THE ABSOLUTION: ­SECOND PHASE:  THE OATH

CHAPTER I

FOR AN OATH, AN OATH AND A HALF

What is Louis Bonaparte?  He is perjury personified; he is mental reservation incarnate, felony in flesh and bone; he is a false oath wearing a general’s hat, and calling himself Monseigneur.

Well! what is it that he demands of France, this man-ambuscade?  An oath.

An oath!

Indeed, after the 20th of December, 1848, and the 2nd of December, 1851, after the inviolate representatives of the people had been arrested and hunted down; after the confiscation of the Republic, after the coup d’etat, one might have expected from this malefactor an honest cynical laugh at the oath, and that this Sbrigani would say to France:  “Oh, yes! it is true!  I did pledge my word of honour.  It is very funny.  Let us say no more about such nonsense.”

Not so:  he requires an oath.

And so, mayors, gendarmes, judges, spies, prefects, generals, sergents-de-ville, gardes champêtres, commissaries of police, magistrates, office-holders, Senators, Councillors of State, legislators, clerks, it is said, it is his will, this idea has passed through his head, he will have it so, it is his good pleasure; lose no time, start off, you to the registrar, you to a confessional, you under the eye of your brigadier, you to the minister, you, Senators, to the Tuileries, to the salon of the marshals, you, spies, to the prefecture of police, you, first presidents and solicitors-general to M. Bonaparte’s ante-chamber; hasten in carriages, on foot, on horseback, in gown, in scarf, in court dress, in uniform, gold-laced, bespangled, embroidered, beplumed, with cap on head, ruff at the neck, sash around the waist, and sword by the side; place yourselves, some before the plaster bust, others before the man himself; very good, there you are, all of you, none are missing; look him well in the face, reflect, search your conscience, your loyalty, your decency, your religion; take off your glove, raise your hand, and take oath to his perjury, swear fealty to his treason.

Have you done it?  Yes!  Ah, what a precious farce!

So Louis Bonaparte takes the oath au serieux.  True, he believes in my word, in yours, in ours, in theirs; he believes everybody’s word but his own.  He demands that everybody about him shall swear, and he orders them to be loyal.  It pleases Messalina to be surrounded by virgins.  Capital!

He requires all to be honourable; you must understand this, Saint-Arnaud, and you, Maupas, must look upon it as final.

But let us sift things to the bottom; there are oaths and oaths.  The oath which freely, solemnly, before the face of God and man, having received a note of confidence from 6,000,000 of citizens, one swears before the National Assembly, to the constitution of his country, to the law, to the people, and to France, that is nothing, it is not binding, one can trifle with it, laugh at it, and some fine day trample it under foot; but the oath that one swears before the cannon’s mouth, at the sword’s point, under the eye of the police, in order to retain the employment that gives one food, to preserve the rank which is one’s property; the oath which, to save one’s daily bread and that of one’s children, one swears to a villain, a rebel, the violator of the laws, the slaughterer of the Republic, a fugitive from every court, the man who himself has broken his oath ­oh! that oath is sacred!  Let us not jest.

The oath that we take on the 2nd of December, nephew of the 18th Brumaire, is sacrosanct!

What I admire most is its ineptitude.  To receive as so much ready money and coin of good alloy, all those “I swear” of the official commons; not even to think that every scruple has been overcome, and that there cannot be in them all one single word of pure metal!  He is both a prince and a traitor!  To set the example from the summit of the State, and to imagine that it will not be followed!  To sow lead, and expect to reap gold!  Not even to perceive that, in such a case, every conscience will model itself on the conscience at the summit, and that the perjury of the prince transmutes all oaths into counterfeit coin.

CHAPTER II

DIFFERENCE IN PRICE

And from whom, then, are oaths required?  From that prefect? he has betrayed the state.  From that general? he has betrayed his colours.  From that magistrate? he has betrayed the law.  From all these office-holders? they have betrayed the Republic.  A strange thing, and calculated to make the philosopher reflect, is this heap of traitors from which comes this heap of oaths!

