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My Days of Adventure

E >> Ernest Alfred Vizetelly >> My Days of Adventure




I well remember being alternately amused and disgusted by a French
theatrical delineation of an English war correspondent, given in a
spectacular military piece which I witnessed a short time after my first
arrival in Paris. It was called "The Siege of Pekin," and had been
concocted by Mocquard, the Emperor Napoleon's secretary. All the "comic
business" in the affair was supplied by a so-called war correspondent of
the _Times_, who strutted about in a tropical helmet embellished with a
green Derby veil, and was provided with a portable desk and a huge
umbrella. This red-nosed and red-whiskered individual was for ever talking
of having to do this and that for "the first paper of the first country in
the world," and, in order to obtain a better view of an engagement, he
deliberately planted himself between the French and Chinese combatants. I
should doubtless have derived more amusement from his tomfoolery had I not
already known that English war correspondents did not behave in any such
idiotic manner, and I came away from the performance with strong feelings
of resentment respecting so outrageous a caricature of a profession
counting among its members the uncle whom I so much admired.

Whatever my dreams may have been, I hardly anticipated that I should join
that profession myself during the Franco-German war. The Lycées "broke up"
in confusion, and my father decided to send me to join my stepmother and
the younger members of the family at Saint Servan, it being his intention
to go to the front with my elder brother Edward. But Simpson, the veteran
Crimean War artist, came over to join the so-called Army of the Rhine, and
my brother, securing an engagement from the _New York Times_, set out on
his own account. Thus I was promptly recalled to Paris, where my father
had decided to remain. In those days the journey from Brittany to the
capital took many long and wearisome hours, and I made it in a third-class
carriage of a train crowded with soldiers of all arms, cavalry, infantry,
and artillery. Most of them were intoxicated, and the grossness of their
language and manners was almost beyond belief. That dreadful night spent
on the boards of a slowly-moving and jolting train, [There were then no
cushioned seats in French third-class carriages.] amidst drunken and
foul-mouthed companions, gave me, as it were, a glimpse of the other side
of the picture--that is, of several things which lie behind the glamour of
war.

It must have been about July 25 when I returned to Paris. A decree had
just been issued appointing the Empress as Regent in the absence of the
Emperor, who was to take command of the Army of the Rhine. It had
originally been intended that there should be three French armies, but
during the conferences with Archduke Albert in the spring, that plan was
abandoned in favour of one sole army under the command of Napoleon III.
The idea underlying the change was to avoid a superfluity of
staff-officers, and to augment the number of actual combatants. Both Le
Boeuf and Lebrun approved of the alteration, and this would seem to
indicate that there were already misgivings on the French side in regard
to the inferior strength of their effectives. The army was divided into
eight sections, that is, seven army corps, and the Imperial Guard.
Bourbaki, as already mentioned, commanded the Guard, and at the head of
the army corps were (1) MacMahon, (2) Frossard, (3) Bazaine, (4)
Ladmerault, (5) Failly, (6) Canrobert, and (7) Félix Douay. Both Frossard
and Failly, however, were at first made subordinate to Bazaine. The head
of the information service was Colonel Lewal, who rose to be a general and
Minister of War under the Republic, and who wrote some commendable works
on tactics; and immediately under him were Lieut.-Colonel Fay, also
subsequently a well-known general, and Captain Jung, who is best
remembered perhaps by his inquiries into the mystery of the Man with the
Iron Mask. I give those names because, however distinguished those three
men may have become in later years, the French intelligence service at the
outset of the war was without doubt extremely faulty, and responsible for
some of the disasters which occurred.

On returning to Paris one of my first duties was to go in search of
Moulin, the detective-artist whom I mentioned in my first chapter. I found
him in his somewhat squalid home in the Quartier Mouffetard, surrounded by
a tribe of children, and he immediately informed me that he was one of the
"agents" appointed to attend the Emperor on the campaign. The somewhat
lavish Imperial _équipage_, on which Zola so frequently dilated in "The
Downfall," had, I think, already been despatched to Metz, where the
Emperor proposed to fix his headquarters, and the escort of Cent Gardes
was about to proceed thither. Moulin told me, however, that he and two of
his colleagues were to travel in the same train as Napoleon, and it was
agreed that he should forward either to Paris or to London, as might prove
most convenient, such sketches as he might from time to time contrive to
make. He suggested that there should be one of the Emperor's departure
from Saint Cloud, and that in order to avoid delay I should accompany him
on the occasion and take it from him. We therefore went down together on
July 28, promptly obtained admittance to the château, where Moulin took
certain instructions, and then repaired to the railway-siding in the park,
whence the Imperial train was to start.

