Clemenceau A Stormy Life

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GEORGES CLEMENCEAU
CLEMENCEAU
A Stormy Life
BY
LEON DAUDET
OF THE ACADEMIE GONCOURT
LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW
WILLIAM HODGE AND COMPANY, LIMITED

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY
WILLIAM HODGE AND COMPANY, LIMITED
LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW
Friends of Clemenceau
cl 804
Translated from the French by
ELIZABETH G. ECHLIN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER pAGE
I A Poignant Memory.i
II The Paper, the Chamber and the Intoxica¬
tion of Success ------ 26
III General Boul-Boul.59
IV Calumny - -- -- --84
V Alone with Himself - - - - - no
VI A Lovely Foreigner.134
VII The Struggle for Justice - 149
VIII In Power ------- 162
IX Chained and Unchained - 179
X War, Nothing but War! - 198
XI Old Father Victory.241
XII Ingratitude and Desertion - - - - 268
CHAPTER I
A POIGNANT MEMORY
There was a party that evening at the Menard-Dorian’s

handsome mansion in the Rue de la Faisanderie, which
they had recently built. The entertainment was of the
most sumptuous. It was in March a few months before
the death of Victor Hugo, in whose honour the party
was. The old man was then at the height of his glory,
and also in the depths of desolation, for he had just lost
the one real companion of his life, Juliette Drouet. The
great man’s grandchildren were dancing the minuet, in
costume, with the ravishing Pauline Menard-Dorian, one
of Paul Meurice’s daughters, a graceful creature, and some
other young people, amongst whom was the writer of
these pages. Clemenceau, Alphonse Daudet, Emile Zola,
Carries, Rodin, Bethune, and a crowd of politicians,
journalists and artists completed this unique gathering,
where grace, beauty, genius and talent seemed to have
been assembled to delight the eye and enchant the intelli¬
gence. France was then emerging from the 1870 disaster.
People crowded round Mme Adam, the creator of the
Republique Athenienne, a fair-haired Ceres with bare
shoulders, which seemed of marble, arms of dazzling
whiteness and light eyes that were frank and smiling.
The mistress of the house, Mme Aline Menard-Dorian,
was tall, dark and slim, well informed, sympathetic,
decided in her movements, and unshakeable in her
A I
CLEMENCEAU
passionate “left’’ convictions, for was she not the daughter

of the famous Dorian, Minister for Defence in Paris, and
a descendant of a protestant peasant family from Mont-
beliard ? All this did not prevent her from entertaining
as befitted one of the greatest ladies of the land, nor
from being witty on occasion. And there was Mme
Edouard Lockroy, Aline Lehaene before her marriage,
a god-daughter of Jules Simon, who, by virtue of her
charm, the perfection of her long face with its pointed
ears of a little faun, her full and supple figure with its
Venus-like proportions, her delicate hands and small
lively feet, was the queen of this new republican society
which had succeeded the imperial society and, while out¬
doing it in conventionality, gave evidence of a vitality
and an energy vastly superior to those of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain. Bearded and witty Camille Pelletan and
Edmond Durranc, born journalists, went from group to
group making old and young roar with laughter at their
witticisms and puns, for “laughter was the natural
behaviour of man.” The ground was strewn with the
roses, which had rained down on the silent Victor Hugo,
who seemed like a pansy in a flower-bed (according to
Durranc’s phrase, to which he added: “and a very absent
pansy too”).
Clemenceau was the centre of a little group consisting
of Paul Menard, Georges Perin, Challemel-Lacour, Allain
Targe and Lockroy.
Thick-set, compact and bearded like a prophet, Paul
Menard, the son of protestant wine-growers of Herault,
was married to a woman whom he adored and feared
at the same time. He was also a very rich man and
2
A POIGNANT MEMORY
pretty close with his money. He owned and ran the