Let us, then, dwell upon this charming feature of the 2nd of December: ­

M. Bonaparte Louis believes in men’s oaths! he believes in the oaths that one takes to him!  When M. Rouher takes off his glove, and says, “I swear;” when M. Suin takes off his glove, and says, “I swear;” when M. Troplong places his hand upon his breast, on that spot where is placed the third button of a senator, and the heart of other men, and says, “I swear,” M. Bonaparte feels tears in his eyes; deeply moved, he foots up all these loyalties, and contemplates all these creatures with profound emotion.  He trusts! he believes!  Oh, abyss of candour!  Really, the innocence of rogues sometimes elicits the wonder of honest men.

One thing, however, must astonish the kindly-disposed observer and vex him a little; that is, the capricious and disproportionate manner in which oaths are paid for, the inequality of the prices that M. Bonaparte places on this commodity.  For example, M. Vidocq, if he were still chief of police, would receive six thousand francs per annum, M. Baroche receives eighty thousand.  It follows, then, that the oath of M. Vidocq would bring him in but 16 francs 66 centimes per day, while the oath of M. Baroche brings him in 222 francs 22 centimes.  This is evidently unjust; why such a difference?  An oath is an oath; an oath consists of a glove removed and six letters.  How much more is there in M. Baroche’s oath than in M. Vidocq’s?

You will tell me that it is owing to the difference of their functions; that M. Baroche presides in the Council of State, and that M. Vidocq would be merely the chief of police.  My answer is, that it is but chance; that probably M. Baroche might excel in directing the police, and that M. Vidocq might very well be President of the Council of State.  This is no reason.

Are there then several sorts of oaths?  Is it the same as with masses?  Are there, in this business also, masses at forty sous, and masses at ten sous, which latter, as the priest said, are but “rubbish?” Does the quality of the oath vary with the price?  Are there in this commodity of the oath, superfine, extra-fine, fine, and half-fine?  Are some oaths better than others?  Are they more durable, less adulterated with tow and cotton, better dyed?  Are there new oaths, still unused, oaths worn at the knees, patched oaths and ragged oaths?  Is there any choice?  Let us know it.  The thing is worth while.  It is we who pay.  Having made these observations in the interest of those who are contributors, I humbly beg pardon of M. Vidocq for having made use of his name.  I admit that I had no right to do so.  Besides, M. Vidocq might possibly have refused the oath!

CHAPTER III

OATHS OF SCIENTIFIC AND LITERARY MEN

Here is a priceless detail:  M. Bonaparte was desirous that Arago should take the oath.  Understand, ­astronomy must swear fealty.  In a well-regulated state, like France or China, everything is bureaucracy, even science.  The mandarin of the Institute depends upon the mandarin of the police.  The great parallactic telescope owes homage to M. Bonaparte.  An astronomer is a sort of constable of the heavens.  The observatory is like any sentry-box.  It is necessary to keep an eye on the good God up yonder, who seems sometimes not to submit absolutely to the Constitution of the 14th of January.  The heavens are full of unpleasant allusions, and require to be kept in order.  The discovery of a new spot on the sun is evidently a case for the censorship.  The prediction of a high tide may be seditious.  The announcement of an eclipse of the moon may be treason.  We are a bit moonstruck at the Elysee.  Free astronomy is almost as dangerous as a free press.  Who can tell what takes place in those nocturnal tete-a-têtes between Arago and Jupiter?  If it were M. Leverrier, well and good! ­but a member of the Provincial Government!  Beware, M. de Maupas! the Bureau of Longitude must make oath not to conspire with the stars, and especially with those mad artisans of celestial coups d’etats which are called comets.

Then, too, as we have already said, one is a fatalist when one is a Bonaparte.  Napoleon the Great had his star, Napoleon the Little ought surely to have a nebula; the astronomers are certainly something of astrologers.  So take the oath, gentlemen.  It goes without saying that Arago refused.

