements in common. But the Saint-Simonian, or the American captain of industry, or the Russian reveling in five-year plans, would have felt himself cramped and chilled in the petit bourgeois republic of Grevy or Poincare. 18

G. Weill, L'Ecole Saint-Simonienne, son histoire, son influence jtisqu'a nos jours (Paris, 1896), p. 243.

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N A P O L E O N III NOTE T H E A T T I T U D E OF T H E W O R K I N G C L A S S TOWARD T H E

EMPIRE

THE social legislation of the Second Empire, in the narrower sense of the term, was not negligible. During the first decade, the government relied chiefly on charitable institutions and encouragements to the cooperative movement. A definite social policy began in the early sixties. It was best expressed in the Palais Royal pamphlets, published under the patronage of Prince Napoleon. Significant events in its development include the following: 1862: Working-men delegates were sent by the State to the London Exposition; they were impressed by the working conditions, standard of living, and power of the Unions in England. 1863: Credit au Travail, to finance cooperatives. 1864, May 25: Law on "Coalitions," prepared by fimile Ollivier, removing legal ban on strikes. 1866: The Emperor subscribed 500,000 francs to Caisse des Associations Cooperatives. 1867: Working-men delegates were sent to the Paris Exposition. The Emperor won a prize for plans of workingmen's houses. 1868, March 3 1 : Trade Unions tolerated. 1868, August 2: Abrogation of Article 1781, according to which the word of an employer was to be accepted by a court against that of an employee — last trace of legal class distinction. But the social policy of Napoleon III was much wider than this legislation would indicate. Yet the working class (industrial) was never won over; for twenty years, France offered the paradox of a leader endorsed by those who understood him least and rejected by those whom he was most anxious to benefit. The cause of this absurdity is that the working population of the great cities thought in political, not in economic, terms. They were democrats rather than socialists, and republicans rather than democrats, for, as we must constantly repeat, they never acknowledged the peasants as their equals. All they chose to remember was that Napoleon had destroyed a parliamentary republic. So, in 1863, Paris gave 400 votes to Labor candidates and 153,000 to the bourgeois opposition, including the Royalist Thiers, hater of "the vile multitude." Paris could neither be bribed nor coerced. This stubborn resistance for the sake of an ideal may not have been wise; at any rate, it cannot be called ignoble.

CHAPTER Χ T H E DEEPEST T H O U G H T OF T H E R E I G N THE MEXICAN ADVENTURE AND THE TURN OF THE TIDE

Y the end of 1862, Napoleon III had been Emperor of the French for ten years — as long as Napoleon I. This decade had not been a period of Augustan serenity. Bad weather, failing crops, plant diseases, quasi-famine, cholera, and war had mercilessly assailed the Empire. There had been weary months during the protracted Crimean expedition, and anxious hours in the briefer but far more perilous Italian campaign. Yet on all fronts the sovereign had more than held his own. The two wars, although not decisive, had ended in victory. In spite of all untoward circumstances, the country was active and prosperous as never before. Order had not been troubled for a moment. In 1857, elections by universal suffrage and secret ballot gave 5,471,000 votes to the supporters of the government, only 665,000 to a divided opposition. On April 17, 1859, an amnesty had been extended to all political dissenters. Only a handful of irreconcilables, with Victor Hugo as their standard-bearer, remained in voluntary exile.

B

We know today, and dispassionate observers knew then, that the fundamental antinomies within the regime had not been reconciled. The workmen of the great cities still refused to recognize the Empire as a genuine form of democracy. The UltraCatholics were not heart and soul with a government which, while supporting the Church, refused to proclaim itself unreservedly theocratic and clerical. The liberal bourgeoisie still regretted an omnipotent Parliament. There was an unappeasable contradiction

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between the Emperor's ideal of peace and his desire for European reconstruction; and a contradiction even sharper between his "principle of nationalities" and the yearning for the recovery of France's "natural frontiers." T h e Second Empire was not a faultless theorem, but an organic and extremely complex reality. Tensions of the same order, some of them of an even more disruptive nature, existed at the time in most of the great nations — in Spain and in Italy, in Prussia and in Austria, in Russia and even in England. In the United States, the irrepressible conflict had just led to open civil war. On the whole, by the record of these ten years the Empire was an unquestionable success. Had Napoleon III found a Ravaillac at that hour, even his adversaries — always excepting Victor Hugo — would have honored his memory as a well-meaning, able, and singularly fortunate ruler. But Henry IV, also the restorer of order and prosperity, was murdered just as he was embarking on an ill-conceived, ill-prepared enterprise; Napoleon III was doomed to survive for another decade. By 1862, he was not yet fully committed to the Mexican adventure. In 1863, he was caught in the trap. Mexico was his Nemesis. Outwardly, the Second Empire stood the shock. Napoleon III withdrew his troops, technically of his own accord, technically undefeated; technically again, he allowed the Mexicans full freedom to support or reject a sovereign "of their own choosing." Eighteen sixty-seven, the year of Queretaro, was also that of the great Paris Exposition: all European sovereigns flocked to the French capital as if to do homage to their overlord. Even three years later, the regime was endorsed again by an overwhelming plebiscite, and the government could proclaim that there was "not a cloud in the sky." Yet we know, and the contemporaries felt, that the Mexican disaster was a mortal wound. The masses had trusted the mysterious genius of one man; even his opponents had been awed by his prestige; trust and prestige were shattered.

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221

Every one diagnosed the disease in his own way. Some accused Morny and predatory finance; some the Empress and clerical reaction; the most indulgent condemned the Emperor's Utopianism, his inability to see the abyss between solid reality and his hazy dreams. We are inclined to offer a simpler explanation: by 1862, the will power of Napoleon III, not his intelligence, had suffered a pathological deterioration. This explanation is not an excuse, but the most damning criticism against the very principle of the regime: in a dictatorial sovereign, any loosening of will power is the sin against the Holy Ghost. Christian Schefer, a careful, judicious student of old-fashioned diplomacy, asserts, "Now History, according at any rate to our present conception, holds it as an axiom that whatever did not happen could not have happened." 1 This has a fine realistic ring: the true scholar deals with actual facts, and no wishful mighthave-been has any standing with him. If this test be applied, the Mexican project was an impossibility, since it failed. But this socalled axiom is not science: it is crude philosophy, a naive mechanistic determinism. By the same rule, whatever did happen must of necessity have happened; Napoleon III was fated to intervene in Mexico just as inexorably as he was fated to fail; any policy other than the one he followed is the merest might-have-been. Praise and blame, which Christian Schefer in common with all historians distributes so lavishly, are equally futile. "It was written" are the only words of wisdom. We are not, this must be repeated at every step, offering a chronicle of events; we are seeking to understand Napoleon III. In such an evaluation, ultimate failure is an element which we have no right to disregard. Napoleon III did not meekly follow tradition, nor was he satisfied to live from hand-to-mouth; his distinction among rulers is that he anticipated and tried to shape 'Christian Schefer, La Grande

Pensee de Napoleon

111 (Paris, 1939), p. 255.

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the future; his genuine greatness is that, in many important fields, he proved a true prophet, and that the solutions for which he worked are still our hope today. By the same token, it must be counted heavily against him that in this case he guessed wrong, and that the thing he sought to create could not come to life. But if failure must be admitted as an indictment, it need not be accepted as an all-embracing and conclusive condemnation. A man may fail, as Saint Louis, Napoleon I, Lafayette, and Woodrow Wilson did fail, without being branded as a knave or a fool. Morally, we are bound to consider also whether the dream was noble or base; realistically, we should ascertain whether the enterprise, at the time, could and did seem feasible to sensible men. It is childish to await a final verdict from an infinitely wise entity called History: history, beyond the plain records of unorganized facts, is but filtered and concentrated public opinion. The Crimean adventure was more senseless, worse conducted, and more costly than the Mexican, yet History is bound to note that it was "successful." So we shall neither brush aside the disastrous outcome, nor consider it as an all-sufficient criterion; we shall attempt to see the Mexican affair biographically, as it appeared to Napoleon 111. In so doing, we shall inevitably be presenting his case; it does not follow that we shall be pleading his cause. π There is a simple conception of the Mexican tragedy: Juarez, the unbending and ruthless defender of a people's right; Maximilian, the innocent dupe, whose folly is ennobled and redeemed at the end by his sacrifice; Napoleon III, the crafty and cowardly tempter, "foiled again" when the curtain falls. It is excellent popular melodrama, and served as a foundation for a remarkable moving picture, Juarez, and for a glamorous romance, Phantom Crown. The trite is not inevitably wrong, and research does not

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destroy the commonly accepted opinion of Juarez and Maximilian. These two protagonists moved on a lighted stage. Juarez was an elementary force in his own right, with a still greater power back of him; Maximilian was a handsome puppet who strove in vain to acquire a personality. The open fighting between their partisans in Mexico was genuine and decisive enough. But the drama was played behind the scene; and it had already been played before the fighting began. The common metaphor will not serve; the Mexican affair cannot be likened to anything so simple as a game of chess. Too many parties took a hand, beside Mexico and France: Spain, England, Austria, the United States, and, not least, the Holy See. Home policies, foreign policies, finance, diplomacy, and war, in most of the nations concerned, were hopelessly entangled. Slow communications — a cause of confusion which has now lost much of its force — interfered with the normal sequence of information, decision, action. Because they took weeks to reach Vera Cruz, instructions were invariably belated; fateful acts had to be left to the initiative of subordinates; Napoleon found himself pinned down to a policy which he had been ready to abandon. So complex is the tale that no purely chronological relation of the facts would be adequate. There were in the affair five obvious stages. The first, the official beginning, was a joint demonstration by England, France, and Spain, in support of purely financial claims. This stage was brief — from October 1861 to April 1862; and above all it was confused. Yet it was all-important: if Napoleon III had not counted on the cooperation of England and Spain, not a single French soldier, in all likelihood, would ever have set foot in Mexico. The second stage was an armed intervention by France alone, directed against the government of Juarez but not openly committed to any change in the political constitution of Mexico. The third was the proclamation of an Empire by a Mexi-

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can Junta, and the ofier of the crown to Archduke Maximilian. T h e fourth was the rule of the new Emperor, officially as the elect of the Mexican people, in cold fact supported by the army of Marshal Bazaine. T h e fifth was the withdrawal of the French forces, and the agony of Maximilian's regime. Each of these stages was determined, not merely by the events which were patent before, but by others which had previously remained obscure, or which seemed unrelated. T h e vision of a Central American E m pire, the intrigues of the Mexican monarchists, existed years before the joint Vera Cruz expedition, but without it they would have remained mere shadows. In the end, the fate of Maximilian was sealed, long before the siege of Queretaro, at Appomattox and Sadowa. A t every step, we shall thus be compelled to enquire into some new antecedent. History must borrow at times the tangled technique of Joseph Conrad. Ill Intervention in Mexico began in the most conventional manner. When the "liberal" government of Juarez, in 1861, suspended payment on foreign debts, the countries — Great Britain, Spain, and France — most directly affected undertook by the Treaty of London (October 3 1 , 1861) to protect their interests by joint action. Such a practice was all too frequent in the dealings of Europe with recalcitrant debtors. Peace-loving Louis Philippe himself had occupied Vera Cruz in 1838-39; and as late as November 1901, Waldeck-Rousseau sent warships to Mitylene, to press on Turkey the demands of French debtors. It was against such methods that the Drago Doctrine was formulated. T h e declaration issued by the H i g h Contracting Powers was of unimpeachable rectitude. They professed not to be seeking any special advantage; they had no intention of influencing the internal affairs of Mexico; they did not want to limit the right of the Mexican nation "freely to choose

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and constitute the form of its government." The document was as virtuous as the Atlantic Charter. What could be surmised between the lines was of a more disquieting character. Even on the ostensible financial plane, many people suspected there was an "inside story." The easiest interpretation of the whole Mexican affair is that it was simply a grandiose racket. A Swiss banker, Jecker, established in Mexico, wanted to collect a dubious debt against the Mexican government. 2 He offered Morny 30 per cent of the swag, and Morny used his influence in favor of intervention. So ran the tale: it was a godsend to the opposition, and gave Jules Favre a marvelous opportunity to "smear" Morny, who next to Napoleon himself was the first political personage in the Empire. The story has remained orthodox Republican tradition. Nor is it wholly unfounded. That there was some connection between Jecker and Morny is not in doubt; it may have been through Morny's influence that Jecker was naturalized a Frenchman; Dubois de Saligny, the diplomat whose unfortunate methods were to precipitate the crisis, seems to have been a protege of Morny, and a holder of Jecker bonds. It was because of these bonds, which Juarez could never acknowledge, that the English and Spanish representatives protested against the preposterous financial demands of France, thus making joint action against Mexico an impossibility. But if in 1860-61 the Jecker-Morny deal was grafted into the Mexican problem, it was not its origin, nor its end. Some kind of intervention had already been considered by the creditors of 2 In February 185g, J. B. Jecker made an agreement with the desperate Conservative government of Miramon; the nominal amount was 75,000,000 francs; for actual cash received, perhaps not more than 750,000 pesos, Miramon gave Jecker treasury bonds of enormously greater face value — a typical spendthrift deal with a gambling usurer. In the summer of i860, Jecker's bank had to liquidate, and the Miramon bonds were among its assets. Naturally Juarez refused to recognize their validity. Jecker never collected in full. H e was shot as a hostage by the Paris Commune in May 1871.

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Mexico; and in Spain at any rate there was already a desire that this intervention should assume a political character. Perhaps the Jecker transaction did have a profound influence upon the course of events, but for a purely negative reason: it prevented Morny from using his restraining hand.

Morny, w h o knew that his

fate was bound up with that of the regime, should have been too clever a statesman and too shrewd a financier to advocate throwing good money after bad. Certainly it was not in his style to change plain dunning into a grandiose scheme of Empire building.

T h e curse of the whole affair was rather that

it lacked the realistic Morny touch. Homo

Economicus

is not

quixotic. W e may also reduce to minor proportions another business aspect of the Mexican enterprise. It was said that France was casting hungry eyes upon the mineral resources of Sonora; there were vague schemes reserving to French interests the development of these ill-defined riches. But the matter was not pressed, and the plan remained nebulous. It is a fact that the French Government, in defending its action, did evoke fabulous vistas of material progress in Mexico, ä progress in which French bondholders, French commerce, French industry, were to have a profitable share; it sounded like a promoter's prospectus. This was partly mere propaganda in support of the political scheme; partly a form of the Emperor's Saint-Simonian faith, which held material development to be a legitimate form of social service. T h e professed aim was to end anarchy in Mexico; prosperity was to be the natural reward of order — the opposition would have said, an Ersatz for liberty. There was nothing sinister about such a doctrine. Even severe critics of Napoleon III have come to the conclusion that, to use Christian Schefer's quaint words, he was "deplorably disinterested." For him, politics and economics were but the instruments of his humanitarianism.

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M. de Maupas, the Paris Prefect of Police at the time of the Coup d'fitat, said shrewdly: "Often the Emperor's great thoughts were exploited by individual interests, by speculation. What was conceived by him as a great thing became through his agents a profitable deal." In this case, we believe, the reverse is true. Napoleon had been hazily interested in Central America and Mexico; in prison he had written a pamphlet on the Nicaragua canal in which he had allowed his imagination free scope. But the Mexican affair first assumed definite shape on the economic plane. Soon, however, the dunning became a mere pretext; the "great thought" was substituted for the "profitable deal." First the Empress, then the Emperor, grew interested in a far more ambitious plan. The ideology which inclined the Emperor to intervene preexisted, but it was too vague to determine him. The debt question acted as a catalyzer. As step after step was taken, the enterprise expanded, and was rationalized into "the deepest thought of the reign." Ironically, by the time the cause had become hopeless, Napoleon III was beginning to realize what it was he had been hoping for. The story is not the degradation of a dream, but rather its growth. IV

England, France, and Spain thus sent warships and troops to Vera Cruz with a limited object. But already the thought of political intervention was taking shape. It had first been expressed by the Spanish Minister-President Calderon Collantes. On September 6, 1861, he had stated that the three associated Powers should not limit themselves to seeking redress, but should attempt to establish in Mexico "a regular and stable government." Spain was thus boldly assuming the initiative, just because she was afraid of being treated by England and France as a minor partner. She had grievances of a political nature against the government

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of Juarez; she felt that her former connection with Mexico and her possession of an important base in Cuba entitled her to leadership. The personal and complex ambitions of the soldier-politician General Prim induced him to enlarge the scope of an expedition which he expected to command. Logically, the Spanish position was unassailable. What was the use of browbeating a shaky and bankrupt government? If the European nations expected to be paid, their first care should be to create a power capable of honoring its signature. This view was endorsed by Napoleon III in a letter sent on October 10, 1861, to his Ambassador in London, Flahaut. 3 But in this letter the Emperor went far beyond the very general indications given by Calderon Collantes; the "great thought" was getting more sharply focused in his mind.

T h e pacification of

Mexico, necessary for the settlement of financial claims, would also have far greater effects; it would open a rich source of supplies and a vast market for European industries. It would enable the country to resist any further encroachments on the part of the United States. For such a reorganization and strengthening of Mexico, the American Civil W a r offered a favorable opportunity. The Emperor did not expect that the three associated powers should explicitly commit themselves at this stage to such a farreaching plan. He was willing that their formal agreement should be limited to their one immediate object, the collection of debts; but he hoped that the larger scheme would at least not be precluded. Thus, by the time the tripartite agreement was signed on October 31, it was manifest that the three countries had divergent views. Spain advocated political intervention, provided she retained a dominant share of influence. Napoleon III was on the 3 Egon Corti, Maximilian and Charlotte of Mexico ( N e w York, 1928), "Napoleon to the Comte de Flahau(l)t in London," I, 361-363.