Officers and high officials, nearly all in uniform, were constantly going
to and fro between the siding and the château, and presently the Imperial
party appeared, the Emperor being between the Empress and the young
Imperial Prince. Quite a crowd of dignitaries followed. I do not recollect
seeing Emile Ollivier, though he must have been present, but I took
particular note of Rouher, the once all-powerful minister, currently
nicknamed the Vice-Emperor, and later President of the Senate. In spite of
his portliness, he walked with a most determined stride, held his head
very erect, and spoke in his customary loud voice. The Emperor, who wore
the undress uniform of a general, looked very grave and sallow. The
disease which eventually ended in his death had already become serious,
[I have given many particulars of it in my two books, "The Court of the
Tuileries, 1862-1870" (Chatto and Windus), and "Republican France,
1870-1912" (Holden and Hardingham).] and only a few days later, that is,
during the Saarbrucken affair (August 2), he was painfully affected by it.
Nevertheless, he had undertaken to command the Army of France! The
Imperial Prince, then fourteen years of age, was also in uniform, it
having been arranged that he should accompany his father to the front, and
he seemed to be extremely animated and restless, repeatedly turning to
exchange remarks with one or another officer near him. The Empress, who
was very simply gowned, smiled once or twice in response to some words
which fell from her husband, but for the most part she looked as serious
as he did. Whatever Emile Ollivier may have said about beginning this war
with a light heart, it is certain that these two sovereigns of France
realized, at that hour of parting, the magnitude of the issues at stake.
After they had exchanged a farewell kiss, the Empress took her eager young
son in her arms and embraced him fondly, and when we next saw her face we
could perceive the tears standing in her eyes. The Emperor was already
taking his seat and the boy speedily sprang after him. Did the Empress at
that moment wonder when, where, and how she would next see them again?
Perchance she did. Everything, however, was speedily in readiness for
departure. As the train began to move, both the Emperor and the Prince
waved their hands from the windows, whilst all the enthusiastic Imperial
dignitaries flourished their hats and raised a prolonged cry of "Vive
l'Empereur!" It was not, perhaps, so loud as it might have been; but,
then, they were mostly elderly men. Moulin, during the interval, had
contrived to make something in the nature of a thumb-nail sketch; I had
also taken a few notes myself; and thus provided I hastened back to Paris.



III

ON THE ROAD TO REVOLUTION

First French Defeats--A Great Victory rumoured--The Marseillaise, Capoul
and Marie Sass--Edward Vizetelly brings News of Forbach to Paris--Emile
Ollivier again--His Fall from Power--Cousin Montauban, Comte de Palikao--
English War Correspondents in Paris--Gambetta calls me "a Little Spy"--
More French Defeats--Palikao and the Defence of Paris--Feats of a Siege--
Wounded returning from the Front--Wild Reports of French Victories--The
Quarries of Jaumont--The Anglo-American Ambulance--The News of Sedan--
Sala's Unpleasant Adventure--The Fall of the Empire.


It was, I think, two days after the Emperor's arrival at Metz that the
first Germans--a detachment of Badeners--entered French territory. Then,
on the second of August came the successful French attack on Saarbrucken,
a petty affair but a well-remembered one, as it was on this occasion that
the young Imperial Prince received the "baptism of fire." Appropriately
enough, the troops, whose success he witnessed, were commanded by his late
governor, General Frossard. More important was the engagement at
Weissenburg two days later, when a division of the French under General
Abel Douay was surprised by much superior forces, and utterly overwhelmed,
Douay himself being killed during the fighting. Yet another two days
elapsed, and then the Crown Prince of Prussia--later the Emperor
Frederick--routed MacMahon at Wörth, in spite of a vigorous resistance,
carried on the part of the French Cuirassiers, under General the Vicomte
de Bonnemains, to the point of heroism. In later days the general's son
married a handsome and wealthy young lady of the bourgeoisie named
Marguerite Crouzet, whom, however, he had to divorce, and who afterwards
became notorious as the mistress of General Boulanger.