One of the virtues of the oath to Louis Bonaparte is that, according as it is refused or taken, that oath gives you or takes from you merits, aptitudes, talents.  You are a professor of Greek or Latin; take the oath, or you are deprived of your chair, and you no longer know Greek or Latin.  You are a professor of rhetoric; take the oath, or tremble; the story of Theramenes and the dream of Athalie are interdicted; you shall wander about them for the rest of your days, and never again be permitted to enter.  You are a professor of philosophy; take the oath to M. Bonaparte, ­if not, you become incapable of understanding the mysteries of the human conscience, and of explaining them to young men.  You are a professor of medicine; take the oath, ­if not, you no longer know how to feel the pulse of a feverish patient.  But if the good professors depart, will there be any more good pupils?  Particularly in medicine, this is a serious matter.  What is to become of the sick?  The sick? as if we cared about the sick!  The important thing is that medicine should take the oath to M. Bonaparte.  For it comes to this:  either the seven million five hundred thousand votes have no sense, or it is evident that it would be better to have your leg amputated by an ass who has taken the oath, than by a refractory Dupuytren.

Ah! one would fain jest, but all this makes the heart sad.  Are you a young and generous spirit, like Deschanel; a sane and upright intellect, like Despois; a serious and powerful mind, like Jacques; an eminent writer, a popular historian, like Michelet ­take the oath, or die of hunger.

They refuse!  The darkness and silence, in which they stoically seek refuge, know the rest.

CHAPTER IV

CURIOSITIES OF THE BUSINESS

All morality is denied by such an oath, the cup of shame drained to the dregs, all decency outraged.  There is no reason why one should not see unheard-of things, and one sees them.  In some towns, Évreux for example, the judges who have taken the oath sit in judgment on the judges who have refused it; dishonour seated on the bench places honour at the bar; the sold conscience “reproves” the upright conscience; the courtesan lashes the virgin.

“M.  Verney, late President of the Tribunal of Commerce at Évreux, was cited to appear, on Thursday last, before the correctional judges of Évreux, on account of facts that took place on the 29th of April last, within the consular auditory.

          “M.  Verney is accused of inciting to hatred and treason
          against the Government.”

      The judges of first instance discharged M. Verney, and “reproved”
      him.  Appeal a minima by the “procureur of the Republic.” 
      Sentence of the Court of Appeal of Rouen: ­

          “The Court, ­

          “Whereas the prosecution has no other object than the
          repression of the crime of inciting to hatred and scorn of
          the Government;

“Whereas that offence would result, according to the prosecution, from the last paragraph of the letter of M. Verney to the procureur of the Republic at Évreux, on the 26th of April last, which is thus worded: ­

“’But it would be too serious a matter to barter any longer what we conceive to be right.  The magistracy itself will owe us thanks for not exposing the ermine of the judge to succumb under the formality which your dispatch announces.’

“Whereas, however blamable the conduct of Verney has been in this affair, the Court cannot see in that portion of the letter, the offence of inciting to hatred and contempt of the Government, since the order by which force was to be employed to prevent the judges from taking their seats who had refused to take the oaths, did not emanate from the Government;

          “Whereas there is no ground, therefore, for applying to him
          the penal code;

          “For these reasons,

          “Confirms the judgment without costs.”

The Court of Appeal at Rouen has for its first President, M. Franck-Carre, formerly procureur-general to the Court of Peers in the prosecution at Boulogne; the same who addressed to M. Louis Bonaparte these words:  “You have caused corruption to be employed and money to be distributed to buy treason.”

With this oath one journeys from surprise to surprise.  Nicolet was but a booby compared to M. Bonaparte.  When M. Bonaparte had had the circuit made of his valets, his accomplices, and his victims, and had pocketed all their oaths, he turned good-naturedly to the valiant chiefs of the African army, and “spoke to them nearly in these words:”  “By the bye, you are aware I caused you to be arrested at night, by my men, when you were in your beds; my spies broke into your domiciles, sword in hand; I have in fact decorated them for that feat of arms; I caused you to be threatened with the gag if you uttered a cry; my agents took you by the collar; I have had you placed in a felon’s cell at Mazas, and in my own dungeon at Ham; your hands still bear the marks of the cords with which I bound you.  Bonjour, messieurs, may God have you in his keeping; swear fealty to me.”  Changarnier fixed his eyes upon him, and made answer:  “No, traitor!” Bedeau replied:  “No, forger!” Lamoriciere replied:  “No, perjurer!” Leflo answered:  “No, bandit!” Charras struck him in the face.