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whole very favorably disposed toward Spain, and he agreed with her main contention. Yet he was not willing to follow her lead; unfamiliar though he was with Mexican conditions, he knew well enough that of all Europeans the Spaniards were the most bitterly hated in their former colony. Britain, for many reasons, was resolutely averse to any kind of political commitments. N o wonder their representatives immediately, and it would seem deliberately, squabbled as soon as they reached Vera Cruz. Prim, uniting in his person military and diplomatic powers and heading by far the largest force, expected to be given supreme command of the joint expedition and proved unmanageable when it was denied him. The respective positions — and the respective instructions — of the French Admiral Jurien de la Graviere and of the French Plenipotentiary, Count Dubois de Saligny, were hard to adjust; and Sir Charles Wyke had no desire but to reach, independently of his associates, an agreement with Juarez. By April 1862, the rupture between the three partners was open and irremediable. We repeat that Napoleon III would not have attempted the staggering task of intervening in Mexico single-handed: only the Cooperation of England and Spain made the enterprise appear reasonably safe. They withdrew; he could have withdrawn with them or soon after them but for a blunder and a mishap. General Lorencez had been sent with reinforcements, so that the French should not be outnumbered by Prim's little army. The three governments had refused to ratify a tentative convention with Juarez; Saligny and Lorencez had therefore some justification for considering themselves at war with the "liberal" President. On May 5, 1862, a small French column was repulsed by the Juaristas near Puebla, and suffered severe losses. As in the case of Oudinot's troops before Rome, this minor defeat changed the situation altogether. Now the honor of the flag was at stake and must be avenged. Thus through the presumption and mismanagement of

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Saligny and Lorencez the French found themselves left alone in Mexico, and committed to the defeat of Juarez. ν They were not yet committed to the conquest of the whole country, nor even to any change in the form of its government. A punitive expedition to Mexico City, although costly and senseless, need not have led to irretrievable consequences; six years later, Sir Robert Napier performed such a limited mission in Ethiopia. But the presence of French troops in Mexico, unchecked by allies with different views, created a temptation. It seemed criminal to punish "anarchy" and yet not to destroy it when it was in your power to do so. And the one alternative to anarchy seemed to be monarchy. To us, brought up unquestioningly in the republican faith, such a reasoning seems preposterous; to Napoleon III and many of his contemporaries, it was reasonable enough. Had not the imperial throne been restored in France, in order to end republican misrule? On the American continent itself, one country only was free from revolutions and civil war, and that was the Empire of Brazil, under the mild and enlightened rule of Dom Pedro II. Even north of the Rio Grande, a long tradition of popular government had not been able to avert disaster; in 1862, it was conceivable that republican democracy might indeed perish from the earth. Obviously Mexico, with its large Indian population, was even less fitted than its great neighbor for that very delicate form of government. In his letter to Flahaut, which was intended for the British Cabinet as well, Napoleon III stated that he had been approached by Mexican monarchists; he affirmed that he had no candidate of his own, but he admitted that he had mentioned the Austrian Archduke Maximilian as offering "all desirable guarantees." Thus

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and for the first time he had given semi-official recognition to what had remained so far an irresponsible and apparently a negligible intrigue, the activity of the Mexican monarchists. With them, we reach the prime movers in the tragic affair. If we need villains for a well-made plot, this small group of expatriates will serve excellently; for they alone hatched the scheme, and they were chiefly responsible for its ultimate failure. Yet on closer examination men like Gutierrez de Estrada, Hidalgo, Almonte, Mgr. Labastida, do not appear as traitors or profiteers. Deluded they may have been, but they were the sincere and consistent defenders of the conservative cause; and it has not yet been established as a law of history that conservatism inevitably spells wickedness. Ever since the proclamation of Mexican independence, the country had been in a condition of anarchy — worst perhaps under the repeated spasmodic tyrannies of Santa Ana. The situation was entirely different from that of the United States. There, independence did not alter the essential conditions of life; in Mexico, liberation from Spain was the start of a political and social revolution, complicated by race problems; after one hundred and twenty years, that revolution is not fully completed. The elements were lacking which had made the American and the French revolutions possible: an educated middle class, a body of self-reliant farmers. Between the half-civilized Indians and the privileged elite, there was in Mexico only a thin layer of self-seeking professional soldiers and politicians. Furthermore, every step toward democracy had to be fought for against those very forces which, to many, appeared as the mainstay of a decent and orderly life: property and the Church. N o wonder those who believed that "the good should be reassured and the wicked made to tremble" had long lost faith in a Mexican republic. Of these, the most consistent was Don Jose Maria Gutierrez de Estrada. Born in 1800, a wealthy Creole, a

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diplomat, at one time Minister of Foreign Affairs, he had been a monarchist from the earliest days of the republic. In 1821, he was a member of the deputation which offered the crown to Archduke Charles. In 1840, he prophesied in an open letter to President Bustamente that unless Mexico established a monarchical government under a prince of royal blood the country would fall a prey to its insatiable northern neighbor. T h e advice was ill-received by the men in power, and Gutierrez had to leave for Europe, never to see Mexico again. His wealth, his diplomatic standing, his wife's aristocratic connections, and most of all perhaps the rigid orthodoxy of his views gave him a respected position in Vienna and in Rome. Gutierrez could not be dismissed as an isolated fossil, like the handful of "legitimists" who in England remain loyal to the memory of the Stuarts.

One after another, the conservative

leaders, even those who had served — or attempted to use — the Republic, were driven to the same conviction. In 1853, Santa A n a , the intermittent and irrepressible dictator, deliberately prepared a restoration, deeming that his rule would be more strongly established if he were not a factional chief but the power behind a permanent throne. H e started looking round among Catholic princes for a suitable candidate; and he made Gutierrez his secret representative in Europe. Gutierrez, in his turn, selected as his lieutenant Don Jose Manuel Hidalgo y Esnaurrizar, Secretary of the Mexican Legation in Madrid. But Santa A n a fell again, and the project remained a mere velleity. In March 1856, Don Tomas Murphy, former Mexican Minister in London, wrote to Napoleon III, beseeching him to save the country by establishing a monarchy under the joint guarantee of France, England, and Spain.

In

1858, President Zuloaga, without contemplating a change of regime, told the French Minister in Mexico, Viscount de Gabriac, that only a body of French troops, led by a French general with

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dictatorial powers, could restore order in the distressed Republic. Gutierrez, who was later to exercise an unaccountable influence over Maximilian, found it difficult to approach the French sovereigns ; when, at a later stage, he secured an audience, the Empress herself, in spite of her Spanish piety, was astounded at his prehistoric convictions: he appeared to her "like the ghost of the Grand Inquisitor." But the chance which was denied to Gutierrez fell to his assistant Hidalgo. He had had social relations in Madrid with the Countess de Montijo and her daughters; he met the Empress again at Biarritz; and in the comparative leisure and informality of that imperial summer residence he was able to place before her the scheme of the Mexican monarchists. He won her enthusiastic support. It was the time when Eugenie, deeply disappointed as a wife, weary of her futile scepter as queen of fashion, was seeking to play a greater part in politics, and especially in foreign affairs. If she was, according to her devoted admirer Augustin Filon, incapable of sustained thinking, she had a quick and ardent spirit, and she fell in love with "the great thought" before it had grown definite in the Emperor's mind. The chief appeal of the project, for her, was to strengthen a bastion of Spanish and Catholic culture against the onslaught of the Anglo-Saxon and Protestant North. This concern with her Spanish heritage was not incompatible with her duty as Empress of the French, which she took very earnestly. For among the vaguer dreams of Napoleon III was that of a Latin bloc, of which he would be the natural head; 4 the Ibero-American world, whose 4

Sybel insists perhaps unduly on that dim thought (Heinrich von Sybel, Napoleon III, Bonn, 1873). But the idea was in the air. The Proven?al and Catalan poets expressed it when the Floral Games of Barcelona were restored in 1859. Perhaps this vague overlordship was Napoleon Ill's justification for his constant intervention in Spanish affairs after the revolution of September 1868, It has left a trace in the Latin monetary union. Some of the Vichy men may have caressed a similar chimaera of a close entente between Petain, Mussolini, and Franco.

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spiritual capital was Rome and whose cultural capital was Paris, was a natural extension of that shadowy " L a t i n " empire. T h e Emperor was predisposed in favor of the Mexican scheme; but he was practical enough to realize, if not fully to gauge, the perils of the enterprise. In this hesitant state of mind, Eugenie's influence was probably decisive. Here Napoleon's private life interfered, disastrously, with his public duties. His affection for Eugenie was deep; but he was not faithful to her. H e yielded to her in the Mexican adventure partly as a compensation, an atonement, for his affairs with Mesdames de Castiglione, Walewska, and not a few others of lesser fame. History cannot measure, but should not wholly reject, such imponderable factors. T o Gutierrez and Hidalgo was added a third confederate, General Juan Nepomuk Almonte, a former lieutenant of Santa Ana. H e had been Mexican Minister in Paris since 1853 and until Juarez rose to power. H e remained in France without an official position, as the bitterest enemy of the "Liberal" President. The great argument of the monarchists was that there existed in their country a vast majority eager to support a sovereign. This claim was to prove so utterly false that we wonder how the head of a great state could ever have been deceived by it. W e must remember that after the Russian revolution the conservative leaders of England and France were led astray by extravagant assertions of exactly the same nature. W e may call it "wishful thinking"; but it seemed then justified by the law of psychological probability. Napoleon III believed that he was hearing the same story from different sources, including former officials of the Mexican Republic.

T o be sure, an independent investigation

would have revealed no trace of a vigorous monarchical movement. But this negative evidence would not have convinced Napoleon: of course, there could be no such party until there was a definite candidate. H e was a believer in the will of the people,

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but also in the virtue of conscious organized minorities. Give Mexican monarchism a nucleus, and it will grow into a majority in a single season. In February 1848, Bonapartism was a loose sentiment, not a party; in December, Louis Napoleon was the elect of the masses. The selection of Maximilian as a candidate was the work of the monarchists, the Empress, and incidentally her great friend, Princess Pauline Metternich. The Emperor merely acquiesced, although he may have thought that the idea originated with him. Granting the terms of the problem, no choice could be more auspicious. Archduke Ferdinand Max, as he was then called, was no mere princeling, but a Habsburg, and the brother of Francis Joseph. His father-in-law was Leopold I, King of the Belgians, closely connected both with the English royal family and with the Orleans. Maximilian was young, 5 handsome, conscientious, and, as it seemed, capable. He had taken himself very seriously as an admiral and as viceroy of the Lombard-Venetian Kingdom. He was a good Catholic, and — an essential condition for Napoleon III — he was thought to be thoroughly modern and liberal. He could be the Dom Pedro of a second great "Latin" Empire in America. Even at this stage, both Napoleon and Maximilian, although manifestly tempted by the mirific scheme, remained comparatively cautious and sensible. Napoleon III had sent a veritable expedition — nearly 40,000 men — under General Forey to avenge the humiliation of his arms at Puebla. But the official plan was still not to interfere with the will of the Mexican people; if, of their own accord, they should decide upon a monarchy, the French Emperor was ready to assist them. Lip service, at any rate, was done to the democratic principle. Unfortunately, General Almonte was allowed to accompany the expedition, and gave the impres5

Born July 6, 1832, at Schönbrunn, near Vienna.

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sion that he was in the Emperor's confidence. The troops, after wintering at Orizaba, set out early in 1863, reduced Puebla after a bloody siege, and entered Mexico City on June 7. The prestige of Napoleon's arms was retrieved. But even if Napoleon III and Maximilian were not perfectly ingenuous about the "national consultation" they professed to desire, they were not ready for the clumsy farce staged by Forey as the unconscious tool of Saligny and Almonte. The French General appointed a Supreme Governing Junta, practically all conservatives. They duly elected a Provisional Regency, composed of Almonte, Mgr. Labastida, the Archbishop-Elect of Mexico {in absentia), and General Mariano Salas. Then a National Assembly of Notables was summoned, 215 "persons of distinction" representing but a small element in the capital alone; and it was that handpicked Assembly that offered the crown to Maximilian. The "acts of adhesion" which followed, in various places occupied by the French, were perhaps even less convincing. It was difficult for Napoleon III to disavow the action taken under Forey's auspices, and to demand a genuine National Assembly. He would have been compelled to turn against the Conservatives, so far his only allies; and with the country torn by civil war a truly representative convention was hardly feasible. But if Napoleon was caught in the trap, Maximilian was not; and if he had refused outright, Napoleon, at that time, would have been greatly relieved. Maximilian had stipulated definite conditions for his acceptance — substantial support from the Mexican people, and a joint guarantee by England, Spain, and France. He knew that neither was fulfilled. Yet he kept toying with the delusive crown. Here again is a problem which cannot be settled by scholarship, but only approached by psychology, the most hypothetical of all the sciences. Maximilian was both nobly ambitious and absurdly

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vain. He believed in his imperial blood, in his talents, in his charm. He felt himself superior to his dull elder brother Francis Joseph; yet he was reduced, in the Habsburg dominions, to a position of eternal inferiority. The offer to regenerate a country of exotic charm and boundless promise was therefore a great temptation. Weak at the core, he may have been assailed by doubts, and self-doubts. But the incessant and fulsome adjurations of Gutierrez seem to have had an almost hypnotic effect upon him. Napoleon III, the most practical, the most successful sovereign of the age, was the sponsor of the scheme. A n d by his side the Archduke found an ardent accomplice of his secret desire: Charlotte was even more eager for a throne than he. Charlotte's father, King Leopold I, Nestor of crowned heads, was duly consulted and should have stopped the perilous venture. But, with a flood of Polonius-like advice, he gave his approval. His ambition for the Saxe-Coburg connection silenced his boasted wisdom. During these protracted consultations and negotiations, Napoleon III grew increasingly committed to the Mexican scheme, until he could not abandon it without a disastrous loss of prestige. So when, at the very last moment, reluctant to give up his Austrian rights and prerogatives, Maximilian was ready to reject the Mexican offer, Napoleon was deeply concerned. The excuse offered by the Archduke for backing out seemed paltry and selfish; the French Emperor appealed to the Habsburg's sense of honor, and not in vain. By so doing, he made himself responsible, in no uncertain degree, for Maximilian's fate. On April 10, 1864, in a cloud of elation and misgivings, Maximilian formally accepted the crown. On the twelfth of June, he reached Mexico City, hailed with what appeared to be ardent and spontaneous enthusiasm. For a moment, the mirage had become a reality.

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It is not within our scope to tell the brief and mournful history of the Mexican Empire. Our only interest in it is the light that it throws upon Napoleon III himself. Maximilian would have been a very acceptable sovereign in a prosperous and well-organized country; in a land ravaged and untamed he appeared well-meaning and feeble. His enormous Code of Court Etiquette, in which he took great pride, was pathetically ludicrous. His best-intentioned measures fell into a vacuum: there was no trained civil service to carry them out, no class accustomed to intelligent civic obedience, and above all there were no funds. His interest in the Indians was praiseworthy and indeed prophetic; still, it would have been preposterous for him, the blond Austrian aristocrat, to assume the leadership of the long-oppressed race against a Benito Juarez. Both Napoleon III and Maximilian had dreamed of an autocratic but progressive regime. That dream was shattered against the stern fact that the Mexican Empire was the creation of the conservatives, and that they were ultraclerical. In this attitude, they were in perfect harmony with Rome. The crucial problem was that of the Church property "nationalized" or confiscated by the radical governments. Napoleon III hoped that the question could be settled as it had been by his uncle in France, by inducing the Pope, in compensation for the restoration of religious peace, to acknowledge a purely material fait accompli.

But Pius IX was

no Pius VII. For him, the confiscation of Church property was not a business transaction upon which it was possible to compromise; it was a sacrilege. He was the Pope who, in this very year 1864, hurled anathema, in his Syllabus, at "progress and modern civilization." His nuncio in Mexico was instructed to demand the annulment of all reforming laws, the establishment of the

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Catholic faith to the exclusion of all other creeds, the placing of instruction under the supervision of the clergy, and the removal of all restrictions which kept the Church in dependence upon the State,6 in a word, a theocratic commonwealth. This Maximilian could not accept, but by his refusal he forfeited the support of the conservatives. They may seem blind to us in their opposition, but they were only consistent. They had not imported an Emperor to be a crowned Juarez; they wanted him to undo everything that Juarez stood for. The most urgent task was pacifying the country. This was entrusted to Bazaine, who had succeeded Forey and been made a Marshal of France. For a time, Bazaine sent to Napoleon III optimistic reports; and, against a long-established tradition, we have come to believe that they were not wholly mendacious. Because Maximilian's Empire collapsed so utterly at the end, we are apt to think that it never was anything but a sham; because of Bazaine's disastrous record at Metz, we refuse to credit him with any ability. Perhaps we shall see the picture in a different light if we compare it with a manifest success, the development of Morocco under Lyautey. The area and the population of Mexico were roughly three times larger than those of Morocco. There was not in the 'sixties that radical difference in armaments which, in our century, gives tribesmen and guerrilla fighters such a forlorn chance against organized armies. The French started from Orizaba in February 1863; they left Vera Cruz in February 1867: exactly four years. The pacification of Morocco too\ twenty years. Bazaine had some forty thousand men under his command; the French kept in Morocco a peace-time establishment of 60,000 to 85,000/ If the same time, the same forces, the same money could "Abridged from Egon Corti, Maximilian and Charlotte of Mexico, II, 451. Statesman s Year BooI{, 1923, p. 1142: in November 1922, 85,000; ibid., 1941, p. 1126: 62,000. 7

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have been invested in the Mexican enterprise as in the Moroccan, success would not have been out of the question. A puppet Emperor with a French Proconsul would have given Mexico, twenty years earlier, a better Diaz regime. We say better, because, as in Morocco, several hundred thousand European technicians and settlers would have flocked to the country and revitalized it. Such a regime — not an outright conquest, and not even an acknowledged protectorate — could easily have shaded into genuine selfgovernment and complete independence. The "great thought" was therefore not an absurdity. Its failure was made inevitable by a factor outside of Mexico itself, namely, the irreconcilable opposition of the United States. Our government openly assisted Juarez in his fight, and made it manifest that the continued presence of French troops on American soil would never be countenanced. This Napoleon III knew full well. His policy was frankly antagonistic to ours: this does not imply that, from an impartial point of view, it was wrong, impracticable, or even inimical. He was under no obligation to recognize the one-sided and menacing Monroe Doctrine any more than, three-quarters of a century later, we were bound to recognize Japan's claim to supremacy in the Far East. We could hardly pose virtuously as the friends and defenders of Mexico when so recently we had taken nearly one-half of its territory; sixty years were to elapse before we would adopt, unreservedly, a "good neighbor policy," and long after the death of Maximilian, many Americans believed that it was our "manifest destiny" to dominate the entire continent. Napoleon III took advantage of our difficulties, not to filch from us anything that was rightfully ours, but to fortify against us, as he thought, a weaker and sorely pressed neighbor. That he believed the Confederacy would endure argues no moral obliquity; many entertained the same conviction, in the South, in the North, and in England. It is orthodox now to hold

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that the Northern cause was righteous, and that Napoleon, who was not in sympathy with it, was therefore on the side of darkness. But we must remember that the slavery issue, at first, was not clearly defined; paradoxically, McClellan was less of an abolitionist than Robert E. Lee. And, to an outsider, the secession issue was not a moral one at all. We were proud of having "seceded" from Great Britain; we had abetted the "secession" of Texas from Mexico; we were to aid the "secession" of Cuba from Spain. Government by consent of the governed implies the right of union, but also the right of separation; and this has finally been acknowledged by the British Commonwealth of Nations. s By 1865, Napoleon III had most reluctantly realized that the "great thought" had miscarried. Maximilian had no supporters in Mexico, and the Union was restored, more inimical, more formidable than ever. Furthermore, the European scene was troublous; the Polish insurrection in 1863, the insoluble Roman problem, the quarrel of the Duchies in 1864, the increasing friction between Austria and Prussia, demanded his attention. French opinion was growing restive. There was nothing to do but to admit failure and withdraw. It is unjust to say that Napoleon III, after entrapping Maximilian into Mexico, callously abandoned him. Napoleon had sacrificed many French lives and many millions of French gold without return, so long as there was the slightest chance of success. When, with the victory of the North, the cause became hopeless, he gave Maximilian not one but many chances to retire honorably. Maximilian, who had affected to spurn Europe, who had given to his family glowing accounts of his exotic Eldorado, could hardly bear to return to Austria, a dispossessed Archduke, a phantom Emperor. Still, he would have been sensible and humane enough to * C f . Elliot A . P. Evans, "Napoleon III and the American Civil W a r " (dissertation, Stanford University, 1940).

