"Well, this hope of theirs was never realized. Nobody took the trouble to look at them. A minister nowadays is nobody of importance. Formerly to rise to such a position, to take in hand the reins of one of the great departments, it was necessary to have a certain exterior, a certain prominence, something of a past—to be a Monsieur Thiers, Monsieur Guizot, Monsieur Mole, Monsieur de Rémusat, Monsieur Villemain, Monsieur Duchátel, Monsieur de Falloux or Monsieur de Broglie—that is to say, an orator, an author, a historian, somebody in fact. But nowadays, all that is necessary to be a minister is the votes of certain little combinations of groups and subsidiary groups, who all expect a share of the spoils. Therefore we are ruled by certain personages illustrious perhaps at Gap or at Montélimar but who are quite unknown in the genealogical records of the Boulevard Haussmann. Why should you imagine that public attention would be attracted by news like this:
"'Look!—There is Monsieur X, or Monsieur Y, or Monsieur Z.'
"One person only during these last years ever succeeded in attracting the attention of the songstresses and ballet-girls of the Opéra. And that was Gambetta. Ah! when he came to claim Monsieur Vaucorbeil's hospitality, it was useless to crouch behind the cherry-colored silk curtains of the manager's box, many glances were directed toward him, and many prowling curiosities were awakened in the vicinity of the manager's box. Little lassies of ten or twelve came and seized your hand, saying:
"'Please, monsieur, point out Monsieur Gambetta to me—he is here—I would so much like to see him.'
"And then Gambetta was pointed out to them during the entr'acte—after which, delighted, they went off caracoling and pirouetting behind the scenes:
"'You did not see Monsieur Gambetta, but I saw him!'
"This was popularity—and it must be confessed that only one man in France to-day receives such marks of it. This man is Gambetta.
"Meanwhile Claretie's minister continues his walk through the corridors of the Opéra house. He reaches the greenroom of the ballet at last and exclaims:
"'And that is all!'
"Alas, yes, your Excellency, that is all!—"
And everything is only a "that is all," in this world. If one should set himself carefully to weigh power or fame—power, that force of which Girardin said, however: "I would give fifty years of glory for one hour of power,"—even if one tilted the scale, one would not find the weight very considerable.
It would be necessary to have the resounding renown of a personality like that one who, if I am to believe Monsieur Halévy, alone enjoyed the privilege of revolutionizing the foyer of the ballet, in order to boast of having been someone, or of having accomplished something.
A rather witty skeptic once said to a friend of his who had just been appointed minister:
"My dear fellow, permit me as a practical man to ask you not to engage in too many affairs. Events in this world are accomplished without much meddling. If you attempt to do something to-day, everyone will cry out: 'What! he is going to demolish everything!' If you do nothing, they will cry: 'What! he does not budge! If I were minister, which God forbid, I would say nothing—and let others act—I would do nothing—and let others talk.'"
Everybody, very fortunately—and all ministers do not reason like this jester. But the truth is that it is very difficult for an honest man in the midst of political entanglements as Vaudrey was, to realize his dream. When opportunities arise—those opportunities that march only at a snail's pace—one is not allowed to make use of them, they are snatched from one. They arrive, only to take wings again. And in those posts of daily combat, one has not only against one the enemies who attack one openly, which would be but a slight matter, a touch with a goad or a prick of the spur, at most—but one has to contend with friends who compromise, and servants who serve one badly.
Every man who occupies an office, whatever it may be, has for his adversaries those who covet it, those who regret it, those who have once filled it, and those who desire to fill it. What assaults too! Against a successful rival, there is no infamy too base, no mine too deep, no villainy too cruel, no lie too poisoned to be made use of—and the minister, his Excellency, is like a hostage to Power.
And yet one more point, it is not in his enemies or his calumniators that his danger lies. The real, absolute evil is in the system of routine and ill-will which attack the statesmen of probity. It will be seen from these pages that there is a warning bell destined, alas! to keep away from those in power the messengers who would bring them the truth from outside, the unwelcome and much dreaded truth.
The novel may sometimes be this stroke of the bell—a stroke honest and useful—a disinterested warner, and I have striven to make Monsieur le Ministre precisely that, in a small degree, for the political world. I have essayed to paint this hell paved with some of the good intentions. The success which greeted the appearance of this book, might justify me in believing that I have succeeded in my task. I trust that it will enjoy under its new form—so flattering to an author, that an editor-artist is pleased to give it—the success achieved under its first form.
Monsieur le Ministre is connected with more than one recollection of my life. I was called upon one day to follow to his last resting-place—and it is on an occasion like this that one discovers more readily and perceives more clearly life's ironies—one of those men "who do nothing but create other men," a journalist. It was bitterly cold and we stood before the open grave, just in front of a railway embankment, in an out of the way cemetery of Saint-Ouen—the cemetery called Cayenne,because the dead are "deported" thither. We were but four faithful ones. Yes, four, but amongst these four must be included a young man, bare-headed and wearing the uniform of an officer, who stood by the deceased man's son.
Whilst one of us bade the last farewell to the departed on the brink of the grave, the scream of the railway engine cut short his words, and seemed to hiss for the last time the fate of the vanquished man lying there. As we were quitting the cemetery, a worthy man, a song-writer, observed to me: "Well, if all those whom Léon Plée helped during his lifetime had remembered him when he was dead, this little Campo Santoof Saint-Ouen would not have been large enough to hold them all!"
Doubtless. But they did not remember him.
And from the contrast between the shabby obsequies of the old journalist and the solemn pomp of that of the funeral service of the four days' minister came the idea of my book. It seemed to me that here was an appropriate idea and a useful reparation. Art has nothing to lose—rather the contrary, when it devotes itself to militant tasks.
Ah! I forgot—When one mentions to-day the name of this illustrious minister whose funeral convoy was in its day one of the great spectacles of Paris, and one of the great surprises to those who know how difficult it is for a minister to die in office—like the Spartan still grasping his shield—those best informed, shaking their heads solemnly will say:
"Ricard?—Oh! he had great talent, Ricard—I saw lately a portrait of Paul de Musset by him—It is superb!"
They confound him with the painter to whom no statue has been erected, but whose works remain.
Be, then, a Cabinet Minister!
JULES CLARETIE.
Viroflay, September 1, 1886.
HIS EXCELLENCY THE MINISTER
PART FIRST