At this moment M. Bonaparte’s face is red, not from shame, but from the blow.

There is one other variety of the oath.  In the fortresses, in the prisons, in the hulks, in the jails of Africa, there are thousands of prisoners.  Who are those prisoners?  We have said, ­republicans, patriots, soldiers of the law, innocent men, martyrs.  Their sufferings have already been proclaimed by generous voices, and one has a glimpse of the truth.  In our special volume on the 2nd of December, it shall be our task to tear asunder the veil.  Do you wish to know what is taking place? ­Sometimes, when endurance is at an end and strength exhausted, bending beneath the weight of misery, without shoes, without bread, without clothing, without a shirt, consumed by fever, devoured by vermin, poor artisans torn from their workshops, poor husbandmen forcibly taken from the plough, weeping for a wife, a mother, children, a family widowed or orphaned, also without bread and perhaps without shelter, overdone, ill, dying, despairing, ­some of these wretched beings succumb, and consent to “ask for pardon!” Then a letter is presented for their signature, all written and addressed:  “To Monseigneur lé Prince-President.”  We give publicity to this letter, as Sieur Quentin Bauchart avows it.

“I, the undersigned, declare upon my honour, that I accept most thankfully the pardon offered me by Prince Louis-Napoleon, and I engage never to become a member of any secret society, to respect the law, and be faithful to the Government that the country has chosen by the votes of the 20th and 21st of December, 1851.”

Let not the meaning of this grave performance be misunderstood.  This is not clemency granted, it is clemency implored.  This formula:  “Ask us for your pardon,” means:  “Grant us our pardon.”  The murderer, leaning over his victim and with his knife raised, cries:  “I have waylaid you, seized you, hurled you to the earth, despoiled and robbed you, passed my knife through your body, and now you are under my feet, your blood is oozing from twenty wounds; say you repent, and I will not finish you.”  This repentance exacted by a criminal from an innocent man, is nothing else than the outward form which his inward remorse assumes.  He fancies that he is thus safeguarded against his own criminality.  Whatever expedient he may adopt to deaden his feelings, although he may be for ever ringing in his own ears the seven million five hundred thousand little bells of his plebiscite, the man of the coup d’etat reflects at times; he catches vague glimpses of a tomorrow, and struggles against the inevitable future.  He must have legal purgation, discharge, release from custody, quittance.  He exacts it from the vanquished, and at need puts them to the torture, to obtain it.  Louis Bonaparte knows that there exists, in the conscience of every prisoner, of every exile, of every man proscribed, a tribunal, and that that tribunal is beginning his prosecution; he trembles, the executioner feels a secret dread of his victim; and, under pretext of a pardon accorded by him to that victim, he forces his judges to sign his acquittal.

Thus he hopes to deceive France, which, too, is a living conscience and a watchful tribunal; and that when the hour for passing sentence shall strike, seeing that he has been absolved by his victims, she will pardon him.  He deceives himself.  Let him cut a hole in the wall on another side, he will not escape through that one.

CHAPTER V

THE 5TH OF APRIL, 1852

On the 5th of April, 1852, this is what was witnessed at the Tuileries.  About eight in the evening, the ante-chamber was filled with men in scarlet robes, grave and majestic, speaking with subdued voices, holding in their hands black velvet caps, bedecked with gold lace; most of them were white-haired.  These were the presidents and councillors of the Court of Cassation, the first presidents of the Courts of Appeal, and the procureurs-general:  all the superior magistracy of France.  These persons were kept waiting in the ante-chamber.  An aide-de-camp ushered them in and left them there.  A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, an hour; they wandered up and down the room, conversing, looking at their watches, awaiting the ringing of the bell.  After more than an hour of tedious waiting they perceived that they had not even chairs to sit upon.  One of them, M. Troplong, went to another room where the footmen were, and complained.  A chair was brought him.  At last a folding-door was thrown open; they rushed pell-mell into a salon.  There a man in a black coat was standing with his back against the chimney-piece.  What errand summoned these men in red robes to this man in a black coat?  They came to tender him their oaths.  The man was M. Bonaparte.  He nodded, and, in return, they bowed to the ground, as is meet.  In front of M. Bonaparte, at a short distance, stood his chancellor, M. Abbattucci, late a liberal deputy, now Minister of Justice to the coup d’etat.  The ceremony began.  M. Abbattucci delivered a discourse, and M. Bonaparte made a speech.  The Prince drawled a few contemptuous words, looking at the carpet; he spoke of his “legitimacy;” after which the magistrates took the oath.  Each in turn raised his hand.  While they were swearing, M. Bonaparte, his back half turned to them, laughed and chatted with his aides-de-camp, who were grouped behind him.  When it was over he quite turned his back upon them, and they departed, shaking their heads, humbled and ashamed, not for having done a base deed, but because they had had no chairs in the ante-chamber.

