A Coup d’État
Paris had just learnt of the disaster of Sedan. The Republic was proclaimed. All France was panting at the outset of a delirium that lasted until after the Commune. Everybody was playing soldiers from one end of the country to the other.
Hatters became colonels, assuming the duties of generals; revolvers and daggers were displayed on large rotund paunches, enveloped in red sashes; common citizens became temporary warriors, commanding battalions of noisy volunteers, and swearing like troopers to emphasize their importance.
The mere fact of bearing arms and handling guns excited people who hitherto had only handled weighing scales, and made them formidable to the first comer, without reason. They even executed a few innocent people to prove that they knew how to kill; and, in roaming through country places as yet innocent of Prussians, they shot stray dogs, cows chewing the cud in peace, or sick horses put out to pasture. Every man believed himself called upon to play a great role in military affairs. The cafés of the smallest villages, full of tradesmen in uniform, resembled barracks or field hospitals.
Now, the town of Canneville did not yet know the news of the army and the Capital, but a violent agitation had been disturbing it for a month, and the rival parties had confronted each other. The mayor, Vicomte de Varnetot, a small, thin man, already old, a Legitimist who had rallied recently to the Empire, spurred by ambition, had seen rising up against him a powerful adversary in Doctor Massarel, a stout, full-blooded man, head of the Republican party in the district, venerable chief of the Masonic lodge in the county town, president of the Society of Agriculture, chairman of the Fire Department banquet, and organizer of the rural militia which was to save the country.
In two weeks he had induced sixty-three married men and fathers of families to volunteer in defence of their country, prudent farmers and merchants of the town, and he drilled them every morning on the square in front of the town hall.
Whenever the mayor happened to appear at the local government building, Commander Massarel, covered with pistols, sword in hand, passing proudly up and down in front of his troops, would make them shout, “Long live our country!” And this, they noticed, disturbed the little Vicomte, who no doubt heard in it menace and defiance, and perhaps some odious recollection of the great Revolution.
On the morning of the fifth of September, in uniform, his revolver on the table, the doctor was giving a consultation to an old peasant couple of whom the husband had suffered with varicose veins for seven years, but who had waited until his wife had the same complaint before coming to see the doctor, when the postman arrived with the newspaper.
Doctor Massarel opened it, grew pale, straightened himself abruptly and, raising his arms to heaven in a gesture of exaltation, cried out with all his might, in the face of the amazed rustics:
“Long live the Republic! Long live the Republic! Long live the Republic!”
Then he dropped into his armchair weak with emotion.
When the peasant explained again that this sickness had begun with a feeling as if ants were running up and down in his legs, the doctor exclaimed: “Leave me in peace. I have no time to waste on such nonsense. The Republic is proclaimed! The Emperor is a prisoner! France is saved! Long live the Republic!” And, running to the door, he bellowed: “Céleste! Quick! Céleste!”
The frightened maid hastened in. He stuttered, so rapidly did he try to speak: “My boots, my sword—my cartridge box—and—the Spanish dagger, which is on my night table. Hurry now!”
The obstinate peasant, taking advantage of the moment’s silence, began again: “They became like knots that hurt me when I walked.”
The exasperated doctor shouted: “Shut up, for heaven’s sake! If you had washed your feet oftener, it would not have happened.” Then, seizing him by the neck, he hissed in his face: “Can’t you understand that we are living in a Republic, idiot?”
But a sense of his profession calmed him suddenly, and he let the astonished old couple out of the house, repeating:
“Come back tomorrow, come back tomorrow, my friends; I have no time today.”
While equipping himself from head to foot, he gave another series of urgent orders to the maid:
“Run to Lieutenant Picart’s and to Sublieutenant Pommel’s and tell them that I want them here immediately. Send Torchebeuf to me, too, with his drum. Quick, now! Quick!” And when Céleste was gone, he collected his thoughts and prepared to overcome the difficulties of the situation.
The three men arrived together. They were in their working clothes. The Commander, who had expected to see them in uniform, gave a start of surprise.
“Good Lord! You know nothing, then? The Emperor has been taken prisoner. A Republic is proclaimed. We must take action. My position is delicate, I might almost say perilous.”