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accept his humiliation and abdicate, had it not been for Charlotte's insane pride. T h e pair resolved to stay, even though the French should leave; they even affected to believe that when the arrogant, cruel, and selfish Bazaine had gone there would be a reconciliation between the good Mexican people and their E m peror. They soon realized that Bazaine was their only support. T h e last despairing quest of the young Empress to Paris, her flight into madness, the half-century of darkness that followed, form a deeply moving personal tragedy, but are not part of political history. T h e final word had been spoken; and it had been spoken far too late. Almost to the very last, Maximilian could have left; and finally he decided to leave. T h e British Minister, Campbell-Scarlett, the Conservatives, a Jesuit, Father Fischer, the former President, General Miramon, advised him to stay. From the safe shores of Europe, his evil genius, Gutierrez de Estrada, appealed to his sense of honor: a Habsburg must fight to the end. Bewildered, he could not make up his mind to go, although he understood the hopeless folly of remaining. H e could at least cover up his indecision with a cloak of heroism. Betrayed, captured, he was shot according to the ruthless law he himself had signed. T h e news reached Napoleon III in the course of a magnificent ceremony, the distribution of awards for the Exposition of 1867. Repeatedly in the course of this confused drama, the two wellmeaning Emperors caught a glimpse of reality in all its sternness; repeatedly, they had it in their power to extricate themselves, through a determined refusal. Both, too kindly at heart, hated to hurt their immediate companions, and above all their wives; both felt called upon to fulfill a mission; both lacked the courage to kill with their own hands a dream which was gorgeous, and not ignoble. Thus they drifted, swerving with every gust of hope or despair. Maximilian's fibre had always been soft; Napoleon's had grown weak with premature old age and insidious disease.

CHAPTER

XI

L I B E R T Y CROWNS T H E EDIFICE THE POLITICAL EVOLUTION OF THE SECOND EMPIRE

H E first condition for discussing the problem of liberty is to preserve, or to regain, the liberty of our own thought. No easy task: we are unconsciously paralyzed by unchallenged traditions. In this case, it is universally taken for granted that the Second Empire destroyed the liberty of the French people. Upon this one point Frenchmen and foreigners are agreed, and monarchists concur with republicans. To place the question more safely beyond dispute, we have the word of Napoleon III himself. His appointed work was to end disorder by restoring the principle of authority. He was, quite frankly, at the head of the national police; and no efficient police force can afford to engage in philosophical discussions. Opening the legislative session of 1853, Emperor said bluntly: "Liberty has never contributed to the foundation of a durable political edifice; when the edifice has been consolidated by time, liberty crowns it." The Empire was therefore an "authoritarian" regime, and for eight years at least rejoiced in the name. Between i860 and 1870, although its principle remained unchanged, many concessions were made to the "liberal" spirit, and the period is officially known as "the Liberal Empire." The last six months before the FrancoPrussian war saw a new departure: Caesarian democracy was transformed into a limited monarchy of the Parliamentary type. This brief phase, ending with such tragic abruptness, goes by the name of "the Constitutional Empire." Authoritarian does not tell the whole truth, Liberal is the most ambiguous of words, and

T

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Constitutional

a deliberate misnomer. But it would be idle to

challenge the accepted terms, for the tendencies are definite enough. T h e system established by the Coup d'fitat of December 2,1851, was undeniably authoritarian; this does not mean that it was despotic. Every government, even the mildest Front

Populaire,

implies some curb on liberty, and the only consistent libertarians are the uncompromising anarchists. 1 Neither liberty nor authority is an absolute. T h e primary problem is not a clear-cut choice: "Give me liberty, or give me death!" but the determination of an optimum·. " H o w much are we ready to sacrifice in order to secure the greatest possible amount of liberty?" T h e solution offered by Louis Napoleon was freedom from foreign dictation, freedom from endemic disorder, freedom from economic distress, and this at the expense, not of democracy, but of Parliamentary practices. It was this program, explicitly stated in his political writings, that was freely endorsed by the people on December 10, 1848; it was the same program, after the long tussle with the Legislative Assembly, that was ratified again on December 20-21, 1851. This quasi-unanimous support was the source of Louis Napoleon's power, and not the clumsy brutalities of General Magnan. Louis Napoleon was not a Franco: he did not rise as the victor in a desperate civil war. T h e fusillade on the Boulevards was an accident, tragic and meaningless. France did not have to be cowed into subjection; she had demanded, of her own free will, a ruler with a firm hand, un gouvernement

a poigne.

T o be sure, the Coup d'fitat was followed by repressive measures. N o fewer than 26,000 people were arrested as suspects. They were judged without appeal, in each Department, by a "Mixed Commission" composed of the Commanding General, the Prefect, and the Public Prosecutor, three agents of the central power. A l l this 1

In French political parlance, libertaire and anarchiste are synonymous.

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was part of what Viscount de Vogüe euphemistically called "a rather rough police operation." But there was no rule of Terror, there were no lawless or pseudo-legal massacres, as in September 1792, in 1793 and 1794, in 1815, after the Days of June and after the Commune. Some 10,000 people were transported to Algeria; 1,500 were banished. Compared with the purges and concentration camps of modern dictators, the methods of Morny seem considerate. After Orsini's attempt on the Emperor's life (January 14, 1858), there was a genuine wave of indignation, and as a result a brief revival of a strong-handed policy. A law for the Defense of Public Security was passed, which enacted severe punishment for any one seeking "to rouse hatred or contempt for the Government." Men compromised in June 1848, June 1849, or December 1851 could be arrested once more, if there were "grave reasons to suspect" that they might again prove dangerous. General Espinasse, one of the instruments of the Coup d'fitat, was made Minister of the Interior and of General Security. But the crisis was short-lived. Only four hundred people were rounded up and sent to Algeria. In the following year, a full amnesty was proclaimed. Except during these two short and sharp periods of repression, civic liberties were not seriously curtailed under the Second Empire, and to call Napoleon III a tyrant would be a ludicrous distortion of the facts. Trite as it may sound, we must be on our guard against exaggerations on either side. In reaction against the Τale-of-Two-Cities school of lurid history, several honest writers, particularly Frantz Funck-Brentano, have offered us an idyllic, Petit-Trianon picture of the Ancient Regime: arbitrary arrests by lettres de cachet were in reality a kindness done by the King to distracted families, and the very few inmates of the Bastille had such a pleasant time that they were reluctant to leave. We do not wish to fall into such rosy-colored absurdities. The Second Empire was a Police State; its servants were not invariably cultured, scru-

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pulous, and gentle. On the other hand, the regime was mildness itself compared with the conditions which prevailed at the time in Naples, Rome, Austria, or Russia. It was singularly moderate by the side of the First Empire. Against the sinister realities of our own times, it appears as a haven of sweetness and light. The excesses of others are no excuse: still, it must be remembered that between stark despotism and civic liberties guaranteed in the approved British fashion there are many degrees. The manners of an age count for more than its legal texts; and we shall see that, without habeas corpus, the subjects of Napoleon III were in many important respects freer than those of Queen Victoria. In other respects, they were freer also than the free citizens of the United States — not to mention the slaves; for individual security is the indispensable condition of individual liberty, and in nineteenthcentury America, lynching, race riots, gangsterism, and labor violence were not wholly unknown. The essential liberties are, at one extreme, the most tangible, civil liberty, freedom from arbitrary interference with one's daily life; at the other extreme, the most elusive and most precious of all, cultural liberty, freedom of thought and expression in every domain. 2 Political liberty is merely a method of safeguarding these fundamental rights; if they were established beyond challenge, political liberty would be superfluous. We are apt to identify political liberty with the right to vote. The test is crude: aliens before they are naturalized, young people under voting age, women until the nineteenth Amendment was 2

There is one aspect of the problem which need not be discussed here: economic liberty. If by that elastic term we mean free and competitive enterprise, the Empire was "liberal" enough, in spite of the Emperor's well-known socialistic proclivities; with the Saint-Simonians, he wanted to realize social aims through individualistic means. If we identify liberalism with Cobdenite free trade, Napoleon III was far ahead of his supporters. If we have in mind greater freedom granted to the working class — the right to strike, for instance, or to form labor unions — there again he showed himself singularly progressive.

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passed, although not enfranchised, could hardly be described as enslaved. If the test were valid, however, France under the Second Empire would have been much "freer" than England. The second Reform Bill of 1867 was considered as dangerously radical, "a leap in the dark," "shooting Niagara": yet it increased the English electorate, roughly, from one million to two millions. At that time, France had more than ten million qualified voters; in the plebiscite of 1870, nine million recorded their opinion, 7,300,000 in favor of the Empire. 3 If government by consent be the criterion of political liberty, no regime in France was more "liberal" than that of Napoleon III. The system was assailed from two sides: the Radical Republican, and the bourgeois Parliamentarian. Of the first, Victor Hugo was the most eloquent spokesman and remains the symbol. Of the second, the ablest exponent was Adolphe Thiers. The opposition of the Radicals was at the same time illogical and inevitable. By his Coup d'fitat, Louis Napoleon swept aside the Constitution but did not destroy the Republic; he dismissed a reactionary Assembly, restored universal suffrage, and appealed to the whole people as the supreme arbiter. All this was sound "democracy." Certainly the men who had constantly extolled the revolutionary spirit had no right to pose as sticklers for constitutional forms. They had used force in February 1848, and called it heroism; they too had transgressed the letter of the law, in order to recover fundamental rights. It was a bold paradox to hold the bullets of insurrection sacred, and the ballots of the plebiscite a crime. Stated in these terms, the attitude of the Radicals was patently 3

T h e population of England (alone) in 1870 was approximately 22,000,000, that of France under 38,000,000. T h e ratio of voters to total population was therefore about three times greater in France than in England. T h e results of the plebiscite stood as follows: Ayes, 7,336,000; Noes: 1,560,000; abstentions: 1,894,000. Total registered: 10,790,000.

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absurd. But their indignation was genuine enough, although it was vigorously whipped up for propaganda purposes. The President had stolen a march on them; his move put him technically in the wrong, and they would not forego that last advantage, which helped them transmute their frustration into the anger of the righteous. But there was a more definite reason why they were the enemies of Louis Napoleon: Louis Napoleon had treated them as enemies. On the second of December, as we have seen, it seemed as though democratic Paris would at any rate remain neutral. The sporadic and futile resistance on the third and fourth never assumed the character of a mass movement. Feeble as it was, it gave some justification for repression; and that repression was directed exclusively against the radicals. The conservative deputies were soon released; only a few military leaders were banished. For this uneven treatment, there was a reason beside the cool and elegant ruthlessness of the profiteer Morny. The deep masses of France were utterly weary of agitation in the streets and the constant threat of a new upheaval. And unfortunately that very menace was part of the Radical tradition. The great "days" (journees) in French history, the Fourteenth of July 1789, the Tenth of August 1792, the Twenty-ninth of July 1830, the Twentyfourth of February 1848, were triumphs of the Parisian mob. Rural France was determined that the dictatorship of insurgency should end; the Reds needed a sharp lesson, not because of their aims, but because of their methods. It was natural, therefore, that a government seeking to represent the bulk of the people should treat the apologists of insurrection as enemies; and it was no less natural that they should return the compliment. As Clemenceau was to put it half a century later, they were on opposite sides of the barricade. The Reds, if by this we mean the men ready to fight in the street,

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were a minority even among the working people of Paris. But all the "advanced" elements in the capital and the great industrial centers could never be brought to accept the fundamental assumption of democratic rule, political equality among the citizens. That the enlightened city dwellers should be outvoted by herds of peasants seemed to them an outrage. Oddly, they and Thiers agreed in denouncing "the vile multitude." Only Thiers meant by this insulting term the scum of the cities; the Radicals meant the men with the hoe, the slow-witted, avaricious peasants as Zola and Maupassant were to depict them. Much as the Empire, an industrial and commercial regime, did for the cities, it could never win their allegiance. At the first plebiscite and at the last, Paris stood in opposition. We have stated, without attenuation, the obvious case against the Radicals; by their own "democratic" principle, they stood condemned. But if we disregard abstractions, the situation appears in a different light. It was simply a fact that the Paris electorate was more "advanced," more generous and more intelligent, than the countryside. If "enlightened despotism," not democracy, were a valid formula, the cities would be entitled to leadership. We can sympathize with the spirit of the Parisians, who resisted the massive tyranny of the dull and who refused to be bludgeoned, cajoled or bribed into cooperation with the Empire. Resistance, in their minds, meant the defense of the spirit. "Enlightened despotism": what would have happened if Napoleon III had swung over to the enlightened despotism which was the secret desire of the Paris Radicals ? The hypothesis is not absurd. His own political and social program was at least as bold as theirs, and he would undoubtedly have liked to proceed faster with it. At one time, such a shift seemed a possibility. In 1859, the Italian war was approved by the advanced elements, while the Conservatives were divided and on the whole hostile. As he left

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for the front, Napoleon III went through the working districts of Eastern Paris, traditional hotbeds of Republicanism, and he was acclaimed with spontaneous warmth. Although his victory in that campaign was indecisive, he and his troops were received on their return with universal enthusiasm. It was the most glorious day of the reign, unforgotten even twenty years after Sedan. T o be sure, the memories of the fourth of December 1851, stood against such a reconciliation, but the career of Chiang Kai-shek shows that a leader may be accepted, under changed circumstances, by the very men whom he has fiercely combated. In 1815, Republicans and Jacobins were ready to rally to Napoleon I, if he had given them a chance. This is not an idle might-have-been', it remained a constant alternative. The policy we have indicated was the one defended by Prince Napoleon: the modern Caesar should not seek to be the heir of Bourbons or Orleans, he should make himself the crowned leader of the democratic and social revolution. Napoleon III was reticent — perhaps unfathomable, perhaps simply nebulous; we do not know to what extent he ever was tempted to follow the course indicated by his cousin.4 Had he done so, it would be curiously easy for us to prove that he was acting in full harmony with his own desires, as well as with his written and spoken promises; Prince Napoleon was merely urging him to be more daringly, more consistently himself. For the Emperor's quiet refusal to be swerved by his fiery kinsman, many causes may be suggested, although none can be considered as scientifically established. The first is purely personal. To resist the Empress, to break with his traditional supporters, to dismiss the servants who for ten years had contributed to the 4

Beside the familiar "enlightened despots" of the eighteenth century, so dear

to the Philosophes,

there was a contemporary example in Japan, that of the Meiji

era. Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) was also a progressive, if not a benevolent, despot.

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magnificent success of the reign, would have been a desperate adventure, harder to face than the great gambles of other days — Strasbourg, Boulogne, the election of 1848, the Coup d'fitat. The cool, determined conspirator was past middle age; his body was already weakened by disease, his will had lost its firmness. He knew too well what he had to lose; he had no faith in the associates that would be thrust upon him. He was not certain that the Radicals would rally to him if he offered himself as their leader. He had preserved a very genuine affection for Prince Napoleon, who would have to be his right-hand man; but he knew that the Prince, in spite of his brilliant gifts, was hated by many, and trusted by none. 5 But we surmise there were deeper causes. Napoleon III, a clearer thinker in this respect than Victor Hugo, believed that the will of the vast majority has to be accepted as "the will of the people," and public opinion did not favor the Radicals. Even though he agreed with their general tendency, he knew that their immediate policy might lead to a catastrophe. They wanted to start a violent anticlerical movement at home, a crusade for the liberation of oppressed nationalities abroad. N o w the Emperor was free from that hatred for the priests which had become a phobia in the minds of Hugo, Michelet, Quinet, and Prince Napoleon. If he wanted, as ardently as they, to reconstruct Europe on an antidespotic and fraternal basis, he had ceased to believe in the efficacy of an armed crusade. The immediate problem, in 1863, was the Polish insurrection; even by appealing to all the pent-up nationalisms of Central and Eastern Europe, he could not cope singlehanded with the predatory powers — Russia, Austria, Prussia — closely united in the defense of their loot. From England, he 5

If both Napoleon HI and the Prince Imperial had died — and neither of them was robust — Prince Napoleon would have become Napoleon IV: a curious chapter might be added to that pregnant little book, //, or History Rewritten (New York: The Viking Press, 1931).