As they were departing, the following dialogue was overheard: ­“That,” said one of them, “was an oath it was necessary to take.”  “And,” said another, “which it will be necessary to keep.”  “Yes,” said a third, “like the master of the house.”

All this is pure servility.  Let us proceed.

Among these first presidents who swore fidelity to Louis Bonaparte, were a certain number of former peers of France, who, as such, had passed upon Louis Bonaparte the sentence of perpetual imprisonment.  But why should we look back so far?  Let us still proceed; here is something even better.  Among these magistrates, there were seven individuals, by name, Hardouin, Moreau, Pataille, Cauchy, Delapalme, Grandet, and Quesnault.  Prior to the 2nd of December these seven men composed the High Court of Justice; the first, Hardouin, was president, the last two, deputy-presidents, the other four, judges.  These men had received and accepted from the Constitution of 1848 a mandate thus conceived: ­

“Article 68.  Every measure by which the President of the Republic shall dissolve the National Assembly, prorogue it or impede the performance of its decrees, is high treason.

“The judges of the High Court shall thereupon immediately assemble, under penalty of forfeiture; they shall convoke the jurors in such place as they shall appoint, to proceed to the trial of the President and his accomplices; they shall themselves appoint magistrates to perform the functions of the national administration.”

On the 2nd of December, in the face of the flagrant felony, they had begun the trial, and appointed a procureur-general, M. Renouard, who had accepted the office, to proceed against Louis Bonaparte on the charge of high treason.  Let us add the name of Renouard to the seven.  On the 5th of April, they were, all eight, present in the antechamber of Louis Bonaparte; we have just seen what was their business there.

Here it is impossible not to pause.

There are certain melancholy thoughts upon which one must have the strength to insist; there are sinks of ignominy we must have the courage to sound.

Cast your eyes upon that man.  He was born at hazard, by misfortune, in a hovel, in a cellar, in a cave, no one knows where, no one knows of whom.  He came out of the dust to fall into the mire.  He had only so much father and mother as was necessary for his birth, after which all shrank from him.  He has crawled on as best he could.  He grew up bare-footed, bare-headed, in rags, with no idea why he was living.  He can neither read nor write, nor does he know that there are laws above him; he scarcely knows there is a heaven.  He has no home, no family, no creed, no book.  He is a blind soul.  His intellect has never opened, for intellect opens only to light as flowers open only to the day, and he dwells in the dark.  However, he must eat.  Society has made him a brute beast, hunger makes him a wild beast.  He lies in wait for travellers on the outskirts of a wood, and robs them of their purses.  He is caught, and sent to the galleys.  So far, so good.