He reflected for some minutes in the presence of his astonished subordinates and then continued:
“We must act without hesitation. Minutes now are worth hours in times like these. Everything depends upon promptness of decision. You, Picart, go and find the priest and order him to ring the bell to bring the people together, so that I can inform them. You, Torchebeuf, beat the call in every part of the district, as far as the hamlets of Gerisaie and Salmare, to assemble the militia in arms, in the square. You, Pommel, put on your uniform at once, that is, the jacket and cap. We, together, are going to take possession of the town hall and summon M. de Varnetot to transfer his authority to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Act, then, and promptly. I will accompany you to your house, Pommel, since we are to work together.”
Five minutes later, the Commandant and his subaltern, armed to the teeth, appeared in the square, just at the moment when the little Vicomte de Varnetot, wearing hunting gaiters, and with his rifle on his shoulder, came along by another street, walking rapidly and followed by three gamekeepers in green jackets, each carrying a knife at his side and a gun over his shoulder.
While the doctor stopped in amazement, the four men entered the town hall and the door closed behind them.
“We have been forestalled,” murmured the doctor. “Now we shall have to wait for reinforcements; nothing can be done for the time being.”
Lieutenant Picart reappeared: “The priest refuses to obey,” said he; “he has even shut himself up in the church with the beadle and the usher.” On the other side of the square, opposite the white, closed front of the town-hall, the church, silent and sombre, showed its great oak door with the wrought-iron trimmings.
Then, as the puzzled inhabitants put their heads out of the windows, or came out upon their thresholds, the rolling of a drum was heard, and Torchebeuf suddenly appeared, beating with fury the three quick strokes of the call to arms. He crossed the square with disciplined step, and then disappeared along the road leading to the country.
The Commandant drew his sword, advanced alone about halfway between the two buildings where the enemy was barricaded and, waving his weapon above his head, roared at the top of his lungs: “Long live the Republic! Death to traitors!” Then he fell back where his officers were. The butcher, the baker, and the apothecary, feeling a little uncertain, put up their shutters and closed their shops. The grocery alone remained open.
Meanwhile the men of the militia were gradually arriving, variously clothed, but all wearing caps with red braid, the cap constituting the whole uniform of the corps. They were armed with their old, rusty guns, guns that had hung over chimneypieces in kitchens for thirty years, and looked quite like a detachment of foresters.
When there were about thirty around him, the Commandant explained in a few words the state of affairs. Then, turning toward his general staff, he said: “Now, we must act.”
While the inhabitants collected, looked on, and discussed the matter, the doctor quickly formed his plan of campaign:
“Lieutenant Picart, you advance to the windows of the town hall and order M. de Varnetot to surrender it to me, in the name of the Republic.”
But the lieutenant was a master-mason and refused.
“You are very clever, aren’t you? Trying to make a target of me! Those fellows in there are good shots, you know. No, thanks! Execute your commissions yourself!”
The Commandant turned red: “I order you to go in the name of discipline,” said he.
The lieutenant rebelled:
“I am not going to have my features spoiled without knowing the reason why.”
The notables of the village, in a group near by, began to laugh. One of them called out: “You are right, Picart, it is not the proper time.” The doctor, under his breath, muttered: “Cowards!” And, placing his sword and his revolver in the hands of a soldier, he advanced with measured step, his eyes fixed on the windows, as if he expected to see the muzzle of a gun pointed at him.
When he was within a few steps of the building the doors at the two ends, affording an entrance to two schools, opened, and a flood of little creatures, boys on one side, girls on the other, poured out and began playing in the open space, chattering around the doctor like a flock of birds. He could hardly make himself heard.
As soon as they were all out, the two doors closed. The greater part of the little monkeys finally scattered, and then the Commandant called out in a loud voice:
“Monsieur de Varnetot?” A window in the first story opened and M. de Varnetot appeared.
The Commandant began: “Monsieur, you are aware of the great events which have changed the system of Government. The party you represent no longer exists. The side I represent now comes into power. Under these sad but decisive circumstances, I come to summon you, in the name of the new Republic, to place in my hands the authority vested in you by the outgoing power.”