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could expect no assistance, and not even sympathy. T h e Italian campaign, as well as age and infirmities, had had a sobering effect. H a d he felt himself, in Lombardy, in control of a perfect strategic instrument, he might have taken a bolder attitude. But he knew how narrow had been the margin of victory; he knew that he was no military genius himself; and he knew no less clearly that there was no military genius among his followers. So he tacitly declined to become the Emperor of the Jacobins. There was a leftward tendency within the regime; his minister of Public Education, Victor Duruy, was a progressive, and as such bitterly combated by the Church party; Prince Napoleon and Sainte-Beuve, in the Imperial Senate, were allowed to deliver great speeches against clericalism; Louis Veuillot, the ultramontane journalist, was sharply rebuked. But the yoke of Poland was made more crushing, and the French troops remained in Rome. A n d from his exile in Guernsey, Victor H u g o kept hurling his thunderbolts at "Tiberius."

6

6

It was a great blunder on the part of Louis Napoleon to minimize the political importance of Hugo, and modern historians should not repeat the same mistake; Hugo crystallized the hostility of the rising generation as none of the other survivors of 1848 could have done. He was not an enemy of Louis Napoleon from the start; indeed he might have been the Chateaubriand of the Bonapartist Restoration. Not only had he contributed, magnificently, to the spread of Napoleon-worship {"Napoleon, ce dieu dont tu seras le pretre . . ."), but in 1848 his paper had supported the Prince's candidacy: early in 1849, he was considered a member of the Elysee group and likely to receive a Cabinet position. The offer never came; but his frustration is not, as cynics would have it, the sole cause of his anti-Bonapartism. He had been steadily evolving toward the Left, and in 1849, the President appeared as the instrument of the Right. By 1851, he had already uttered words which could not be withdrawn: "Augustulus . . . Napoleon the Little. . . ." The Prince and his advisers were cruelly punished for not understanding the full measure of the poet's power: the Louis Napoleon that survived in many people's minds was the grotesque and sinister figure in Les Chdtiments. Gautier was right: Tout passe: I'art robuste Seul a I'eternite . . . A Second Empire with Lamartine, Hugo, and Vigny as its laureates, as it might very well have been, is another If worth pondering.

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Π In the constitution which Louis Napoleon submitted to the people, the reality of power went to the President, elected directly by the nation as a whole. He was to be assisted, in his legislative capacity, by a body of technicians, the Council of State. As Chief Executive, he had an excellent instrument ready, a bureaucracy with a tradition almost as long as that of the Capetian monarchy. President, Council of State, Bureaucracy: this was the substance of the system. The Senate was a mere ornament, and a means of rewarding the supporters of the regime — otium cum dignitate, and 30,000 francs a year. For a Legislative Assembly, Louis Napoleon had no real use at all, and his rule would have gained in consistency if that shadow had been removed. But, since the French Revolution, no governmental machinery was deemed complete without such a cog, and he was not daring enough to challenge the tradition. He only saw to it that the assembly should function as smoothly and as inaudibly as possible, preferably in a vacuum. The deputies could accept or reject, but not freely amend, the bills presented to them by the Council of State; the Ministers were not responsible to the Legislative Body, and did not appear before it. The sittings were not open to the public; no in extenso report was given out, but only a meager factual summary. France had suffered from a plethora of oratory. Louis Napoleon anticipated the excellent advice of Paul Verlaine: "Take Eloquence, and wring its neck!" In short, the Assembly was purely vestigial, an appendix tolerated so long as it caused no trouble. An additional precaution was taken against a return to parliamentary disputes: the representatives, although elected by manhood suffrage and secret ballot, were in reality handpicked by the administration. "Official candidates" were designated, and favored in every possible way, short of open bribery and violent coercion. If the regime had been in any sense parliamentary, these practices

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would have made it a farce; as the Assembly was powerless, its mode of election mattered very little. For this deepseated distrust of an electorate which had just endorsed him so unanimously, Louis Napoleon had an excellent reason. In December 1848, he had been chosen by a huge majority of the French people; in May 1849, the same voters returned an Assembly absolutely out of sympathy with him. H e had not changed, and they had not changed, but partisan elections, worse confounded by local influences and local issues, were but a "shattered mirror" and could not reflect the country as a whole. This time he was determined that "the general will" (a Rousseauistic conception) should not be thwarted by the old oligarchies. Since France manifestly desired to be governed by a Bonaparte, any opponent of Bonapartism was "misrepresentative." The result was all that could be desired. In 1852, only three Republicans were returned, Cavaignac, Carnot, Henon; as they refused to take the oath of allegiance, they were not permitted to take their seats. Only the Catholic leader Montalembert, who had supported the Coup d'fitat, preserved in this hushed and dim atmosphere a gleam of independence; at the next elections, he was eliminated. In 1857, the official candidates polled 5,471,000 votes, the opposition 665,000. Five Republicans were returned in Paris, two in the provinces. Cavaignac died before the meeting of the new Assembly; Carnot and Goudchaux refused to take the oath.

After

the complementary elections, five members only, who remained known as " T h e Five," stood resolutely against the Empire. Their position was magnified out of all proportion with their deserts, for Henon, Darimon, Ernest Picard, were somewhat colorless personages. Jules Favre, the great orator, and a young man, Smile Ollivier, were, on the contrary, destined to play a great and tragic part in French history.

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T h e insignificance of the Legislative Body was made less humiliating by the tact and prestige of its appointed president, Morny. Morny was surrounded with a triple and quadruple aura: he was the Emperor's half-brother, his iron hand had been felt at the time of the Coup d'fitat, he was the shrewdest of

financiers,

and withal he had the manners of a grand seigneur — lavish, charmingly courteous, and nonchalantly superior. T h e Emperor was the Emperor — the idol of the rural masses, a mystery even to those w h o approached him and were won over by his kindliness. H e lived in a world apart; but Morny shone on a more obvious plane, as a man w h o m the chosen deputies could understand, admire, and, in their own limited sphere, seek to imitate. H e orchestrated and conducted with a quiet masterly hand the subdued music of the Legislative Body; even Jules Favre and fimile Ollivier refrained from impassioned eloquence when he raised his eyebrows; on the contrary, a modest provincial member was made to feel that he had contributed to the management of the mighty Empire if he asked a timid question about some country road. Morny fostered the impression that they were all, like himself, men of affairs and men of the world, averse to histrionics, discussing sensibly the practical business of the nation. Morny did not have to play a part. H e was, as we have said, no Bonapartist.

H e had begun his audacious blend of subtle

politics and high finance under Louis Philippe; he remained an Orleanist — not at heart, for he wasted little sentiment on dynastic loyalties — but to the core. His influence, which was unobtrusively great, was leaning in the direction of a parliamentary monarchy. H e had come to like the modest instrument he played so well; and he felt that, so long as he remained in the Speaker's chair, no dangerous opposition would arise. T h e Empire, on the whole, had an easy time of it during the period of "authoritarianism."

T h e French were tolerably well

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satisfied with conditions at home; the difficulties came from abroad. For several decades, the United States had no foreign policy, except the determined refusal to have any foreign policy; the Second Empire never enjoyed that blissful freedom from entanglements. T h e futile and costly Crimean war had caused discontent, but no disloyalty: the Congress of Paris seemed to consecrate French hegemony in Europe, and the country did not haggle over the cost. T h e Italian war, on the contrary, caused a sharp rift in public opinion, and created misgivings. F r o m that moment, international difficulties constantly increased.

Rome,

Mexico, Poland, were causes of annoyance, anxiety, or distress. Napoleon III felt that he had to meet this inchoate and mounting dissatisfaction: with the end of the Italian campaign began a series of measures which increased the importance of the Legislative Body. Like the success of that campaign itself, this "liberal" trend was equivocal. T h e Emperor could claim that the regime was now so glorious and so strong that the time had come for some liberty to crown the edifice. In reality, these measures were not achievements, but concessions. They were not actually wrung f r o m him by the power of the opposition, but they were the fruit of his perplexity. H e had undeniably the gift of gauging the will of the nation, but now he could no longer draw with a sure hand the resultant of antagonistic forces. A g e , sickness, the pathetic tenderness he felt for his little son, were transforming the democratic Caesar into an hereditary ruler, anxious above all to preserve his dynasty. That process took ten years; it was not absolutely complete when military disaster brutally ended the experiment. By a decree published on November 24, i860, the deputies received the right to vote an Address in response to the Speech from the Throne with which every session was opened. In the discussion of this Address, "ministers without portfolio" would offer the

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Chambers all the information they might require. It would thus be possible to pass in review at least once a year the main problems of national policy. As a corollary, by a Senatus Consultum on February 2, 1861, it was decided that the proceedings of both assemblies would now be reported in full; other authorized voices would now be heard beside the Emperor's. When Morny asked i m i l e Ollivier: "Are you satisfied?" the Republican deputy answered: "If you mean to go no farther, you are lost; if it is a beginning, you are founded." The elections of 1863 were held in an atmosphere, not of sullen anger, but of confusion and obscure dismay. The Empire still had the support of a massive majority; but the opposition gained over a million votes and many seats. Most bitter to the Government was the victory of Adolphe Thiers in Paris. He had been combated by every known method of official pressure; Persigny had no squeamishness in such matters. The fact that the virulent little antisocialist had accepted the support of the Paris radicals showed that the bourgeoisie could no longer be kept in submission by the menace of the "Red Specter." It meant also that the Parliamentary principle, the very negation of Caesarian democracy, had now in the Chamber an experienced and singularly able leader. It would have been possible to accept the situation frankly and at once. Persigny, the sole uncompromising Bonapartist on the Imperial team, was sacrificed. Morny, at the opening of the session, expressed his "pleasure" to see illustrious veterans return to the political arena. The Emperor chided him gently: politeness never hurts, but "pleasure" was rather too strong a word. In 1863, the Parliamentary Empire, which was not to be realized until 1870, was already in the offing. Morny was grooming Emile Ollivier, still nominally a Republican, for a responsible Cabinet position; and Thiers volunteered his services in terms which were not even thinly veiled.

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We have discussed above what might be called "the offer of Prince Napoleon": Caesarian democracy, enlightened despotism, at the service of "liberal" (i.e., Leftist) ideas. Now we turn to "the offer of Adolphe Thiers": Parliamentary rule under the Napoleonic dynasty. This offer was made on January 11, 1864, in a speech both studiously moderate and skillfully bold on "the liberties essential to France." 7 According to the orator, the first of these five liberties was civil or individual liberty; the second the liberty of the press; the third the liberty of the electors, who should not be subjected to any form of coercion; the fourth the liberty of the representatives, who should be free to investigate and question every act of the government; the fifth consisted in entrusting to public opinion, as embodied in the Parliamentary majority, the direction of public affairs. Upon the first four, there was little difference in principle between the Imperial government and the liberal opposition. The problem was merely one of adjustment: the repeal of a ruthless emergency law, a lighter hand in dealing with the press, more suavity in supporting official candidates, more alacrity in communicating information to the representatives. Thiers, a thorough bourgeois conservative, did not question the right of the government to curb disorder and license with a strong hand, or to endorse explicitly its loyal supporters. But the fifth liberty involved the very nature of the regime. Thiers had logic on his side when he claimed that, while an elected President could be the active and responsible head of the State, an hereditary monarch could not. He was willing to accept the dynasty, in spite of his personal attachment to the Orleans family, provided it became a passive symbol of national unity and continuity. Actual power should be in the hands of those elected by the people. If this essential liberty were offered, he said, "I for one should accept it, and I could be 7

Discours Parlementaires de Μ. Thiers (Paris, 1880), IX, 357-405.

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numbered among the obedient and grateful citizens of the Empire." The speech was not only diplomatic in tone, it was generous in its offer to forget very bitter conflicts. Many consider that in not meeting Thiers halfway Napoleon III missed a great opportunity. As so frequently happens, personal factors cannot be overlooked. The Emperor did not hate Thiers; one of the worst hated of men, he was himself incapable of hatred. Between them there was at least one bond of sympathy: Thiers had been engaged on a monumental and laudatory History of the Consulate and the Empire, and Napoleon III had referred to him as "the great national historian." But Thiers, who had been one of the sponsors of the July monarchy, stood for Orleanism if not for the Orleans; and Orleanism summed up everything that Napoleon III despised: the spirit of petty intrigue and selfish profit, the devotion to one god alone, Private Property in the narrowest and most exclusive sense, and that shortsighted cleverness ever unable to embrace the larger issues. Beside, in 1849-50, Thiers and his friends had tried to make the President their tool; he was not to be caught a second time. Tempting as the offer was, accepting it would have been a capitulation. If only fimile Ollivier had been ready! For Ollivier was, like Napoleon himself, a man of 1848, not a man of 1830. But Morny, who might have brought together the Emperor and the Republican, died in 1865; and that solution was postponed by five years. Napoleon III could not forget that, although the dynastic principle had been restored, he himself was the elect of the people, and he was not willing to accept the role of a figurehead in a parliamentary monarchy. But he recognized that his familiar method — to decide in secret and announce his action with dramatic suddenness — would no longer be adequate: the people — and he himself — were beginning to lose faith in his star. He

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adopted a compromise. He would have a "Minister of State" who would be his authorized mouthpiece. This "Advocate of the Emperor" was not to be a Prime Minister responsible before the Chamber; neither was he to be a Chancellor of the Bismarckian type, for no authority was delegated to him. His sole function was to explain. For this position, he chose Auguste Billault. The selection was excellent, for Billault, a staunch supporter of the regime, possessed the mellowness, the insinuating skill, which rarely have a chance to develop under an absolute ruler. Unfortunately, Billault died in October 1863. As his successor, the Emperor appointed Eugene Rouher. Rouher was just under fifty, a robust, thickset, hard-working Auvergnat from Riom. He had a good although unsensational record as Minister under the Republic and the Empire. If oratory was to be a factor again, he could provide a very effective if not a very distinguished brand. Never downright histrionic, he knew how to be dramatic. Never consciously humorous, he could mimic his opponents with a success which exasperated the short and shrill Adolphe Thiers. A n Imperialist with conservative leanings — after the Emperor's death, he sided unhesitatingly with the Empress against the democratic Bonapartism of Prince Napoleon — he had no very definite policy of his own. If he cannot be held solely responsible for any disastrous decision, neither did he show the way out of any difficulty. His business was to give a plausible and eloquent interpretation of what had become an aimless drift. In so doing, he exaggerated and hardened, for the sake of immediate effect, vague impulses which could still have been checked in the Emperor's mind by a more positive counselor. It was he who dubbed the Mexican imbroglio "the deepest inspiration of the reign," and thus made it harder for Napoleon III to extricate himself. It was he also who emphatically asserted that never would the Italians be allowed to enter Rome. Napoleon III

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reminded him, with his melancholy smile, that in politics one should never say Never! The sovereign must have realized the coarse quality of the instrument he had chosen; but in his increasing weariness and self-doubt he was comforted from day to day by the physical vigor, the very obviousness, the elementary assurance of the man they called "the Vice-Emperor." Poland prostrate again, Denmark despoiled and crushed, Sadowa, Queretaro, Mentana. France herself was still physically unharmed, but the series of setbacks, wrong guesses, false moves on the part of the Government was unbroken, and the one "victory," Mentana, 8 was to many Frenchmen more humiliating than a disaster. The ambiguous dream of reconstructing Europe by just and peaceful means while increasing the hegemony of France had become hopelessly clouded. The fate of the continent was again decided without France's consent, as under Louis Philippe. A n economic crisis, following the artificial stimulation of the Exposition, made public opinion more restive. Catholics, Royalists, Republicans, sharply criticized the sovereign and the regime. A n d that regime, founded upon the principle of energy, no longer had the energy to react. While the opposition was becoming more virulent, the old safeguards were weakened. In 1868, political meetings were allowed, and the press, already substantially free, received practically full license to defame and insult those in power. A swarm of Republican papers arose noisily. Among them was a little red-covered weekly, La Lanier tie·, the author, a smart-set journalist and boulevardier wit, Henri Rochefort, 9 turned scurrilous buffoonery into a formidable weapon; the C f . Chapter V , p. 110-111. " Henri, Marquis de Rochefort-Lugay, is perhaps with Morny and Galliffet the best specimen of the Second Empire style, in which a certain dash is a compensation for the lack of more austere virtues — frivolity with a rapier. He, like Galliffet, survived to take part in the Dreyfus Case; paradoxically, the old soldier was found on the liberal side, the old revolutionist among the defenders of the General Staff. 8

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new generation accepted as straight history the caricature of the Empire drawn by Hugo, Rochefort, and Gambetta. In July 1868, Eugene Tenot published a damaging account of the Coup d'fitat, Paris en Decembre 1851. The success of this mediocre book was a portent. The Republicans rediscovered their forgotten martyr, Baudin. They did not choose to reflect that his death revealed the despair of a leader whom the people refused to follow; they spoke as though Paris had been a city of Baudins. Delescluze started a subscription for a Baudin monument. He was prosecuted under that law for General Security which Thiers had denounced, and which had long been dormant. It was a costly blunder: the subscription was going none too well, but the trial gave Delescluze's counsel, Leon Gambetta, a magnificent opportunity to display his dramatic southern eloquence. The bohemian lawyer, famous only in the taverns of the Latin Quarter, sprang into national fame. Jules Favre was aging and had led too long a hopeless opposition; Ollivier was ready to become a turncoat; the young Republicans wanted new men, ardent like themselves, and in Gambetta they found their chief. The feverish elections of May 1869 gave the opposition overwhelming majorities in all the great cities; as the disastrous returns came, the Imperial circle was in consternation. The rural districts came to the rescue; in the country as a whole the Imperialists were still in the lead, but by a precarious margin — 4,438,000 against 3,355,000. And a "Third Party" had come into existence, loyal to the dynasty, but demanding liberal reforms; it held the balance of power. Rouher and the Empress still spoke of fighting it out. Persigny, of clearer sight, wrote: "Let the Emperor appeal to a new generation; the men of December, such as myself, are through." Napoleon III understood. Rouher was dismissed, promoted to a gilded sinecure, the Presidency of the Senate. Haussmann too, the autocratic Prefect who had rebuilt

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Paris, was sacrificed. The old Empire, authoritarian or semiliberal, was nearing its end. A n d that summer, the sovereign himself seemed to be under sentence of death. Tortured by disease, he fell at times into a sort of stupor. They wheeled his chair into the council chamber; they paraded his comatose body in the Champs-Elysees; but his intimates had lost hope. Yet ruler and regime were to revive. The ailing man improved; he met the political situation calmly, without haste, and with at least something of his old quiet daring. After a stopgap ministry, he appointed as responsible Premier fimile Ollivier, so long a leader of the Republican opposition, who officially assumed power on January 2, 1870. There was an unexpected resurgence of good will. Moderate Republicans, Orleanists, liberal Bonapartists, appeared to unite with Ollivier in wishing "to give the Emperor a happy old age." The French Academy, unremitting in its opposition throughout the reign, elected fimile Ollivier to membership as a sign of reconciliation. The malignant fever seemed to be over. The new trend of better feeling was so strong that it enabled the Empire to withstand a disastrous accident. Prince Pierre Bonaparte, son of Lucien, 10 was living in retirement at Auteuil, in the west of Paris. Once a member of the Extreme Left, violent, undisciplined, this black sheep of the imperial family had no contact with the official world. But Corsican clannishness or sheer pugnacity had led him, in the stormy days just past, to engage in virulent controversies with the Republicans. A journalist and a friend of Rochefort, Victor Noir, came to challenge him in his home; believing himself threatened, the Prince shot him dead (January 10). T w o days later, a hundred thousand men, in a dangerous mood, attended the funeral of the murdered Republican. Had Rochefort given the word, a fierce battle would have been fought in the street. 10

Cf. Chapter VII, p. 147-148.