Unieux Works in the Loire district, which were second
in importance only to Le Creusot. He was, as the Midi
folk have it, a mestre tons sens—a sensible fellow, fairly
sound in his judgment, except when his passions carried
him away—scrupulously honest, and mediocre in his
political foresight. He was greatly attached to
Clemenceau, whom he admired. Later, when things
got black for Clemenceau, when he was suffering under
the strokes of providence, in which entity Paul Menard
believed no more than he, he offered him a fortune (a
million francs at that time) to help him out of his diffi¬
culties, but Clemenceau, magnanimously, refused.
Georges Perm, on the other hand, had not a penny.
But his was a heroic nature, of the Schoelcher or Blanqui
type, the kind that puts honour before everything. He
had a fine, bearded face, a strong nose, a warm, deep
voice, a curved, red-lipped mouth, and a distant and
platonic affection for the unresponsive Aline Menard.
He was universally esteemed in the Chamber. He would
have given his life for Clemenceau. His nature was
upright, like that of Victor Schoelcher, and impervious
to temptation, his knowledge great and his acquaintances
many. He was a strict moralist. No companionship was
more agreeable than that of this silent, devoted man.
He was entirely altruistic and ready for any sacrifice.
Besides this, he was a good marksman in a duel and
coldly courageous. Georges Perin was a personage.
Challemel-Lacour was also a personage, of quite another
stamp. An article on Schopenhauer in the Revue des Deux
Mondes had established his reputation as an intellectual,
3
CLEMENCEAU
and fame came to him with that callous telegram he sent

from Lyons: “Shoot the lot of them!” That evening,
he was being introduced into radical society, to which
he was somewhat hostile, and had attached himself to
Allain Targe, who seemed to him a sort of refuge. From
time to time an icy sentence dropped from his lips, and
his thoughtful brow would pucker under his prematurely
white hair. Clemenceau, with his sallies, astonished
more than he attracted him.
Lockroy was slender, with bulging eyes, an alert look
and pinched lips, and unwearyingly pretended to consent
to everything. . . . “Of course, dear friend, of course,
of course ... I am entirely of your opinion.” And as he
said it he would chuckle behind the shelter of his hand
and swing his eye-glass about at the end of its black
cord. He was always evasive and making promises which
he rarely, if ever, kept. But how could one be angry
with him when, having finished one flood of promises,
he let loose another exactly contrary in intention. No
one ever heard him say “No!” He was a true son of
that old, honest comedian, Lockroy, and had a good sense
of irony. Woe betide those who crossed him!
Allain Targe had a face like the mask of a bearded
Silenus, and was for ever hitching up his trousers, which
were ignorant of braces. Though a radical at heart, he
was one of the opportunists, and had once been Minister
for Home Affairs. An enemy of secret funds, which he
called pretium stupri, he blamed all the evils of the new
regime on the political police of whom he had been in
charge, and on Arthur Ranc, whom he considered their
evil spirit. When Targe was seized by one of his spasms
4
A POIGNANT MEMORY
of laughter, he would pucker his eyes, pull furiously at

his beard and jump excitedly from his chair. Challemel-
Lacour, moved away from him, and eyed him with dis¬
gust. These democratic manners sickened him. When
soft drinks were handed round, orangeade and a cherry
drink, Targe seized one glass, then two, then three, drank
them greedily, and exclaiming “Excellent! excellent!”
rubbed his short, hairy hand over the region of his
stomach. He was the enfant terrible of the new regime, and
came out with everything—about Leonie Leon, Gambetta,
la Paiva, Henckel de Donnersmarck, and the rest, but he
stammered so and used so many damns and blasts, that
no one paid much attention to him. He admired Mme
Menard-Dorian and bent his knee before her.
Then came Freycinet, whom Paul Hervieu, who was
then unknown, had nicknamed “the white mouse.”
With him were his pleasant wife, who looked like the
castle of some set of chessmen, and his hard-working
daughter-secretary Cecile, whose amiability was pro¬
verbial. The wordly art of this taciturn mathematician
consisted in ingratiating himself and in never replying
to the questions that were put to him. He, too, was
a radical and a protestant, and the pet of Grevy, the
President, who entrusted him with the formation of his
cabinets; he lived on the memory of his plan, the
“Freycinet plan,” which had filled the Railways’ Board
with joy, and given him a solid reputation in the engineer¬
ing world. When he did open his mouth, he spoke in a
faint little precipitate voice. He had asked Mme Menard
to be allowed to bring with him his personal and confi¬
dential secretary. This was a huge Pole, named Jesiersky,
5
CLEMENCEAU
whom he had put in charge of the ]ournel Officiel as