Curiously enough, on the very day of the disaster of Wörth a rumour of a
great French victory spread through Paris. My father had occasion to send
me to his bankers in the Rue Vivienne, and on making my way to the
Boulevards, which I proposed to follow, I was amazed to see the
shopkeepers eagerly setting up the tricolour flags which they habitually
displayed on the Emperor's fête-day (August 15). Nobody knew exactly how
the rumours of victory had originated, nobody could give any precise
details respecting the alleged great success, but everybody believed in
it, and the enthusiasm was universal. It was about the middle of the day
when I repaired to the Rue Vivienne, and after transacting my business
there, I turned into the Place de la Bourse, where a huge crowd was
assembled. The steps of the exchange were also covered with people, and
amidst a myriad eager gesticulations a perfect babel of voices was
ascending to the blue sky. One of the green omnibuses, which in those days
ran from the Bourse to Passy, was waiting on the square, unable to depart
owing to the density of the crowd; and all at once, amidst a scene of
great excitement and repeated shouts of "La Marseillaise!" "La
Marseillaise!" three or four well-dressed men climbed on to the vehicle,
and turning towards the mob of speculators and sightseers covering the
steps of the Bourse, they called to them repeatedly: "Silence! Silence!"
The hubbub slightly subsided, and thereupon one of the party on the
omnibus, a good-looking slim young fellow with a little moustache, took
off his hat, raised his right arm, and began to sing the war-hymn of the
Revolution. The stanza finished, the whole assembly took up the refrain.

Since the days of the Coup d'État, the Marseillaise had been banned in
France, the official imperial air being "Partant pour la Syrie," a
military march composed by the Emperor's mother, Queen Hortense, with
words by Count Alexandre de Laborde, who therein pictured a handsome young
knight praying to the Blessed Virgin before his departure for Palestine,
and soliciting of her benevolence that he might "prove to be the bravest
brave, and love the fairest fair." During the twenty years of the third
Napoleon's rule, Paris had heard the strains of "Partant pour la Syrie"
many thousand times, and, though they were tuneful enough, had become
thoroughly tired of them. To stimulate popular enthusiasm in the war the
Ollivier Cabinet had accordingly authorized the playing and singing of the
long-forbidden "Marseillaise," which, although it was well-remembered by
the survivors of '48, and was hummed even by the young Republicans of
Belleville and the Quartier Latin, proved quite a novelty to half the
population, who were destined to hear it again and again and again from
that period until the present time.

The young vocalist who sang it from the top of a Passy-Bourse omnibus on
that fateful day of Wörth, claimed to be a tenor, but was more correctly a
tenorino, his voice possessing far more sweetness than power. He was
already well-known and popular, for he had taken the part of Romeo in
Gounod's well-known opera based on the Shakespearean play. Like many
another singer, Victor Capoul might have become forgotten before very
long, but a curious circumstance, having nothing to do with vocalism,
diffused and perpetuated his name. He adopted a particular way of dressing
his hair, "plastering" a part of it down in a kind of semi-circle over the
forehead; and the new style "catching on" among young Parisians, the
"coiffure Capoul" eventually went round the world. It is exemplified in
certain portraits of King George V.

In those war-days Capoul sang the "Marseillaise" either at the Opéra
Comique or the Théâtre Lyrique; but at the Opera it was sung by Marie
Sass, then at the height of her reputation. I came in touch with her a few
years later when she was living in the Paris suburbs, and more than once,
when we both travelled to the city in the same train, I had the honour of
assisting her to alight from it--this being no very easy matter, as la
Sass was the very fattest and heaviest of all the _prime donne_ that I
have ever seen.

On the same day that MacMahon was defeated at Wörth, Frossard was badly
beaten at Forbach, an engagement witnessed by my elder brother Edward,
[Born January 1, 1847, and therefore in 1870 in his twenty-fourth year.]
who, as I previously mentioned, had gone to the front for an American
journal. Finding it impossible to telegraph the news of this serious
French reverse, he contrived to make his way to Paris on a locomotive-
engine, and arrived at our flat in the Rue de Miromesnil looking as black
as any coal-heaver. When he had handed his account of the affair to Ryan,
the Paris representative of the _New York Times_, it was suggested that
his information might perhaps be useful to the French Minister of War. So
he hastened to the Ministry, where the news he brought put a finishing
touch to the dismay of the officials, who were already staggering under
the first news of the disaster of Wörth.