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Rochefort refrained; not because he shared in the new spirit of reconciliation, but because he knew that his mob was no match for the army, and that the population of Paris had no desire to rise. Ollivier handled the case well, the perilous hour went by, and the new Cabinet was not shaken. This transformation of the Empire into a parliamentary monarchy went beyond a mere reform: it amounted to a new constitution, and the fact was recognized by the Senatus Consultum of April 20, 1870. Rouher, the deposed Vice-Emperor, did not approve of the new trend. It was he who, as President of the Senate, demanded that this radical change in "the fundamental pact" be submitted to a popular vote. The enfeebled Emperor hesitated before such a risk. But Rouher had democratic logic and Napoleonic precedent on his side; he was seconded by £mile Ollivier himself; and his advice prevailed. The people was asked solemnly to ratify "the liberal reforms introduced by the Emperor since i860." This bold and clever move helped the Empire to end, as it had begun, in an ambiguity. A n affirmative vote meant approving "liberal" tendencies; it also meant endorsing a regime which was authoritarian in its origin. It would consecrate a Parliamentary Constitution; but it would do so by reviving the one great instrument of Caesarism, the plebiscite. The most Orleanist-minded among the ministers resigned; they did not want to have "a trap always ready to open under their feet." The Republicans protested; they knew that between the established regime and their ill-defined, untried program, the masses would hardly hesitate. So the conservatives were urged by a very active committee to vote in favor of the liberal reforms, and the radicals campaigned no less vigorously against them. On the 8th of May 1870, Paris once more led the opposition, and the great cities followed the example of the capital. But this

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time the provinces had been thoroughly mobilized. When the full returns were known, there were 7,336,000 Ayes, 1,560,000 Noes. It looked as though the throne were secure for Napoleon IV. On the twenty-first the results were solemnly proclaimed, in the last great ceremony of the regime and one of the most impressive. The Emperor looked younger; there was an unusual tremor of joy in his even-toned voice: "Between revolution and the Empire, the country has been challenged to choose, and has chosen. . . . My government shall not deviate from the liberal line that it has traced for itself. . . . More than ever, we may envisage the future without fear." These exulting words were confirmed by the dismay of the Republicans. "The Empire is stronger than ever," confessed Gambetta. By returning to its origin, the Napoleonic system had gained, as Jules Favre was compelled to admit, a new lease of life. There was no deepseated or mystic loyalty to the Bonaparte family, but, in 1870 as in 1848, the nation wanted to avert both reaction and upheaval. She clung to order as the first condition of liberty.

CHAPTER XII T H E D A Y OF J U D G M E N T /. Sedan H E conventional story of the Franco-Prussian war is easily told. A futile and corrupt government, bent on retrieving its prestige, wantonly provoked Prussia; or — an even more damaging version — it fell into the trap prepared by Bismarck. Ill-disciplined, poorly supplied, worse commanded, the boasted Imperial armies were utterly defeated in less than seven weeks. "God is not mocked": after eighteen years of insolent success, the "crime" of December 2, 1851, was punished at last, and Republican virtue reigned once more. From the orthodox English point of view, the lesson was drawn by Carlyle: "That noble, patient, deep, pious and solid Germany should at length be welded into a Nation, and become Queen of the Continent, instead of vapouring, vainglorious, gesticulating, quarrelsome, restless and over-sensitive France seems to me the hopefulest public fact that has occurred in my time." 1 The most dangerous feature of this popular account is that it cannot be dismissed as altogether wrong. Frivolousness in high places and chauvinistic hysteria cannot be denied. Blundering diplomacy, faulty organization, incompetent generalship, were patent and inexcusable. On all these counts, the France of 1870 was guilty, as, mutatis mutandis, the France of 1940 was guilty. But from a true indictment it is possible to draw fallacious conse-

T

1

"Latter Stage of the French-German War, 1870-71," a letter to the Editor of The Times, dated 11 Nov. 1870; in Critical and Miscellaneous Essays (Centenary ed., London, 1899), V, 49-59.

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quences, and two of these have been clouding historical thought for nearly three-quarters of a century. The first fallacy is that because the defeated was wrong the victor must inevitably be held blameless. This implies a barbaric faith in the arbitrament of the sword. World history is God's judgment is only a more sacrilegious version of Might is Right. There was much that we condemned in the Poland that had been fashioned by Pilsudski, but this does not make Hitler an angel of light. If the France of 1870 was vainglorious and over-sensitive, we need not admit that Bismarckian Germany was noble, deep, and pious. Selfishness, deceit, and brutality may have their share in military success. Victory is an indispensable means, but never an argument. This point we shall not elaborate, for it is not relevant to our purpose. The second fallacy is a very ancient and very effective one: the scapegoat. In 1940, the defunct Front Populaire was made responsible for the downfall of France, although England, under a series of Conservative Cabinets, had shown herself even more vacillating and worse prepared than her ally. In 1870, the temptation to find a scapegoat was even greater. For eighteen years, France had lived under a personal regime. The head of the State claimed full authority and assumed full responsibility. Had France been victorious, his prestige would undoubtedly have been increased; France was defeated, and he should accept the blame. So he was sent into the wilderness, bearing upon him the iniquities of the people. He accepted this sacrificial role quietly, without recrimination. We cannot seek to mitigate his guilt without appearing to be more of an Imperialist than the Emperor. Yet there are three points — universally known, unchallenged — upon which we must insist, for they are seldom presented in their proper perspective. The first is that, for the general policy which made war almost inevitable, all parties were responsible;

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the doctrine in which Napoleon III believed, on the contrary, if it had been consistently applied, would not have led to a catastrophe. The second is that, for the military unpreparedness of France in 1870, the Liberal and Republican oppositions were chiefly to blame. The third is that the foolish declaration of war was not the whim of an autocrat, but was forced by those powers which claimed to represent public opinion — Cabinet, Parliament, the press, the mob in the streets of Paris. The "crime" of Napoleon III — and we have no desire to condone it — is that he was untrue to his own principle and his own judgment. Chosen to command, he had sunk to the level of a Ledru-Rollin: "I have to follow them, since I am their leader." 11 Politicians may be — or deem themselves to be — realistic; but politics is the domain of dreams, legends, hallucinations, and passions. What makes the writing of history such a hopeless task is that the protagonists are, to borrow Bismarck's word, "imponderables"; hard-headed statesmen are made to do the bidding of shadows. We have seen that, as late as 1870, there still lived in France a desire for the reconquest of the "natural frontiers," and for the final destruction of the Vienna Diktat. This was sentiment pure and simple; the left bank of the Rhine was not indispensable to the security of France or to her prosperity. The root of the evil was something less tangible than territorial expansion, it was a matter of prestige. Until the treaties of Vienna had been expunged, French "honor" would remain unsatisfied. More tenuously and more searchingly still, France felt intolerably humiliated if anything happened in Europe without her knowledge and consent. Because Prussia defeated Austria at Königgrätz (Sadowa) on July 3, 1866, French pride was wounded to the quick. From that moment, France could not recover her self-respect as a Great

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Power until Prussia in her turn had been snubbed and thwarted. It took four years for the quarrel to break out openly, but the conflict started on that day. Viewed from a different continent and a different century, such a feeling appears absurd. The Austro-Prussian war was purely a German affair. 2 Neither the French nor any friends of theirs were attacked or menaced by that family quarrel. The sympathies of the Emperor and of "advanced" opinion in France were on the side of Prussia; at the news of Sadowa, Paris spontaneously illuminated. Austria had been for centuries the rival of France; she was considered as chiefly responsible for the hated Vienna settlement and for the oppressive Metternich system throughout Europe. She stood for dynastic imperialism and clerical reaction. The two countries had fought only seven years before; Sadowa completed the work left unfinished at Solferino. It was only after a few days that Sadowa appeared in the light of a French disaster. Yet the only "loss" suffered by France was the opportunity for aggression: Germany, more compactly united, with a more resolute leader, would be better able to resist French encroachments. But this "loss" could hardly be admitted: Louis Napoleon, before his accession, had promised peace; he had solemnly declared the era of conquests to be over; he professed not to desire any change unless it were in accord with the wishes of the population. The grievance felt by the French was that the balance of power had been altered to their detriment. It is well to bear in mind that the balance of power is the negation of equality. A true "balance" would accord to Germans, Italians, or Poles exactly the same rights as to Frenchmen. What is meant by "equilibrium" is that existing supremacies should not be challenged. So long as * With Italy playing a minor part — already! — as Prussia's hanger-on, and getting herself thoroughly trounced on land and sea.

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Germany and Italy were divided into squabbling principalities, France, one and indivisible, was unquestionably the greatest of continental powers, non pluribus impar. Her ancient policy, already well defined under Francis I, gloriously successful under Richelieu and Louis XIV, consisted in maintaining that discrepancy: tolerate no dissent at home, encourage every quarrel within your neighbor's house. Because this rule of conduct is crudely cynical, it has been hailed as "realistic," while Napoleon's principle of free, self-determined nationalities was declared Utopian. Traditionalist historians still deplore that Napoleon III did not intervene in 1866 to halt the process of German unification. Not only is that naive Machiavellism applied in judging the events of three generations ago, but Charles Maurras and his school condemned the victors, in 1919, for not undoing Bismarck's work and restoring medieval chaos. Again in 1939, they proclaimed that Germany, when defeated, should be torn asunder. The greatness of France demanded it. We are inclined to believe that Europe would be happier if the quarrelsome artificial units known as "the Great Powers" were to be disrupted. But this healthy regionalism, the basis of a free and peaceful European union, should apply to France no less than to her neighbors. Yet for all right-minded Frenchmen, it is blasphemy to doubt the benefits of France's rigorous unity; and it would have been a crime of lese patrie, in 1866, to tolerate Germany's enjoyment of the same privilege. Germany did achieve unity, and France fell, as the prophets had foretold. But it was not German unity that proved fatal to France, it was France's determination to frustrate German unity. On the morrow of Sadowa, the Empress, strongly biased in favor of Austria and easily swayed by the thought of prestige, urged immediate and determined action. She was seconded by Drouyn de Lhuys, the Foreign Secretary, a diplomat of the old

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school. Rouher, the powerful Minister of State, advised against the risk of war. The Emperor, suffering acutely from a stone in the bladder and perhaps also from some spinal trouble, had lost the power to decide. His stammering offer of mediation was received with an ironical smile. Prussia dictated her own terms, which were at the same time drastic and moderate. She took nothing from Austria, except the power to interfere in German affairs. As a pitying sop to French vanity, Venice was formally ceded to Napoleon III, who at once turned it over to Italy. With an unfairness which is the very essence of party politics, the opposition began harping at once upon "the shame of Sadowa." Thiers, Jules Favre, Louis Blanc, all proclaimed that through the craven and blundering policy of the Emperor France had been reduced to the position of a secondary power. Under their taunts, Napoleon III yielded to the idea that France should seek compensations for Prussia's increased power. It seems that at first the imperial inner circle, and particularly the Empress, thought of asking outright for the whole left bank of the Rhine: panic alone could account for such madness. The actual requests which Benedetti, the French Ambassador to Prussia, was instructed to make were not so sweeping: only the Palatinate, the Rhineland up to Mainz, the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, and Belgium. This preposterous demand was a godsend to Bismarck. He took good care that it be made public; Germany as a body rallied round him; the whole of Europe denounced the rapacious, the insatiable ambition of the French. Napoleon III, to save his face, had to pretend that he had been misunderstood: the Foreign Secretary, Drouyn de Lhuys, consented to be sacrificed, and resigned. This time the humiliation was real — all the more real for being deserved. France had never forgiven Louis Philippe for the snub suffered in 1840, but Louis Philippe frankly stood for

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peace at any price. The Empire, on the contrary, lived to a large extent on prestige, and that prestige was found to be mere bluster. Even minor concessions, a few cities in the Sarre region, were denied. Finally, Napoleon III thought he had secured some kind of compensation: the K i n g of the Netherlands, suzerain of Luxemburg, was willing to dispose of the Grand Duchy. The consent of the inhabitants would be easily won; culturally, the upper classes were almost as French as in Alsace. But the status of the duchy was tangled; the fortress of Luxemburg belonged to the German Confederation; and when the news of the proposed deal leaked out, German opinion violently opposed the transfer. Once more, France and Prussia were on the brink of war; once more, moderation prevailed. The duchy was made independent and neutral; it remained within the German Zollverein, and its fortress was dismantled. Peace was preserved through that anxious winter, and in 1867, Napoleon III entertained in Paris, with truly imperial splendor, all the sovereigns of Europe. 3 Still the "shame of Sadowa" rankled; and the opposition saw to it that the wound did not heal. T o "be avenged for Sadowa" meant, ultimately, a trial of strength with Prussia. The contest could have been a peaceful one, if France had been overwhelmingly superior to her rival; with a mere gesture, the upstart could have been taught her proper place. But this superiority France could not hope to achieve without alliances and a thorough reorganization of her armed forces. The alliances came to nothing, not so much through the incompetence of individual diplomats as from the very conditions of the problem. Austria too wanted to "get even" with Prussia; but, after two unsuccessful wars, and in the throes of an internal crisis, she could only promise defensive support in case France 9 T h e only notable exceptions were Queen Victoria, who was living in deep retirement; and Victor Emmanuel II, on account of the Roman imbroglio.

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were attacked. The minor German states defeated by Prussia in 1866 might be induced to turn against their conqueror, but only if they could do so without treason to the greater German Fatherland; the days were fortunately over when princes could aid a foreign power bent upon annexing German territory. Italy wanted her price, which was reasonable enough — her own capital — and this, to the very last moment, the French conservatives refused to consider. France alone should have been a match for Prussia and the Southern German States combined; her resources in men and material were great. But the lesson of Prussian efficiency had to be taken to heart. The will power of Napoleon III was enfeebled by his disease, but not his intelligence. He was well informed about German military progress through his Berlin attache. He understood the need for a radical reform — short-term universal military service, large well-trained reserves; and he found the right man to propose it and carry it out in Marshal Niel. Unfortunately, Niel's plan was sabotaged in official circles even before it reached the Chambers. Many of the Generals were averse to the change: reserves for them meant only a mob; all they wanted was a longer term, nine years instead of seven. The reform was further damaged, in the course of discussion, by a vast, loose, and irresistible opposition. The bourgeoisie was hostile. In theory, all Frenchmen were liable to military duty. But only a certain contingent was called each year, selected by drawing lots; and those who were thus drafted could buy a substitute. In this manner, the rich did not serve. Genuine conscription would take away their most cherished privilege, that of spreading throughout the world the terror and glory of French arms, while remaining safely at home. The Republicans had no desire to increase the power and pride of a military government. The ideal of universal peace and dis-

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armament which they professed was lofty; it would have been practical as well, if it had not been coupled with a spirited and aggressive foreign policy: to liberate Poland, to reconquer the national frontiers, to avenge the humiliation of Sadowa. They were above all the victims of a legend, that of the volunteers of 1792. Like William Jennings Bryan, they believed that a democracy had only to stamp her foot, and up would surge a host of a million men. They did not know that the raw legions who had rushed to defend la Patrie en danger broke into a panic at the first encounter and shot their officers. Spirit is a vital need; a sullen mass, even well drilled, has no fighting power; but spirit alone can never be a substitute for discipline, training, numbers, and equipment. Napoleon III, aware of the peril, had velleities of resuming, in this national emergency, the authority he had almost abdicated. He thought of dissolving the Chamber and appealing to the country. Rouher advised against such a move; it would result, he said, in a massive victory for the opposition. France refused to match Prussia's military effort, and at the same time, she wanted to deny Prussia the rank and influence of a great power. This paradoxical and tragic situation brings out one of the great flaws of the Imperial regime. We have constantly to repeat the word prestige, for it was to a large extent the keynote of the reign. The government had bluffed the country into the belief that the French armies were invincible; why, then, thought the plain citizens, should we enlarge and recast an instrument which is already the best in the world Ρ If Napoleon III had suffered rebuffs in the diplomatic field, it could be only through lack of the proper spirit. It was hard, after fifteen years, to admit that all was not for the best in the best possible Empire. A general election, with its tangle of innumerable issues, would have deepened the political chaos. The Empire could have been

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saved only through its original principle, Caesarian democracy. If Napoleon III had consulted the people directly, through a solemn referendum, it is probable that the proposed reform would have been turned down. But then it would have been easier to draw from this decision the inevitable lesson: a nation that refuses to arm must give up the questionable prestige of a "great power"; she is committed to a passive policy — peace at any price. The function of a government should be to clarify the mind of the country; most governments, on the contrary, dread nothing so much as definiteness, and attempt to live, from day to day, on blufi, compromise, and equivocation. By 1868, the Empire had become very "liberal" indeed.4 Napoleon III, at any rate, had drawn the lesson; if France refused to keep up the armament race with Prussia, her policy should be definitely peaceful. As we must constantly repeat, he was infinitely weary. His one desire was to reach without catastrophe the year 1874, when he could abdicate in favor of the Prince Imperial. When fimile Ollivier proposed the Due de Gramont as Foreign Secretary, the Emperor acquiesced in a tone which revealed his negative attitude: "Gramont or another, it matters little, since we are resolved to do nothing." Then, on July 2, 1870, came the thunderbolt — the candidacy of a Hohenzollern prince to the throne of Spain. πι Again, the provocation was a mere phantom. As John Lemoinne pointed out in the Journal des Debats, dynastic considerations count for very little in modern diplomacy. William II was the nephew of Edward VII, but it was with Republican France that England contracted an Entente Cordiale. The candidate, ' T h e law, as it was finally passed on January 14, 1868, actually weakened the French army; for the term of service was reduced f r o m seven years to five, without sufficient compensation in the form of adequately trained reserves.