successor to that kindly Jew, Aron, whose face was
covered by an enormous birth-mark like a map.
Behind Freycinet, undisputed head of the National
Defence Government and a lesser edition of the famous
Coligny, appeared Gustave Dreyfus, the bearded and
deferential owner of the Tymbal collection, which boasted
some incomparable Donatellos. He was followed by his
pretty daughters, Juliette and Emma, and by his
wife, who was bent and with greying hair—an accom¬
plished mother and housewife. She was of Viennese
origin, and, recognizing among the guests a plump
Austrian singer who was going to sing during the even¬
ing the two ladies bowed their greetings.
Emma Dreyfus was a real Fragonard, with tender,
imploring eyes. She attracted everyone’s attention but,
being very young, did not seem to care. Whilst the wife
of Paul Clemenceau, the engineer, who was also an
Austrian, hurried over to greet her compatriots,
Clemenceau’s second brother, Albert, a brilliant barrister
with his brother Paul’s voice, was talking to his sister,
Mme Brindza, a woman of bony and severe countenance.
“What a lot of Clemenceaus!” said Durranc; but, all
the same, he adored his boss and swore only by him.
Then, like a swirl, with a wig of hair as black as
Erebus, a husky, mocking voice, and a pair of light and
shifty eyes, came Rochefort. Lockroy hurried over to
shake his hand. Aline Menard took the tips of his fingers
and led him to Zola, with whom he was to be reconciled
that evening. Zola, who had offended Rochefort, was
waiting for him, standing there with his cleft nose, his
6
A POIGNANT MEMORY
kind face, like that of a hairy dog, sulky and affectionate,

nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. But, when
he was quite close, Rochefort span round on his heels
and said loudly: “No, no, it has gone on too long now!”
which made Clemenceau laugh cruelly. Zola made a
gesture like a man who has dropped a valuable piece
of china, and the second figure of the minuet from Don
Juan began.
Hugo had left to go and lie down in his little den,
which was quite close to the Avenue Victor-Hugo. A
wonderful supper was served in the great dining-room
and the hall, and Armand Gouzien, “that delightful
Gouzien,” who was as musical as music itself, intoned
the usual chorus:
“Those who join the Menard revels
All are lucky, lucky devils . . .
With a tra-la-la,
With a tra-la-la la-la-la-la!”
Gustave Geffroy, Clemenceau’s colleague on La Justice,
put in a very shy appearance when supper was already
in progress. He was a thorough-paced Breton, with a
rustic, bearded face, and always spoke through clenched
teeth. But he was the “boss’s” confidant and a man of
great talent, with a passion for the paintings of Manet,
Monet, Renoir, Sisley and Carriere, and the works of
the Goncourts and Alphonse Daudet, and a familiar
figure in the attics of Auteuil, Bellechasse and Champro-
say. His was a noble nature, of the kind that flourished
in the Golden Age. He might have stepped out of a
page of Seneca.
Clemenceau, who had remained standing, said to him:
7
CLEMENCEAU
“Sit down there, next to Albert—there is still room.