Paris, jubilant over an imaginary victory, was enraged by the tidings of
Wörth and Forbach. Already dreading some Revolutionary enterprise, the
Government declared the city to be in a state of siege, thereby placing it
under military authority. Although additional men had recently been
enrolled in the National Guard the arming of them had been intentionally
delayed, precisely from a fear of revolutionary troubles, which the
_entourage_ of the Empress-Regent at Saint Cloud feared from the very
moment of the first defeats. I recollect witnessing on the Place Venddme
one day early in August a very tumultuous gathering of National Guards who
had flocked thither in order to demand weapons of the Prime Minister, that
is, Emile Ollivier, who in addition to the premiership, otherwise the
"Presidency of the Council," held the offices of Keeper of the Seals and
Minister of Justice, this department then having its offices in one of the
buildings of the Place Vendôme. Ollivier responded to the demonstration by
appearing on the balcony of his private room and delivering a brief
speech, which, embraced a vague promise to comply with the popular demand.
In point of fact, however, nothing of the kind was done during his term of
office.

Whilst writing these lines I hear that this much-abused statesman has just
passed away at Saint Gervais-les-Bains in Upper Savoy (August 20, 1913).
Born at Marseilles in July, 1825, he lived to complete his eighty-eighth
year. His second wife (née Gravier), to whom I referred in a previous
chapter, survives him. I do not wish to be unduly hard on his memory. He
came, however, of a very Republican family, and in his earlier years he
personally evinced what seemed to be most staunch Republicanism. When he
was first elected as a member of the Legislative Body in 1857, he publicly
declared that he would appear before that essentially Bonapartist assembly
as one of the spectres of the crime of the Coup d'Etat. But subsequently
M. de Morny baited him with a lucrative appointment connected with the
Suez Canal. Later still, the Empress smiled on him, and finally he took
office under the Emperor, thereby disgusting nearly every one of his
former friends and associates.

I believe, however, that Ollivier was sincerely convinced of the
possibility of firmly establishing a liberal-imperialist _regime_. But
although various reforms were carried out under his auspices, it is quite
certain that he was not allowed a perfectly free hand. Nor was he fully
taken into confidence with respect to the Emperor's secret diplomatic and
military policy. That was proved by the very speech in which he spoke of
entering upon the war with Prussia "with a light heart"; for in his very
next sentences he spoke of that war as being absolutely forced upon
France, and of himself and his colleagues as having done all that was
humanly and honourably possible to avoid it. Assuredly he would not have
spoken quite as he did had he realized at the time that Bismarck had
merely forced on the war in order to defeat the Emperor Napoleon's
intention to invade Germany in the ensuing spring. The public provocation
on Prussia's part was, as I previously showed, merely her reply to the
secret provocation offered by France, as evidenced by all the negotiations
with Archduke Albert on behalf of Austria, and with Count Vimercati on
behalf of Italy. On all those matters Ollivier was at the utmost but very
imperfectly informed. Finally, be it remembered that he was absent from
the Council at Saint Cloud at which war was finally decided upon.

At a very early hour on the morning of Sunday, August 7--the day following
Wörth and Forbach--the Empress Eugénie came in all haste and sore
distress from Saint Cloud to the Tuileries. The position was very serious,
and anxious conferences were held by the ministers. When the Legislative
Body met on the morrow, a number of deputies roundly denounced the manner
in which the military operations were being conducted. One deputy, a
certain Guyot-Montpeyroux, who was well known for the outspokenness of his
language, horrified the more devoted Imperialists by describing the French
forces as an army of lions led by jackasses. On the following day Ollivier
and his colleagues resigned office. Their position had become untenable,
though little if any responsibility attached to them respecting the
military operations. The Minister of War, General Dejean, had been merely
a stop-gap, appointed to carry out the measures agreed upon before his
predecessor, Marshal Le Boeuf, had gone to the front as Major General of
the army.

It was felt; however, among the Empress's _entourage_ that the new Prime
Minister ought to be a military man of energy, devoted, moreover, to the
Imperial _régime_. As the marshals and most of the conspicuous generals of
the time were already serving in the field, it was difficult to find any
prominent individual possessed of the desired qualifications. Finally,
however, the Empress was prevailed upon to telegraph to an officer whom
she personally disliked, this being General Cousin-Montauban, Comte de
Palikao. He was certainly, and with good reason, devoted to the Empire,
and in the past he had undoubtedly proved himself to be a man of energy.
But he was at this date in his seventy-fifth year--a fact often overlooked
by historians of the Franco-German war--and for that very reason, although
he had solicited a command in the field at the first outbreak of
hostilities, it had been decided to decline his application, and to leave
him at Lyons, where he had commanded the garrison for five years past.