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Prince Leopold, was only a very remote cousin of the Prussian King. He belonged to the Catholic branch of the family, and was therefore in closer sympathy with Vienna than with Berlin. His brother had become ruler of Rumania through the good offices of Napoleon III himself. To talk of "a new Empire of Charles V " was solemn but childish nonsense. No doubt it was unfriendly on the part of Bismarck and the Spanish Caudillo Marshal Prim to have plotted this move without consulting France; but Napoleon III, who had so often traveled through secret paths, was hardly justified in complaining. Both Spain and Prussia wanted to make it manifest that the (vacant) will of the French Emperor no longer was the law of Europe. Their ignoring him was meant to emphasize the lesson of Sadowa: French hegemony was at an end. Nations, even great nations, can thrive without exercising hegemony. Yet hegemony is a cherished idol for which men are ready to die. The whole opposition assumed a belligerent attitude. The very men who had proposed the abolition of standing armies were now clamoring for a fight. Gambetta urged "a national war"; Jules Favre considered the action of Bismarck as a casus belli·, Jules Simon wrote that France would forfeit her security and her dignity if she did not veto the candidacy of Prince Leopold. Orleanist, Legitimist, Republican papers were filled with the same martial ardor. The "authoritarian" Bonapartists like Cassagnac, the friends of Prince Napoleon like Edmond About, were not lagging behind. The press, in 1870, was completely, even defiantly free; never, even in the days of strictest censorship, had unanimity been so complete.5 Then the cause of all this uproar disappeared. After complicated negotiations between France, Prussia, Prince Leopold, and 6

"Nous avons rarement vu regner un tel accord dans les organes des differents partis" (Francis Magnard, Le Figaro, July 7, 1870).

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his father Prince Anthony, the candidacy was purely and simply withdrawn. Bismarck had wanted to score a point, and he had failed. It was still unwise to ignore France, and there would be no Prussian K i n g in Madrid. Peace seemed assured. But this modest victory no longer satisfied the fiery patriots. N o w was the time to humble Prussia in her turn, and thus avenge "the shame of Sadowa." Prince Leopold was out of the way; but the King must pledge himself never to allow a prince of his house to be a candidate to the Spanish throne. For this new and peremptory demand, those were chiefly responsible who were seeking, not the happiness of France, but the prestige of the Empire, and who wanted to use that restored prestige in order to check the liberal trend in the regime. Foremost among them was the Empress. She may not have urged war as a deliberate policy; she probably never said: "It will be my w a r " ; but her most devoted apologists, Augustin Filon, Maurice Paleologue, leave no room for doubt that she stood for defiance, not for conciliation. The King of Prussia, then at the summer resort of Ems, acted quietly and correctly. T o the insistent requests of the French A m bassador Benedetti he answered that, away from his ministers, he could take no official engagement. The last conversation was brief, but courteous. We are not sure, even now, that Bismarck had for years, or even for months, deliberately prepared a trap; the reconstruction of history is apt to be far more logical than history itself. The game of prestige, which the French were playing, was very real to Bismarck also. When France's opposition compelled the withdrawal of Prince Leopold, he had lost a point. He now sought to win the next. He altered the tone of the despatch describing the last interview between King William and Benedetti by simply striking out a few words. Thus touched up, it would look as though the sovereign had curtly refused to listen to the French Ambassador. He sent at once to the Press the new

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version — not a downright falsehood, but distorted enough to be almost an insult. A special edition of the North German Gazette was distributed free, and Berlin went wild with exulting war enthusiasm. If France, satisfied with her substantial victory, sensibly and tamely accepted this rebuff, then Bismarck, although defeated, would have the last word: it is a matter of national pride to be insolent with impunity. But he knew that Paris, in its present temper, would not submit to another humiliation. The result would be war. For this alternative he was prepared. Like Napoleon I and Hitler, he would have preferred victory without bloodshed, but victory he must have at any cost, even durch Eisen und Blut. Before sending his fateful despatch, he asked Moltke and Roon whether they were ready. They were. His trick would compel France, not Prussia, to take the initiative of declaring war. Then the defensive alliance with the Southern German States would come into action; and for the same reason, Austria would be under no obligation to come to the support of France. All depended, at this point, upon the reaction of French opinion; and French opinion, in 1870, no longer meant the masses speaking through their Emperor, Caesarian democracy; it meant the opinion of "representative groups," elected or self-appointed — the Cabinet, the Chamber, the press, the excitable throng on the Paris Boulevards. And these "representatives," with quasiunanimity, went mad.6 Thiers, alone in his narrow, lucid, obstinate common sense, was hooted down as a traitor, fimile Ollivier, "In a country as divided — and as free — as France was in 1870, unanimity could not be expected to be more than quasi. Mr. E. Malcolm Carroll ("French Public Opinion on War with Prussia in 1870," American Historical Review, vol. xxxi, 1925-26, pp. 679-80) comes to the conclusion that "public opinion was not quite so clearly in favor of war as has generally been believed." This is a useful correction to an over-simplified view. Naturally also the more vehement writers made more of an impression upon public and historians than those who spoke better sense in a quieter voice. Sic semper. . . .

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the former Republican, the liberal, the advocate of peace and disarmament, accepted the responsibility for war "with a light heart." The press was all aflame; the Parisians, who three months before had voted against the Empire, were deliriously shouting " T o Berlin!" Behind all these "misrepresentatives," provincial France was in consternation. In seventy-four out of eighty-nine departments, the Prefects wired that the population dreaded war. George Sand, traveling through the country, found everywhere the same dismay, although no one anticipated defeat. The vast majority of Frenchmen had escaped the hysteria of Gramont, Eugenie, Ollivier, the parliament, the journalists, the mob. They were dull, but they were sane. Unfortunately, they had no way of making their desires known. At this fateful hour their natural leader was at Saint-Cloud, sane also, tragically sane. He knew, as they did, that war was senseless; he knew, as they did not, that France was not ready. If he could have appealed to them, as in 1848, 1851, 1852, and as late as May 1870, they would have supported him, eight million strong, drowning with their irresistible democratic mass the "vapouring, vainglorious, gesticulating, quarrelsome, restless, oversensitive" men who pretended to speak for them. But France had now a "liberal" constitution; the Emperor had abdicated in the spirit; and he was hurled, paralyzed and open-eyed, into the abyss. IV

By this time, the Empire was a living corpse, and my task is ended. I shall not attempt to describe the agony, the marches and counter-marches, the bewilderment, the unbelievable material confusion, the futile, despairing flashes of heroism. The Empress, now regent, has been severely blamed for interfering with military decisions. It matters little; after the initial shock, nothing

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could have retrieved the fortune of France and the Empire. Even if Gambetta, Chanzy, Faidherbe, had been in control instead of Palikao, MacMahon, Bazaine, Trochu, they might have held the enemy before Paris, they could not have driven back the larger and more solid armies of Germany. Even a lucky break would have had no morrow. The struggle would have seemed less unequal, but the issue was not in doubt. And from the first moment of the war, German opinion, not Bismarck alone, demanded Alsace.7 At Sedan, a soldier's death was denied to the man who had never been at heart a soldier. His last gesture as a sovereign was in harmony with his deeper nature: he resumed nominal command only to stop useless slaughter. A prisoner at Wilhelmshöhe near Cassel in Westphalia, he accepted without question the fall of the Empire; he made no move to plot with Bismarck for a shameful and precarious restoration. Liberated on March 19, 1871, he reached England the next day. For two years, he lived quietly at Camden Place, Chislehurst. On January 2,1873, he submitted to an operation (lithotrity) for crushing the stone which was torturing him; it went successfully. A second operation was to be performed on January 9, at noon; but he died an hour before the appointed time. It is constantly asserted that he had run the risk in order to be able to ride once more; thoughts of a return from Elba, of another Second of December, were flitting through his mind, and according to precedent, a Dictator must be "the man on horseback." He had some reasons to be hopeful. Gambetta's Republic had failed ' T h e account given by fimile Zola in La Debacle (1892) is probably not more delusive, in the main, than those found in scholarly histories; in its sordid horror, it was a pioneer. For a detailed and less damaging picture of the French armies, cf. Une ipoque: I, Le Desastre (1898), II, Les Trongons du Glaive (1901), III, Les Braves Gens (1901), by Paul and Victor Margueritte, the sons of a general who died heroically at Sedan.

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to perform the promised miracle; the Commune had had very much the same effect on French opinion as the Days of June; once more, a monarchical Assembly was in control, out of sympathy with the desires of the nation. The memories of calm and prosperous years, suddenly effaced by the catastrophe of Sedan, were reviving. Again the country, if challenged to decide, might seek under a Bonaparte order without reaction. It is probable that he did indulge in such dreams of vindication and service; but it is not proved that these dreams were hardened into a fixed purpose and a definite plan. In the absence of irrefutable evidence, it is more reasonable to imagine that he was content to entrust the Napoleonic tradition to his son, now almost of age; that son who six years later was to be killed in Zululand. T h e Empress lived until 1920 — a tragic twilight of fifty years. For many decades, Bonapartism had ceased to be even a shadow. II. Posterity? Je me souviendrai eternellement des bontes de l'Empereur et de l'Imperatrice et je resterai jusqu'ä mon dernier jour fidele a leur memoire. . . . Malgre les vaines et stupides clameurs de la rue et toutes les laches defaillances de ces derniers temps, l'Empereur peut attendre avec confiance le jugement de la posterite. Son regne restera Tun des plus glorieux de notre histoire. Louis PASTEUR 1

" T h e Emperor may await with confidence the judgment of posterity. His reign will remain among the most glorious in our history." These words written by Louis Pasteur in a glow of indignation and despair will be read by most with a pitying, melancholy smile. A t the close of this study, upon which I have been engaged for thirty years, I have no hope of altering the verdict of the unthinking. Legends, it seems, are indestructible. T o the end of time, people will believe that William Tell did shoot the b e t t e r to Marshal Vaillant, September 5, 1870; in Paul Gueriot, Napoleon (Paris, 1933-34), Π, 322.

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apple; that Frederick the Great was the incarnation of the German national spirit and the hero of the Protestant faith; that Napoleon I was the crowned soldier of the Revolution, a good European, and invincible on the battlefield; that Bismarck was a flawless realist; and that Karl Marx, single-handed, transformed Socialism from vague Utopia into rigorous science. In this world of unchallenged convention, Napoleon III stands irremediably condemned. If we pass from loose tradition to careful research, the scene changes altogether. Within the last fifty years, Napoleon III has won the respect and sympathy of practically every critical historian. The old Carlylean tone of contempt is found only in popular works or textbooks at third or fourth hand. Even the frankly biased account by the petit bourgeois Radical Charles Seignobos, a period piece of the Gambetta age, and that by Albert Thomas in an orthodox "Socialist" series are completely different in tone from the apocalyptic vituperations of Victor Hugo. On the other hand, I hate the word glorious which Pasteur applied to the reign of Napoleon III. It is not consonant with the character of the scientist, one of the most unassuming of men; it does not stand for the best in the Second Empire. In the Napoleonic sense of martial fame, we had better forget glory altogether. The Crimean War was a costly blunder; Napoleon III himself was horror-stricken on the battlefields of Italy, and whatever sickly laurels he may have won fell to dust at Sedan. If glory evokes gorgeous display, the glittering Court, the gay uniforms, the gilded Grand Opera, behold, this also is vanity. All this tarnished splendor has acquired with the years a kind of baroque charm, futile and pathetic; but it is appealing only because it is dead. What Pasteur had in mind, the true glory of Napoleon III, is that he was profoundly devoted to the cause of the masses, the

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inarticulate, the humble, the forgotten. This was his "democracy," his "socialism," a deeper reality than any constitutional form or any pseudo-scientific doctrine. In this he stands almost unique in the long line of French sovereigns. In comparison, the truly glorious rulers, Francis I, Richelieu, Louis X I V , Napoleon I, are cold and harsh; they prized France merely as their pedestal. Only three kings are remembered because there was in them a touch of tenderness for the common folk: Louis XII was called "the Father of the People," but he has become very shadowy; Louis X V I said to Turgot, "You and I alone love the people" — but his good will was a feeble reed; Henry IV is still a cherished memory, and most of all perhaps for his homely slogan, " A chicken in the pot every Sunday." In his early career, Henry of Navarre was even more of an adventurer than Louis Napoleon; when he came to power, he did not grant France any "liberties" of the Parliamentary kind; and he was no paragon of puritanical virtue. Yet to many readers, the comparison will seem absurd: Henry remains a universal favorite, the frank admirers of Napoleon III are few and apologetic. Why this difference ? First of all, Henry was murdered — a great boon. Then, in those days, there were bitter factions but no organized parties; so his successors, while reversing his policies, did not find it essential to blacken his memory. And, above all, Henry had the advantage of style. He might be frivolous, but he was bluff and hearty. He was, in the words of the old song, "the triple-threat man, who could drink, fight, and make love," all with a delightful touch of bravado. He was "French of the French," if your ideal of France is to be found in Alexandre Dumas rather than in Alfred de Vigny. Napoleon III had no dash and very little humor; he was gentleness and silence. Yet he too was recognized by the people as their friend and their leader.

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11 His faith in the people, his desire to serve the people, assumed a threefold form. In European affairs, it became the principle of nationalities, the right of self-determination ascertained by plebiscites. In the economic and social field, it manifested itself as Saint-Simonian socialism: order and prosperity, for the purpose of improving the welfare of the most numerous and poorest class. In politics, it sought realization as direct democracy, brushing aside those intermediate powers which invariably bolster privilege. Upon the first two articles of his faith, we shall insist no more. He was a better European than Bismarck or Gambetta, and a better socialist than Karl Marx, because he was less narrow than they, and not poisoned with hatred and pride. The things he labored for, confusedly, haltingly, shall come to pass if this war is not to be eternal: all nationalities free and equal within a United Europe, industrial wealth for the service of the many, not for the profit of the few. These were Utopias yesterday; they are at this hour the only alternative to strife and chaos. The third part of his creed, direct democracy, is more controversial. Rightly understood, it might be his most substantial contribution to the making of modern Europe. The ideal of Napoleon III was a national, non-partisan government. This conception is sharply opposed to the multi-party system, which is the foundation of all Parliamentary regimes; and it is even more directly antagonistic to the single-party system, which is Totalitarianism. Strictly speaking, until the fall of the Empire, Bonapartism was not a party. The State, according to this view, represents only those interests which cannot be divided without destruction, and in which every one, whatever his private opinions may be, necessarily has a share. These can be summed up in one word, security: international se-

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curity, which, ideally, means a just and durable peace, and, immediately, national defense; security at home, that is to say law and order. Its necessary instrument is a disciplined force, the army and the police. The head of the State, not for glory, but for service, is a man in uniform. This collective security should be above controversy: Salus populi suprema lex esto. The secondary task of the government is to promote general prosperity, through those improvements which do not exclusively serve private interests — public works, the development of natural resources. Whatever is factional or sectional is not the proper domain of the State; the government should be, not the agent of a victorious party, but the greatest common denominator of all private interests. Security, order, prosperity, are strictly material ends. The government which limits itself to their service is frankly a materialistic government. These things, by definition, are Caesar's. All that we can reasonably demand of Caesar is that he should perform his restricted task honestly and well. We should not expect the police or the postal authorities to be idealistic; their sole duty is to be non-partisan and to be efficient. Saint-Simonian socialism, generously Utopian as it appears, is yet in perfect harmony with this materialistic conception of the State. If the aim of the State is the common good, if the State be indeed a commonwealth, leaving private interests to private initiative, then automatically it will be devoted to "the welfare of the most numerous class," which is also the poorest. Those who are above that common level do not need the State; they can take care of themselves. In concrete terms, it is the business of the State to prevent famine, but not to provide luxuries. It should "extinguish pauperism": it should not seek to create millionaires. So long as millionaires can grow richer without causing destitution, the State does not interfere with them. But if there be a connection between luxury at one end and famine at the other, then the State has the

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right and the duty to move. The common good, the good of the common man, must first be served. This conception of the State as above parties is recognized to a large extent in the most orthodox of Parliamentary regimes. We deprecate partisanship even in elected office holders: a Mayor should be the Mayor of the city, not of the victorious faction. The spoils system is the natural consequence of the party spirit, for if all men must take sides, solidly, for the Blacks or the Greens, and if the other side is necessarily wrong in all things, then it is our duty to "turn the rascals out" — generals, engineers, and judges as well as governors, sheriffs, and dog-catchers. Yet we are now ashamed of the spoils system, and we are striving to eliminate it from public administration. In a crisis such as war, we have no doubt that common interests must take unquestioned precedence. Now the State should consider itself as constantly at war; not against other States — such a criminal thought never guided Napoleon III — but against disorder, disease, and want. Within that sphere, and for the duration of that eternal fight, there should be no parties. Napoleon III was not averse to parties because he had an autocratic temperament: on the contrary, no one could be more considerate in his relations with other men, and even with dogs. He condemned parties because, in his opinion, they had irremediable faults. Even when they were perfectly honest, their squabbles paralyzed necessary action; this had been evident under Louis Philippe and the Second Republic. But could they ever be perfectly honest? Parties are inconceivable without partisanship, which is the deliberate warping of one's thought. If a man seeks to remain impartial and free, he cannot commit himself to any party organization. Worst of all, party rule, if logically carried out, is of necessity tyrannical. The party in power attempts to impose its full program upon the defeated. To be sure, the

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minority hopes to conquer power in its turn; party government is thus a series of wrongs offset by other wrongs, which is an extremely wasteful method of never attaining the right. These are not the excesses of the party spirit, but its very essence. The only legitimate field of government action should be the nonpartisan. If we could afford to be as paradoxical as Einstein, we should say that this field is restricted, yet indefinitely extensible. The greatest common denominator may grow. We have attempted to show that Napoleon III did not believe in the "minimal State" of the philosophical anarchists. It was with him an article of faith that the government should not be defensive merely, but positive, dynamic, an instrument for the common good. In him, the policeman and the humanitarian were not at odds. The "guardian of the peace" 2 was also an agent of progress. But, if the sphere of the government is constantly expanding, there ever remains a domain beyond: the free, boundless, teeming domain of opinions — religious, social, political, artistic. So long as a thought is merely an opinion, even if it be passionately held by a majority, it has no right to turn itself into a law, binding upon the minority. Most Americans are Christians; a majority of them are Protestants. They have steadily refused to establish a State religion, or to make their creed part of the Constitution, for, by so doing, they would be outlawing dissenters, depriving Jews, Buddhists, or agnostics of their full citizenship. There are things that are not Caesar's. This Napoleon III fully understood, and therein lies the radical difference between his democracy and modern dictatorships. For they believe in the single-party system, imposing its will upon all dwellers in the land and in every domain, the ideal as well as the material. Not only must men, * In French, gardien de la paix, agent de police, sergent de ville, and in some cases gendarme all mean "police officer."