Now look at this other man; it is no longer the red cap, it is the red robe.  He believes in God, reads Nicole, is a Jansenist, devout, goes to confession, takes the sacrament.  He is well born, as they say, wants nothing, nor has ever wanted anything; his parents have lavished everything on his youth ­trouble, instruction, advice, Greek and Latin, masters in every science.  He is a grave and scrupulous personage; therefore he has been made a magistrate.  Seeing this man pass his days in meditating upon all the great texts, both sacred and profane; in the study of the law, in the practice of religion, in the contemplation of the just and unjust, society placed in his keeping all that it holds most august, most venerable ­the book of the law.  It made him a judge, and the punisher of treason.  It said to him:  “A day may come, an hour may strike, when the chief by physical force shall trample under his foot both the law and the rights of man; then you, man of justice, you will arise, and smite with your rod the man of power.” ­For that purpose, and in expectation of that perilous and supreme day, it lavishes wealth upon him, and clothes him in purple and ermine.  That day arrives, that hour, unique, pitiless, and solemn, that supreme hour of duty; the man in the red gown begins to stutter the words of the law; suddenly he perceives that it is not the cause of justice that prevails, but that treason carries the day.  Whereupon he, the man who has passed his life in imbuing himself with the pure and holy light of the law, that man who is nothing unless he be the contemner of unmerited success, that lettered, scrupulous, religious man, that judge in whose keeping the law has been placed, and, in some sort, the conscience of the state, turns towards triumphant perjury, and with the same lips, the same voice in which, if this traitor had been vanquished, he would have said: 

“Criminal, I sentence you to the galleys,” he says: 

“Monseigneur, I swear fealty to you.”

Now take a balance, place in one scale the judge, in the other the felon, and tell me which side kicks the beam.

CHAPTER VI

EVERYWHERE THE OATH

Such are the things we have beheld in France, on the occasion of the oath to M. Bonaparte.  Men have sworn here, there, everywhere; at Paris, in the provinces, in the north, in the south, in the cast, and in the west.  There was in France, during a whole month, a tableau of hands raised, of arms outstretched, and the final chorus was:  “We swear,” etc.  The ministers placed their oaths in the hands of the President, the prefects in those of ministers, and the mob in those of the prefects.  What does M. Bonaparte do with all these oaths?  Is he making a collection of them?  Where does he put them?  It has been remarked that none but unpaid functionaries have refused the oath, the councillors-general, for instance.  The fact is, that the oath has been taken to the budget.  We heard on the 29th of March a senator exclaim, in a loud voice, against the omission of his name, which was, so to speak, vicarious modesty.  M. Sibour, Archbishop of Paris swore; M. Frank Carre, procureur-general to the Court of Peers in the affair of Boulogne, swore; M. Dupin, President of the National Assembly on the 2nd of December, swore ­O, my God! it is enough to make one wring one’s hands for shame.  An oath, however, is a sacred obligation.

The man who takes an oath ceases to be a man, he becomes an altar, upon which God descends.  Man, that infirmity, that shadow, that atom, that grain of sand, that drop of water, that tear dropped from the eye of destiny; man, so little, so weak, so uncertain, so ignorant, so restless; man, who lives in trouble and in doubt, knowing little of yesterday, and nothing of to-morrow, seeing just enough of his road to place his foot before him, and then nothing but darkness; who trembles if he looks forward, is sad if he looks back; man, enveloped in those immensities and those obscurities, time, space, and being, and lost in them; having an abyss within him, his soul; and an abyss without, heaven; man, who at certain hours bows his head with a sacred horror, under every force of nature, under the roar of the sea, under the rustling of the trees, under the shadow of the mountain, under the twinkling of the stars; man, who can not lift his head by day, without being blinded by the light, nor by night, without being crushed by the infinite; man, who knows nothing, who sees nothing, who hears nothing, who may be swept away to-morrow, to-day, now, by the waves that pass, by the breeze that blows, by the pebble that falls, by the hour that strikes; on a certain day, man, that trembling, stumbling being, the plaything of chance and of the passing moment, rises suddenly before the riddle that is called human life, feels that there is within him something greater than this abyss, ­honour! something stronger than fatality, ­virtue! something more mysterious than the unknown, ­faith! and alone, feeble and naked, he says to all this formidable mystery that envelopes him:  “Do with me what you will, but I will do this, and I will not do that;” and proud, tranquil, serene, creating by a word a fixed point in the sombre instability that fills the horizon, as the mariner casts his anchor in the sea, he casts his oath into the future.

O plighted oath! admirable confidence of the just man in himself!  Sublime permission given by God to man, to affirm!  It is all over.  There are no more of them.  Another of the soul’s splendours that has vanished!