Thirty years of Palikao's life had been spent in Algeria, contending,
during most of that time, against the Arabs; but in 1860 he had been
appointed commander of the French expedition to China, where with a small
force he had conducted hostilities with the greatest vigour, repeatedly
decimating or scattering the hordes of Chinamen who were opposed to him,
and, in conjunction with the English, victoriously taking Pekin. A kind of
stain rested on the expedition by reason of the looting of the Chinese
Emperor's summer-palace, but the entire responsibility of that affair
could not be cast on the French commander, as he only continued and
completed what the English began. On his return to France, Napoleon III
created him Comte de Palikao (the name being taken from one of his Chinese
victories), and in addition wished the Legislative Body to grant him a
_dotation_. However, the summer-palace looting scandal prevented this,
much to the Emperor's annoyance, and subsequent to the fall of the Empire
it was discovered that, by Napoleon's express orders, the War Ministry had
paid Palikao a sum of about £60,000, diverting that amount of money (in
accordance with the practices of the time) from the purpose originally
assigned to it in the Estimates.

This was not generally known when Palikao became Chief Minister. He was
then what might be called a very well preserved old officer, but his lungs
had been somewhat affected by a bullet-wound of long standing, and this he
more than once gave as a reason for replying with the greatest brevity to
interpellations in the Chamber. Moreover, as matters went from bad to
worse, this same lung trouble became a good excuse for preserving absolute
silence on certain inconvenient occasions. When, however, Palikao was
willing to speak he often did so untruthfully, repeatedly adding the
_suggestio falsi_ to the _suppressio veri_. As a matter of fact, he, like
other fervent partisans of the dynasty, was afraid to let the Parisians
know the true state of affairs. Besides, he himself was often ignorant of
it. He took office (he was the third War Minister in fifty days) without
any knowledge whatever of the imperial plan of campaign, or the steps to
be adopted in the event of further French reverses, and a herculean task
lay before this septuagenarian officer, who by experience knew right well
how to deal with Arabs and Chinamen, but had never had to contend with
European troops. Nevertheless, he displayed zeal and activity in his new
semi-political and semi-military position. He greatly assisted MacMahon to
reconstitute his army at Châlons, he planned the organization of three
more army corps, and he started on the work of placing Paris in a state of
defence, whilst his colleague, Clément Duvernois, the new Minister of
Commerce, began gathering flocks and herds together, in order that the
city, if besieged, might have the necessary means of subsistence.

At this time there were quite a number of English "war" as well as "own"
correspondents in Paris. The former had mostly returned from Metz, whither
they had repaired at the time of the Emperor's departure for the front. At
the outset it had seemed as though the French would allow foreign
journalists to accompany them on their "promenade to Berlin," but, on
reverses setting in, all official recognition was denied to newspaper men,
and, moreover, some of the representatives of the London Press had a very
unpleasant time at Metz, being arrested there as spies and subjected to
divers indignities. I do not remember whether they were ordered back to
Paris or whether they voluntarily withdrew to the capital on their
position with the army becoming untenable; but in any case they arrived in
the city and lingered there for a time, holding daily symposiums at the
Grand Café at the corner of the Ruè Scribe, on the Boulevards.

From time to time I went there with my father, and amongst, this galaxy
of journalistic talent I met certain men with whom I had spoken in my
childhood. One of them, for instance, was George Augustus Sala, and
another was Henry Mayhew, the famous author of "London Labour and the
London Poor," he being accompanied by his son Athol. Looking back, it
seems to me that, in spite of all their brilliant gifts, neither Sala nor
Henry Mayhew was fitted to be a correspondent in the field, and they were
certainly much better placed in Paris than at the headquarters of the Army
of the Rhine. Among the resident correspondents who attended the
gatherings at the Grand Café were Captain Bingham, Blanchard (son of
Douglas) Jerrold, and the jaunty Bower, who had once been tried for his
life and acquitted by virtue of the "unwritten law" in connection with
an _affaire passíonelle_ in which he was the aggrieved party. For more
than forty years past, whenever I have seen a bluff looking elderly
gentleman sporting a buff-waistcoat and a white-spotted blue necktie,
I have instinctively thought of Bower, who wore such a waistcoat and such
a necktie, with the glossiest of silk hats and most shapely of
patent-leather boots, throughout the siege of Paris, when he was fond of
dilating on the merits of boiled ostrich and stewed elephant's foot, of
which expensive dainties he partook at his club, after the inmates of the
Jardin des Plantes had been slaughtered.

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