M. de Varnetot replied: “Doctor Massarel, I am mayor of Canneville, so placed by the proper authorities, and mayor of Canneville I shall remain until the title is revoked and replaced by an order from my superiors. As mayor, I am at home in the town hall and there I shall stay. Furthermore, just try to put me out.” And he closed the window.
The Commandant returned to his troops. But, before explaining anything, measuring Lieutenant Picart from head to foot, he said:
“You are a fine fellow, you are—a goose, the disgrace of the army. I degrade you.”
The Lieutenant replied: “I don’t care a damn.” And he went over to the group of grumbling citizens.
Then the doctor hesitated. What should he do? Make an assault? Would his men obey him? And then, was he in the right? Then he had a bright idea. He ran to the telegraph office opposite the town hall, on the other side of the square, and sent three dispatches: “To the Members of the Republican Government, at Paris”; “To the New Republican Prefect of the Seine-Inférieure, at Rouen”; “To the New Republican Subprefect of Dieppe.”
He explained the situation fully; told of the danger which the district incurred by remaining in the hands of the monarchist mayor, offered his loyal services, asked for orders and signed his name, followed by all his titles. Then he returned to his army corps and, drawing ten francs out of his pocket, said:
“Now, my men, go and eat and drink a little something. Only leave here a detachment of ten men, so that no one leaves the town hall.”
Ex-Lieutenant Picart, chatting with the watch maker, overheard this. With a sneer he remarked: “Pardon me, but if they go out, you will have a chance to go in. Otherwise, I can’t see how you are to get in there!”
The doctor made no reply, but went off to lunch. In the afternoon, he placed guards all about town, as if it were threatened by a surprise. Many times he passed before the doors of the town hall and of the church, without noticing anything suspicious; one might have believed the two buildings were empty.
The butcher, the baker, and the apothecary reopened their shops. There was a lot of talking in the houses. If the Emperor had been taken prisoner, there must be a traitor somewhere. They did not know exactly which Republic had been restored.
Night came on. Toward nine o’clock, the doctor returned quietly and alone to the entrance to the town hall, persuaded that his adversary had retired. And, as he was trying to force an entrance with a few blows of a pickaxe, the loud voice of a sentry demanded suddenly: “Who goes there?” Monsieur Massarel beat a retreat at top speed.
Another day dawned without any change in the situation. The militia in arms occupied the square. The inhabitants stood around them, awaiting the solution. People from neighbouring villages came to look on. Finally, the doctor, realizing that his reputation was at stake, resolved to settle the thing in one way or another. He had just decided that it must be something energetic, when the door of the telegraph office opened and the little servant of the postmistress appeared, holding in her hand two papers.
First she went to the Commandant and gave him one of the dispatches; then, crossing the deserted centre of the square, intimidated by so many eyes fixed upon her, with lowered head and running steps, she rapped gently at the door of the barricaded house, as if unaware that a party of men in arms was concealed there.
The door opened slightly; the hand of a man received the message, and the girl returned, blushing and ready to weep, from being stared at by the whole countryside.
In vibrating tones the doctor shouted: “Silence, please.” And, when the populace became quiet, he continued proudly:
“Here is a communication which I have received from the Government.” And raising the telegram, he read:
“Old mayor recalled. Please attend to urgent matters. Instructions will follow.
“For the Subprefect,
He had triumphed. His heart was beating with joy. His hands were shaking. But Picart, his old subaltern, cried out to him from a neighbouring group: “That’s all right; but if the others in there won’t get out, that piece of paper will not do you much good.” M. Massarel turned pale. Supposing the others would not get out? He would now have to take the offensive. It was not only his right, but his duty. And he looked anxiously at the town hall, hoping that he might see the door open and his adversary retreat. But the door remained closed. What was to be done? The crowd was increasing, surrounding the militia. People were laughing.
One thought, especially, tortured the doctor. If he should make an assault, he must march at the head of his men; and as, once he were killed, there would be no opposition, it would be at him, and at him alone that M. de Varnetot and the three gamekeepers would aim. And their aim was good, very good! Picart had reminded him of that.