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under their rule, obey the same traffic regulations, but they must think and feel alike, or else they are crushed into silence. Beyond the expanding greatest common denominator of security, order, prosperity, the regime of Napoleon III was definitely pluralistic. It did not matter that the Empress should be at heart a Legitimist, Morny an Orleanist, Prince Napoleon a Republican, and the Emperor himself a Socialist: if they obeyed the law and sought to promote the general welfare, they could be faithful servants of the community. Persigny, because he was a mere Bonapartist, was properly voted crazy. Pluralism is not identical with liberty — one might conceive of pluralistic tyrannies existing side by side — but it is the indispensable condition of liberty. The country which seeks to impose spiritual unity, by forcible or insidious means, is not free. Authority, on the other hand, is not antagonistic to liberty. The police is the protector of our innermost freedom; it makes it possible for us to differ in peace. The Empire prohibited political meetings almost up to the end, because it was frankly committed to the suppression of factional strife. It did not abolish the liberty of the press; the blunders of a few policemen and censors should not blind us to that essential fact. Journalists were made responsible for misstatements and personal insults, but throughout the Empire there were papers which were openly Legitimist, Orleanist, Republican, anticlerical, or Ultramontane in their sympathies. Prevost-Paradol, who opposed the Empire until 1870, recognized as early as 1853 that the result of "the Tyranny" was actually to raise the intellectual and literary level of discussion. Vociferations were discouraged; incontrovertible facts stated with moderation had a chance to be heard; criticism could be sharp and even bitter, if it remained courteous. Those keen-edged weapons, allusion and irony, recovered a favor and an effectiveness they had lost since the days of Voltaire. The fearless expression of delicate thought has two

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enemies: the dead silence imposed by a despot, the universal tumult of full license; the second is the worse. Not merely expression, but thought itself is drowned by competitive bellowing; in the stillness of a jail, a man can at least hear himself think. The Second Empire was neither a jail nor a pandemonium; men could reflect, and talk. More deadly to liberty than any censor are respectable conventions, unchallenged conformities. In Victorian England, wrote Hilaire Belloc, "a sort of cohesive public spirit glued and immobilized all individual expression. One could float imprisoned as in a stream of thick substance, one could not swim against it." The public spirit of the Second Empire was not cohesive, and that is why its activity was so intense and so many-sided. Never, not even in the great moments of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, were all schools of thought so vigorously represented. Within the solid framework of the materialistic state, the richest spiritual anarchy prevailed; and in that domain, anarchy should be the only law. Many years ago, in French Prophets of Yesterday, I attempted to catalogue that unexampled surge of intellectual energy. But no critical guide can do full justice to a period in which Catholics and Protestants of all shades, Humanitarians, Freethinkers, Voltairian Rationalists, Saint-Simonians, Positivists, mystics, devil-worshippers, scientists, anarchists, socialists, believers in Art for Art's Sake, went fearlessly to the end of their thought. "Frivolous" France under the Second Empire could be amused by fancy-dress balls, by grand reviews in dashing uniforms, by Opfenbach operettas, by the sauciness of Theresa or the antics of Princess Metternich, by the light wit of Alphonse Karr, Aurelien Scholl, Albert Wolff, Arsene Houssaye, Paul de Kock, Henri Rochefort, Meilhac and Halevy. But, with the hubbub of politics almost completely hushed, she could also be stirred, as we are not,

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by philosophical and religious controversy. A lecture by Renan at the College de France was an event of national importance. His Life of Jesus, quiet and scholarly, gave rise at once to hundreds of passionate attacks and defenses. There were police regulations, but no taboos. N o cranny of human experience was left unexplored. And under that apparent chaos, there ruled a deep and definite hierarchy of values. Ill Napoleon III was, to borrow Gamaliel Bradford's phrase, a "damaged soul"; and, after i860, a damaged soul imprisoned in a damaged body. Grave, thoughtful, kind, devoted to noble causes, determined withal, fearless, and surprisingly practical, he had in him also the tortuousness of the eternal plotter, the vagueness of the Utopian, the weakened fiber of the sensualist, the fatalism of the gambler. Some characters in history are obvious in their greatness, mediocrity, or turpitude: even though our sympathies may widely differ, we feel that we can focus Washington, Victoria, Gladstone, and even Napoleon I. Napoleon III is not one of these. His elusive physiognomy changes altogether with the light that is turned upon it. At one moment, he appears impressive: the only political leader in the nineteenth century whose thought could still be a guide for us today. At other times, the caricature drawn by Kinglake and Victor Hugo seems almost convincing: the middle-aged rake in imperial trappings, sinister even in his futility. The most searching, the most persistent light of all, the one in which he was seen by every one who approached him, reveals him as gentle, not merely in speech and smile, but to the very depths of his being. And the unique regime he fashioned was no less enigmatic: strangely attractive, not in its glitter, not even in its daring, but in its "humanity," yet damaged also, and from the very first.

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The Roman Expedition in 1849, the fusillade on the fourth of December 1851, were causes of confusion not wholly dispelled to this day. They inflicted upon Caesarian Democracy as Louis Napoleon conceived it wounds which at the end of twenty years still refused to heal. In addition to these tragic accidents, there were antinomies in the very structure of the Empire which made its survival precarious. The most obvious, however, was only apparent: the conflict between authority and liberty. Neither of these principles can cover the whole of life, and the Empire, more clearly than other regimes, defined their respective spheres. More dangerous was the Napoleonic heritage; a government which was modern, peace-minded, democratic, industrial, socialistic, grew out of the "Legend," which was the crude exaltation of military adventure. Napoleon III was entirely different from Napoleon I, whom he had used purely as a Promethean myth; but so long as the Bonapartes ruled, it would have been hopeless to eliminate the Napoleonic virus — as hopeless as it was for Prussia to cast off the ruthless cynicism of Frederick the Great. There are forms of ingratitude that history will not tolerate: you cannot build upon the glory of the Founder and then denounce that glory as a thing of evil. This leads us to the fatal flaw in the Empire, the restoration of heredity. Louis Napoleon was not fully conscious of the contradiction it implied. His thought was a unique historical complex, and he sincerely believed that his blood, his tradition, his doctrine, and the will of the people were in miraculous harmony: vox populi and vox Dei, in unison, would inevitably utter the same word, Napoleon. This mystic delusion was at one time shared by many; but a delusion it was, and could not endure. Yet for the first twenty years of his political career, Louis Napoleon resisted the temptation. His first "Dream of a Constitution" (Reveries politiques) in 1832, and the definite project he sub-

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mitted to the people in 1851, provided for an elected Chief of State. Had he given up power at the end of ten years, according to his own proposal, his term of office, although far from flawless, would have justified the highest praise. Heredity is a harmless fiction if the sovereign is but a figurehead; it becomes an absurdity if he attempts to be the active and responsible leader of the nation. Because the dynastic Empire had been restored, France had to submit, after 1861, to the rule of a man intelligent no doubt, well-meaning, experienced, but ailing, and unable to exercise for good the power he still claimed to wield. She might have been autocratically governed, in the name of a child, by a highspirited but narrow-minded woman. She might have been exposed to the uncongenial and capricious dictatorship of Prince Napoleon. If, on the other hand, Napoleon III had yielded in time, if he had accepted in 1863-64 the offer of Adolphe Thiers and restored a Parliamentary monarchy, he would have become a mere Louis Philippe in gaudier trappings; he would have sacrificed the principle which was his raison d'etre, Caesarian democracy. History is not chemistry; there is no method that will enable us to analyze with irrefutable definiteness the elements of a complex situation. We have tried honestly to do so, and we are aware that the result cannot be called scientific knowledge. There entered into the making of Louis Napoleon's career accidents, a personality, and a principle; heterogeneous as they were, they remain indissolubly fused. It is with the principle that we are chiefly concerned. That principle is direct democracy. The experiment failed, not because the principle could be proved wrong, but because it was not applied in its full and honest simplicity. Caesarism reverted to heredity; the opposition, of the Right and of the Left, was bent

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on restoring factional strife, as if that alone deserved the name of Liberty. Three forces united in raising Louis Napoleon to supreme power: the Imperial Legend, the dread of disorder, and humanitarian democracy. All three were very real, but the third was the deepest in French opinion, and in Louis Napoleon's own soul. The regime which he conceived resembles the American far more than it does British Parliamentarism on the one hand, Totalitarian Dictatorship on the other. It might be well for France, when she resumes the normal course of her destiny, to borrow her inspiration from the United States rather than from England. If she did so, the Constitution of 1852 would be for her a better starting point than the Constitution of 1875. And she would be fortunate indeed if she found again, under such a regime, a leader with the unfailing gentleness, the quiet intellectual courage, the profound generosity, of Napoleon III.

APPENDIX CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY GENEALOGICAL TABLE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ESSAY

CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY I.

1802

January 4 March 25-27 April August ι October 10

CHILDHOOD AND E D U C A T I O N ,

1808-1831

Louis Bonaparte (1778-1846) marries Hortense de Beauharnais ( 1 7 8 3 - 1 8 3 7 ) Peace of Amiens with England Concordat promulgated Napoleon made Consul for L i f e Birth of Napoleon Charles, eldest son of Louis and Hortense (d. 1807)

1803

May 18-22

War with England resumed

1804

May 18 October 1 1 December 2

Napoleon declared Emperor Birth, in Paris, of Napoleon Louis, second son of Louis and Hortense (d. 1 8 3 1 ) Coronation of Napoleon I at Notre Dame

1805

May 26 October 2 1 December 2 December 26

Napoleon proclaimed K i n g of Italy Franco-Spanish fleet defeated at Trafalgar Napoleon defeats Austrians and Russians at Austerlitz Treaty of Pressburg with Austria

1806

June June 6 October 14

Napoleon abolishes Holy Roman Empire Napoleon makes Louis K i n g of Holland Prussians defeated at Jena and Auerstädt

1807

May 5 June 14 July 8 August 19

Napoleon Charles dies at T h e Hague Russians defeated at Friedland Peace of Tilsit Jerome made K i n g of Westphalia

1808

April 20 June 6

Joseph made K i n g of Spain

1809

July 6 October 14 December 16

Austrians defeated at Wagram Treaty of Schönbrunn Napoleon divorces Josephine

1810

March n - A p r i l 1 Napoleon marries Marie Louise Birth of Alexander Walewski, Napoleon's son (d. 1868) May 4 November Charles Louis Napoleon baptized

1811

March 20 October 1 1

Birth of the K i n g of Rome (d. 1832) Birth of "Demorny," son of Hortense and Flahaut

1812

June-December

Russian Campaign (Borodino, Moscow, Berezina)

October 1 6 - 1 9

War of Liberation Leipzig, "Battle of the Nations"

1813

CHARLES LOUIS NAPOLEON (NAPOLEON

III) born in Paris

298

APPENDIX

1814 April 1 1 May 4 May 29 September 30 1815

March 18 March-June June ι

October 15

Final decree of separation between Louis and Hortense "The Hundred Days" Acte Additionnel sworn to in Champ de Mars, Louis Napoleon present Waterloo Second abdication; Napoleon II proclaimed Napoleon with Hortense at Malmaison Napoleon surrenders Hortense leaves Paris (Geneva, Aix-les-Bains, St. Gall, Constance); Louis claims elder son Hortense breaks with Flahaut. Napoleon at St. Helena

Summer

Hortense at Berg with Eugene; back to Constance

June June June July July

1816

Campaign of France Napoleon abdicates at Fontainebleau Napoleon lands in Elba Josephine dies at Malmaison Congress of Vienna assembles

18 22 24-29 15 19

1817

Hortense settles at Arenenberg (Thurgau, Switzerland) and Augsburg (Bavaria)

1820-27

Philippe Lebas tutor to Louis Napoleon

1821

Death of Napoleon I. Louis Napoleon attends Gymnasium at Augsburg

May 5

1823-26-29

Family gatherings in Rome

1830

Revolution in Paris. Charles X, last Bourbon king, dethroned. Duke of Orleans proclaimed King of the French as Louis Philippe I

July 29

1831

April 3 April 20 May 5 May 6 May-August August 7

Louis Napoleon and brother join insurrection in Romagna (Papal State). Death of Napoleon Louis at Forli; Louis Napoleon dangerously sick. Saved from Austrians by Hortense They leave Ancona in disguise They arrive in Paris. Hortense meets Louis Philippe Napoleonic demonstration, Vendome Column Hortense and Louis Napoleon ordered from Paris In England Return to Arenenberg; Louis Napoleon declines offer of Polish insurgents II. THE PRETENDER, 1832-1847

1832

May July 22

Reveries Politiques Duke of Reichstadt dies. Louis Napoleon given civic rights, Thurgau

299

CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY 1833

Political and Military Condderations on Switzerland Louis Napoleon given honorary citizenship in the Swiss Republic

1834

Captain of Artillery, Berne Regiment

1836

October 30 October 31 November 9

Strasbourg Putsch (Fialin de Persigny, Vaudrey) Garbled message reaches Paris; anxiety of King Louis Napoleon quietly "deported"; leaves Paris

1837

April July 10 August 4 October 6

New York (after long cruise) London Arenenberg; Hortense very sick Hortense dies

1838

Conflict between France and Switzerland concerning Louis Napoleon's presence. He leaves of his own accord for London

1839

August

Takes part in costly "Eglinton Tournament." Des Idees Napoleoniennes

1840

Climax of Napoleon-worship, and Boulogne fiasco May 12 French Chambers decree return of Napoleon's remains August 4 Louis Napoleon embarks at Gravesend August 5 Lands at Wimereux near Boulogne; failure September 28-October 6 Tried before Chamber of Peers; sentenced to perpetual imprisonment October 7 Fortress of Ham, Picardy October 16 Napoleon's remains leave St. Helena December 15 "Second Burial" of Napoleon in Paris

1840-1846

Studious years: the University of Ham

1841 1842 1844

Historical Fragments: 1688-1830 Analysis of the Sugar Question On the Extinction of Pauperism

1845

On the Nicaragua Canal Applies in vain for release; loan from Brunswick

1846

May 25 July 26

Escapes from Ham; goes to London Death of King Louis

1847

December 18

Death of Marie Louise

III.

Louis

N A P O L E O N AND THE SECOND R E P U B L I C ,

1848-1852

1848 February 22

Electoral Reform Banquet scheduled, postponed; increasing agitation

23

Guizot resigns; Mole, then Thiers and Bugeaud called to the rescue

APPENDIX

3oo 1848

February 24

25 26 27 28 March

13

17 18 22 22 April 10 16 23

29 May 1 5 June 2 4 12 13 15 23-26

July 24 1848

September 16 17 24 26 October 9

Louis Philippe abdicates; Democratic and Social Republic proclaimed; Lamartine heads Provisional Government "Right to a job" recognized National Workshops established Louis Napoleon in Paris; warned of! Luxembourg Commission for investigating social problem; Louis Blanc, socialist, chairman Revolution in Vienna Monster radical demonstration in Paris; fails Revolutions in Berlin and Milan Venetian Republic proclaimed Piedmont declares war on Austria Chartist Demonstration in London; Louis Napoleon a special constable Radical demonstration in Paris miscarries General Elections, Louis Napoleon not a candidate; roughly 500 Lamartine Republicans, 100 Extreme Left, 200 Orleanists, 100 Legitimists National Constituent Assembly Pope Pius IX takes Austrian side Manifestation in Paris in favor of Poland (Barbes) Move in Assembly to repeal law exiling the Bonapartes Complementary Elections; Louis Napoleon elected in Paris, Yonne, Charente-Inferieure, Corsica Government threatens to arrest Louis Napoleon if he sets foot in France Assembly votes to admit him as a member He offers his resignation Insurrection in Paris ("Days of June"), owing to suppression of National Workshops; Executive Commission (Lamartine) resigns; General Cavaignac ("Butcher of June") represses insurrection and is made Chief Executive Piedmontese defeated at Custozza; armistice Count Rossi appointed Papal Prime Minister N e w complementary elections; Louis Napoleon elected in five departments Arrives in Paris Takes his seat Decisive speech by Lamartine urging election of President by whole people: Alea jacta est! Thouret amendment debarring pretenders from candidacy. Louis Napoleon's poor speech; amendment withdrawn

CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY November

4 12 15 25 December 10

20 January 29 February 9 March 22-23

29 30 April 16 17 29-30 May

7 13

26-28 30 June 3-July 3 June 13 August 18 October 31

March 10

301

Constitution voted Constitution inaugurated, Place de la Concorde Rossi murdered; insurrection in Rome Pope flees to Gaeta Election for President: Louis Napoleon, 5,400,000; Cavaignac, 1,400,000; Ledru-Rollin, 370,000; Raspail, 36,000; Lamartine, 17,000 Louis Napoleon takes oath as President Odilon Barrot Prime Minister Assembly votes to dissolve; unrest met by effective police measures Temporal Power abolished; Roman Republic proclaimed Austro-Piedmontese war resumed; Charles Albert, defeated at Novara, abdicates in favor of Victor Emmanuel II Triumvirate in Rome (Mazzini) French Assembly authorizes intervention in Italy, to check Austria Barrot requests appropriation for Civita Vecchia expedition, "for the protection of liberal institutions" Drouyn de Lhuys (Foreign A f f a i r s ) : "restore Pope as liberal sovereign" General Oudinot's "friendly" march on Rome; checked by Roman republicans Assembly resolves "not to allow expedition to be used for different aims than those originally intended" Elections to National Legislative Assembly: Moderate Republicans, 80; Left, 180 (Ledru-Rollin elected in five departments); "Party of Order," conservative, 460; f e w outright Bonapartists (Elysee Party) Constituent Assembly dissolves; Legislative Assembly convenes De Lesseps arrives at agreement with Roman Republicans, but had already been recalled Siege of Rome (Garibaldi) Abortive revolution in Paris; Ledru-Rollin flees Letter from President to Lt.-Col. Edgard Ney reiterates desire to restore Pope as liberal ruler President dismisses Odilon Barrot, shifting from "Parliamentary" to "Presidential" government; lackluster practical cabinet, d'Hautpoul, Fould, Rouher Complementary elections in 31 constituencies: ro won by "Party of Order," 2 1 remain " R e d " ; result: reactionary campaign, " R o m a n Expedition at home"

302

APPENDIX

1850

March 15

Falloux Law, restricting State monopoly of education, to the benefit of Catholic Church April 28 Eugene Sue, socialist, elected in Paris; fears of "Party of Order" increased May 31 Electoral Law requiring three years' residence, 3,000,000 out of 10,000,000 disfranchised; Thiers' denunciation of "la vile multitude" June 9 Political clubs and meetings forbidden. Open royalist activities of Thiers, Mole, de Broglie, Berryer, Changarnier, etc. August 12-28 President's grand tour; great enthusiasm, particularly in Lyons ( 1 5 - 1 6 ) ; Strasbourg, Metz, Rheims; second tour in Normandy September 25-October 10 Great military review, culminating with one at Satory; shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" General Neumayer, who discountenanced political demonstrations, removed from Paris region Conciliatory message from President to-Assembly December 12

1851

January 3

June ι July

1851

Summer November 4 November 17

December 2 3 4 December 20-21 1852

January

1 14 23

General Changarnier, commanding both regular troops and National Guard in Paris, relieved; vain protest of "Burgraves" (conservative elder statesmen) Louis Napoleon's speech in Dijon: definite program and challenge Proposed amendment of Article 45, so as to permit reelection of President, fails to get necessary threefourths vote Seventy-nine Departmental Councils against six express themselves in favor of revising Constitution President asks for repeal of electoral law of May 3 1 , 1850; rejected by six votes only "Quaestors" propose that President of Assembly be empowered to summon armed (public) forces for its defense; proposal rejected 408-300, Left solid with Elysee against Rightist Coup d'fitat. Clears path for President Coup d'fitat; feeble legal resistance Some barricades Showdown and accidental fusillade on Boulevards Plebiscite ratifies President's action, 7,440,000 to 646,000 President moves to Palace of the Tuileries New Constitution proclaimed Property of House of Orleans confiscated and attributed to social worts; Rouher, Magne, Fould, Morny resign

CHRONOLOGICAL February 29

September 26 October 9 November 21 December 1 December 2

SUMMARY

303

Elections (261 members; only 3 Legitimists, 2 independents, 3 Republicans); Montalembert sole outspoken critic Tour of Central and Southern France; cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" Henri Giffard's steam dirigible Bordeaux: great speech, program and promise, " L ' E m pire, c'est la paix" Plebiscite: restoration of Empire approved, 7,824,000 to 253,000 Saint-Cloud; President officially notified of result Inauguration of Second Empire: "Saint-Simon on horseb a c k " — promotion of material prosperity; creation of credit institutions; social policy; public works, especially railroads (3600 km. in 1852, 16,000 in 1858); development to culminate in 1867

IV. THE AUTHORITARIAN EMPIRE, 1852-1859 1853

January 30 June 23

1853

January-February July 3 November 30

1854

January 3 March 12 28 April 10 September 14 October 17

Napoleon III and Eugenie de Montijo married at Notre Dame Georges Haussmann appointed Prefect of the Seine; radical transformation of Paris The Oriental Conflict (begun in 1851, with quarrel over Holy Places in Palestine) Tsar Nicholas I suggests to England the partition of the possessions of Turkey ("the sick man of Europe") Russo-Turkish War; Russians invade Principalities Turkish fleet destroyed at Sinope; New Caledonia formally annexed British and French fleets enter the Black Sea England and France sign alliance with Turkey England and France declare war on Russia Formal Franco-British alliance Anglo-French landing in the Crimea Siege of Sebastopol begins; defended by Todleben; French commanded by Saint-Arnaud, then Canrobert, then Pelissier; British by Raglan, then Simpson

1854-1865

Faidherbe, Governor of Senegal, extends and consolidates the colony

1855

Death of Tsar Nicholas I; Alexander Napoleon and Eugenie entertained at toria and Albert; return visit at Paris (Universal Exposition, Palace

March 2 April 16

II succeeds Windsor by VicSaint-Cloud and of Industry)

APPENDIX

304 1855

September 8 ir

Malakov Tower taken by MacMahon: "J'y suis, j'y . 1» reste Russians abandon Sebastopol

1856 January 16-February 1 Tsar agrees to peace preliminaries February 25 Peace Congress meets in Paris, Walewski presides March 16 Birth of Prince Imperial Peace treaty signed March 30 June 14 Magnificent christening o£ Prince Imperial at Notre Dame ("As good as a coronation"); Pius IX godfather 1856-59

Problem of Danubian Principalities (Moldavia-Wallachia); French solution (union) ultimately prevails, preparing creation of Rumania (1862)

1857

June

Elections to Legislative Body: 5,471,000 for government candidates, 665,000 for opposition; Cavaignac, elected, dies before legislature opens

1857

May-June

Marshal Randon, Governor General of Algeria, 185258, reduces Kabylia Gustave Flaubert prosecuted for Madame Bovary, and acquitted Charles Baudelaire prosecuted for Les Fleurs du Mal, and fined Napoleon III and Prince Albert confer at Osborne Napoleon III meets Tsar Alexander II at Stuttgart Legislative Body assembles; the "Five" opponents, les Cinq: Darimon, Jules Favre, Henon, Ernest Picard, fimile Ollivier

August September 25-27 November 28

1858

January 14 February 7

February 19

March 13

June 24 June 26-29

Felice Orsini and accomplices attempt to assassinate Napoleon III Repressive measures; General Espinasse Minister of the Interior; France divided into five great commands; suspects rounded up Law for the Defense of General Security; Orsini defended by Jules Favre; dramatic appeal to Napoleon III to free Italy Orsini guillotined; anti-British manifestation of French colonels results in explosion of Gallophobia in England; Marshal Pelissier, ambassador, restores friendly relations Ministry of Algeria created for Prince Napoleon Treaties of Tientsin between China, England, France, Russia, and the United States

CHRONOLOGICAL July 20

December 10 1859

January 1 January 30 April 6 April 20 April 29 May 3 10 June 4 June 8 June 1 3 - 1 5 24 June 25 July 8 11 August 14 Aug.-Sept. October 27 November 1 1

SUMMARY

3°5

Secret meeting at Plombieres between Napoleon III and Camillo Cavour (Prime Minister of Piedmont since November 4, 1852) Formal (secret) treaty between France and Piedmont; Franco-Spanish expedition occupies Saigon Napoleon III warns Austrian ambassador that relations with Austria are not satisfactory Prince Napoleon marries Clotilde of Savoy Juarez recognized by the United States Austrian ultimatum to Piedmont brings Franco-Piedmontese alliance into operation Work started on Suez Canal Napoleon promises "Italy . . . free to the Adriatic" Acclaimed by Parisian workmen as he leaves for front; revolutions in Tuscany, Modena, Parma Magenta: "Is it a victory?" Napoleon III enters Milan in triumph Insurrection in Papal Legations Solferino (Napoleon III in actual command) Franco-British troops checked before Tientsin Napoleon III offers armistice Meets Francis Joseph at Villafranca; Italy disappointed; Cavour resigns Triumphal return to Paris; grand review in the Place Vendome Representative assemblies in Parma, Modena, Tuscany, Romagna, vote union with Piedmont Napoleon III meets Michel Chevalier and R. Cobden Treaty of Zürich, confirming preliminaries of Villafranca V. THE LIBERAL EMPIRE, 1860-1869

i860

January 15 20 23 February 10 March 1 3 - 1 5 March 24 April June 24

Letter to Achille Fould on treaty of commerce Cavour returns to power Treaty of commerce with England Publication of Treaty of Commerce Plebiscites in Parma, Modena, Romagna, Tuscany, approve union with Piedmont Treaty of T u r i n ; Piedmont cedes Savoy and Nice to France Treaty of Turin endorsed by quasi-unanimous plebiscites K i n g Jerome dies

APPENDIX

3 06 i860

France given mandate to restore order in Syria (massacres; Druse-Maronite conflict) September 21 Tientsin occupied by Anglo-French forces; Palikao Peking occupied; summer Palace looted and burned October 12 2 Peking Convention confirms French protectorate of 5 Catholic missions November 3-February 13, 1861 Siege of Gaeta; King of Two Sicilies protected by French fleet "Liberal" decrees: discussion of address, full report of November 24 debates; ministry for Algeria abolished December Marshal Pelissier made Governor General of Algeria President Miramon of Mexico defeated by Juaristas December 22

1861

May 29-June 17

August 2

June October 31 November 4 December 17 1862

February April 8 May 5

1863

1864

Mexican government suspends payment on foreign debts French troops leave Syria; special status for Lebanon Treaty of London (France, Great Britain, and Spain) for the protection of their interests in Mexico Financial power of Legislative Body extended France, Great Britain, and Spain occupy Vera Cruz Renan's course at College de France suspended after first lecture Great Britain and Spain withdraw from Mexican enterprise French (Lorencez) suffer check before Puebla

Polish insurrection; Napoleon III is urged to intervene, but paralyzed by England's distrust February 6 Napoleon III, in letter to Pelissier, defines Algeria as "an Arab Kingdom," stating "I am the Emperor of the Arabs as well as of the French" March 19-May 19 Siege of Puebla by General Forey Ma General Elections: Government, 6,000,000 votes, oppoY 30-3 1 sition 2,000,000; Paris heavily against Empire; Thiers elected Bazaine enters Mexico City; Forey rigs up "Mexican June 7 Government," and retires with Marshal's baton Renan's Vie de Jesus·, Victor Duruy Minister of Public June 23 Education; Liberal reforms Crown offered by Mexican delegation to Archduke October 3 Maximilian Death of Billault, Minister of State; Eugene Rouher October 13 succeeds — "the Vice-Emperor" until 1869 Thiers's speech on "Necessary Liberties" proposes reJanuary 1 1 turn to Parliamentary regime and offers his services January

CHRONOLOGICAL S U M M A R Y February 1 February 17

April 10 May 22 May 25 June 12 September

15

28 December 8 1865-1866 March 10 April 9 October 3

1866

Quarrel of the Duchies (Slesvig and Holstein); Prussians and Austrians invade Denmark Manifesto of the Sixty: Labor program; Prince Napoleon attempts to create Bonapartist Labor movement: Palais-Royal pamphlets Archduke Maximilian formally accepts Mexican offer Pelissier dies and is succeeded by MacMahon as Governor General of Algeria until July 1870 L a w on "Coalitions" prepared by fimile Ollivier removes legal ban on strikes Maximilian enters Mexico City Convention with Italy: French to withdraw from Rome within two years; Florence, not Rome, to become the Italian capital Workers' International founded in London

Encyclical Quanta Cura and Syllabus of the errors of our age challenge Liberal tendencies Histoire de Jules Cesar, 2 vols. Death of Due de Morny Appomattox (Maximilian doomed) Maximilian decrees death for all "armed (Juaristas)

rebels"

October

Secret and abortive negotiations between Napoleon III and Bismarck

January 15

Napoleon III, in letter to Maximilian, announces gradual withdrawal of French support Secretary Seward cables note reasserting Monroe Doctrine Austro-Prussian w a r ; minor German states allied with Austria, Italy with Prussia Prussia defeats Austria at Königgrätz ( S a d o w a ) ; as a result Venetia is ceded to Napoleon III and transferred to Italy Empress Charlotte in Paris, goes insane La Vie Parisienne, operetta by Meilhac and Halevy, music by Offenbach Last French troops withdrawn from Rome Letter to Rouher announcing new liberal reforms Bazaine leaves Mexico City Bazaine leaves Vera Cruz Opening of International Exposition Conference in London on the Luxemburg question (Napoleon III had sought to purchase duchy from Netherlands)

February 12 1866

July 3 August 10-22 October 31

1867

307

December January 19 February 5 March 12 April ι May 7 - 1 1

3

APPENDIX

O8

1867

May 1 5 June 1 - 1 1 4-14

6 19 30

September 9 October 27 28

November 3 1868

January 14 March March 31 May 1 1 30 August 2 September 29 November 14

1869

May 23-24

July 12 November November 17 November 29 VI.

1870

January

April 20 May 8

2 5 10 12

Maximilian captured at Queretaro Tsar of Russia in Paris for formal opening of Exposition King of Prussia in Paris Attempt on Tsar's life Maximilian shot at Queretaro Award of prizes at Exposition; news of Maximilian's death Treaty of London settles the Luxemburg problem Garibaldi attacks Papal State French land at Civitä Vecchia Garibaldi defeated at Mentana ("Chassepot rifles have done wonders"); French troops in Rome again Military law passed (Marshal Niel's reform sabotaged) Workers' International suppressed in France Trade Unions tolerated More liberal press law First number of Rochefort's La Lanterne Abrogation of obnoxious Article 1781 removes the last trace of civic inequality Queen Isabella of Spain deposed; Prim in control Delescluze affair (subscription for Baudin monument); Gambetta's ringing denunciation of Coup d'fitat General Elections: 4,438,000 for Government, 3,355,000 for opposition; rise of Third Party Message announcing further liberal reforms; Rouher out Rochefort elected in Paris at by-election Suez Canal opened (company formed in 1858; work started 1859) Legislative Body convenes: "Order is my responsibility"

T H E L I B E R A L E M P I R E AND THE D O W N F A L L ,

1870

fimile Olli vier Ministry (Parliamentary) Baron Haussmann dismissed Victor Noir shot by Pierre Bonaparte Funeral of Victor Noir; threats of insurrection Senatus Consultum embodies liberal reforms in amended Constitution Reforms — or Empire?—ratified by plebiscite, 7,358,000 to 1,571,000

July 3 July 12

Paris learns of Hohenzollern candidacy to Spanish throne Candidacy withdrawn

CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY My

13

14 18 19 28 August 4-6 10

17

18 r 9 21 22 31 September 1

1870

September 2 September 4

20 28 October 2 20 28 30 1871

309

Last meeting Ambassador Benedetti and King William of Prussia at Ems; Bismarck, in Berlin, abridges the Communique telegram from Abeken (the Ems despatch) War decided by Council at Saint Cloud Papal Infallibility proclaimed by Vatican Council War declared by France against Prussia Napoleon III and the Prince Imperial leave Saint Cloud for the front First defeats: Wissembourg, Wörth, Forbach Palikao (Cousin-Montauban) becomes Prime Minister; McMahon forced back toward Chalons; Bazaine commander in chief at Metz Napoleon III, at Chalons, decides to return to Paris, sending Trochu ahead as Governor; plan vetoed by Empress and Palikao; Prince Napoleon sent on fruitless mission to Italy Bazaine finally blockaded in Metz French troops withdrawn from Rome McMahon falls back on Rheims McMahon ordered to move toward Verdun, to meet or relieve Bazaine McMahon at Sedan McMahon wounded, appoints Ducrot as his successor; de Wimpffen claims command, revokes Ducrot's plan for retreat to Mezieres; Army trapped; Napoleon III resumes command to capitulate, at 4:15 P.M. Napoleon III meets Bismarck at Donchery The Empire falls, the Empress flees, and the Republic is proclaimed; Trochu heads Government of National Defense; the Emperor is imprisoned at Wilhelmshöhe near Cassel; Empress and Prince Imperial at Hastings, then at Chislehurst Italians enter Rome Strasbourg surrenders Plebiscite: Rome united to Italy Vatican Council closes Bazaine surrenders at Metz Eugenie visits Napoleon III at Wilhelmshöhe

January 28 Paris surrenders; armistice March 18-May 28 Paris Commune March 19 The Emperor liberated and goes to Camden Place, Chislehurst May 23 Treaty of Frankfurt

3io

APPENDIX

1873 1879

January 9

Death of Napoleon III

June ι

Death of the Prince Imperial in Zululand

1891

March 18

Death of Prince Napoleon

1904

January 2

Death of Princess Mathilde

1920

July 1 1

Death of the Empress Eugenie

1927

January 16

Death of the Empress Charlotte of Mexico

GENEALOGICAL TABLE

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