But an idea occurred to him, and turning to Pommel, he said: “Go, quickly, and ask the chemist to lend me a napkin and a pole.”
The Lieutenant hurried off. The doctor was going to make a political banner, a white one, that would, perhaps, rejoice the Legitimist heart of the old mayor.
Pommel returned with the piece of linen required, and a broom handle. With some pieces of string, they improvised a flag, which Massarel seized in both hands. Again, he advanced towards the town hall, bearing the standard before him. When in front of the door, he called out: “Monsieur de Varnetot!”
The door opened suddenly, and M. de Varnetot and his three gamekeepers appeared on the threshold. The doctor recoiled, instinctively. Then, he saluted his enemy courteously, and announced, almost strangled by emotion: “I have come, sir, to communicate to you the instructions I have just received.”
That gentleman, without any salutation whatever, replied: “I am going to withdraw, sir, but you must understand that it is not because of fear, or in obedience to an odious government that has usurped power.” And, biting off each word, he declared: “I do not wish to have the appearance of serving the Republic for a single day. That is all.”
Massarel, amazed, made no reply; and M. de Varnetot, walking off at a rapid pace, disappeared around the corner, followed closely by his escort. Then the doctor, mad with pride, returned to the crowd. When he was near enough to be heard, he cried: “Hurrah! Hurrah! The Republic triumphs all along the line!”
But no emotion was manifested. The doctor tried again: “The people are free! You are free and independent! Do you understand? Be proud of it!”
The listless villagers looked at him with eyes unlit by glory. In his turn, he looked at them, indignant at their indifference, seeking for some word that could make a grand impression, electrify this placid country and make good his mission. The inspiration came, and turning to Pommel, he said: “Lieutenant, go and get the bust of the ex-Emperor, which is in the Municipal Council Hall, and bring it to me with a chair.”
And soon the man reappeared, carrying on his right shoulder, Napoleon III in plaster, and holding in his left hand a straw-bottomed chair.
Massarel met him, took the chair, placed it on the ground, put the white image upon it, fell back a few steps and called out, in sonorous voice:
“Tyrant! Tyrant! At last you have fallen! Fallen in the dust and in the mire. An expiring country groaned beneath your foot. Avenging fate has struck you down. Defeat and shame cling to you. You fall conquered, a prisoner to the Prussians, and upon the ruins of the crumbling Empire the young and radiant Republic arises, picking up your broken sword.”
He awaited applause. But not a shout was raised, not a hand clapped. The bewildered peasants remained silent. And the bust, with its pointed moustaches extending beyond the cheeks on each side, the bust, as motionless and well groomed as a hairdresser’s sign, seemed to be looking at M. Massarel with a plaster smile, an ineffaceable and mocking smile.
They remained thus face to face, Napoleon on the chair, the doctor in front of him about three steps away. Suddenly the Commandant grew angry. What was to be done? What was there that would move these people, and bring about a definite victory of opinion? His hand happened to rest on his hip and to come in contact there with the butt end of his revolver, under his red sash. No inspiration, no further word would come. So he drew his pistol, advanced two steps, and, taking aim, fired at the late monarch. The ball entered the forehead, leaving a little, black hole, like a spot, nothing more. It made no effect. Then he fired a second shot, which made a second hole; then, a third; and then, without stopping, he emptied his revolver. The brow of Napoleon disappeared in white powder, but the eyes, the nose, and the fine points of the moustaches remained intact. Then, the exasperated doctor overturned the chair with a blow of his fist and, resting a foot on the remainder of the bust in an attitude of triumph, he turned to the flabbergasted public and shouted: “So let all tyrants perish!”
Still no enthusiasm was manifest, and as the spectators seemed to be in a kind of stupor from astonishment, the Commandant called to the militiamen: “You may now go to your homes.” And he went toward his own house with great strides, as if he were pursued.
His maid, when he appeared, told him that some patients had been waiting in his office for three hours. He hastened in. There were the two varicose-vein patients, who had returned at daybreak, obstinate and patient.
The old man immediately began his explanation: “This began by a feeling like ants running up and down my legs.”