Anything new at the office?”
“Nothing. Sutter Laumann is getting the paper out
this evening.”
“Good.”
The ragout of game—a speciality of the Menard estab¬
lishment—was being served; Goncourt, who had a cold
that evening, kept on about it’s not being as good as
one got at Jean d’Heurs, his cousin Ratier’s place. The
young people knew that remark by heart, as they knew
all about Zola’s regrets for his vanished youth, his
“veuneffe,” and the “He’s a scoundrel—an absolute
scoundrel!” of Rochefort, who would never drink any¬
thing but water. The great polemist also loudly
remarked that at table there were only very pretty women
and young girls, which was the truth.
“Ah, youth, youth!” retorted Zola. “Eh, Daudet?
Eh, my friend?”
“That’s the way it goes!” replied Alphonse Daudet.
“Others take our place. Yesterday’s music is like a ship
passing out of sight.”
Clemenceau, his hands in his coat pockets, approved.
Although still young, he was going bald, but everything
about him radiated vigour and energy, and, in spite of
his over-prominent, one might almost say Mongoloid,
cheekbones, he was well set-up, strapping and handsome,
with a mocking mouth and thoughtful eyes. He had
married—and, so people said, married badly—during a
stay in America. He professed to despise women, but
without practising it, for he was an epistolary sentimen¬
talist and a man of lively sensuality.
8
A POIGNANT MEMORY
The guests had requested that there should be no music

during supper, so as to allow of conversation; but it was
an understood thing that afterwards the ever-willing
Gouzien would make the youngsters dance.
It was then that the sight of Rochefort and Lockroy
seated at the same table with all its laughter and trap¬
pings took Clemenceau back to the most tragic memory
in his life till then—the 18th March, 1871, when he was
Mayor of Montmartre. Memory seizes one abruptly like
that, darting down like a bird of prey after a dozen or
so years have passed, the occasion a phrase, an allusion,
a face, a date, a reflection. The month was March, and
someone had spoken of the hail that was battering down
—like the rain of bullets of that earlier March—on the
Rue de la Faisanderie.
Flattered and feared, cheated, calumniated, envied and
threatened with death, loved by a beautiful artist with
long arms and undulating body, whose attitudes were
classical and her kisses ardent, such was he then, and
Clemenceau saw once again that hideous time, when the
fury of rebellion and then of revolution was loosed
suddenly before his eyes. He had not been able to believe
it; had reassured General Lecomte, then General Clement
Thomas, when they came to take away the damned
cannon in the early hours of a foggy morning, with a
“There is no danger. Everything will turn out perfectly
all right.” Nevertheless, time went on and the gun teams
never came as had been arranged. The people of Mont¬
martre Hill, alarmed by the sudden tocsin, began to
fraternize, men, women and children, with the besotted
and somnolent soldiery, whom they dragged off to the
9
CLEMENCEAU
public houses, there to ply them with soup and wine.

The names of lieutenants and captains came back to
Mayor Clemenceau, then still a novice in his duties and
full of illusions about being able to depend on the good
sense of the masses and their natural generosity. But it
came all the same, the revolution, the “Field of Mars,”
the embraces, the tricolour flag, the Marseillaise, the
gnarled and knotted arms brandishing pikes, the loud
voice of the alarm cannon, all in the face of the enemy.
... Were the Prussians not right at our door, counting
on our rending each other? Had not Charles Hugo,
whose lovely young children, Georges and Jeanne, were
laughing at this very table after their dancing, died a
short time before at Bordeaux, and his body been
brought to Paris that same 18th March to be buried at
Pere-Lachaise ? He saw himself again, he Clemenceau,
dashing here and there, called to the Rue des Rosiers
where some uniformed blackguards, their rifles upside
down, deserters with the faces of gallows birds, had con¬
fined the two generals; saw himself, Clemenceau, hooted
at, spat upon, jostled, threatened, carried off by a furious
mob to the sound of maddened shouts of “Shoot him!
Shoot him!” The women screeched like harpies.
Drunkards staggered about. Young bloods with dis¬
ordered clothes brandished guns and swords. The scream
of the factory whistles mingled with the howls that ran
through a maddened populace which had emerged from
everywhere and nowhere and was blinded to all reason.
Soon the mayor, separated from his councillors and
covered with spittle, had become convinced of the futility
of his efforts and been forced to turn back. Was he
io
A POIGNANT MEMORY
frightened, he, whose father had taught him never to

be afraid of anything? In the depths of his conscience
he thought remorsefully diat perhaps for a moment he
had indeed shrunk before the mad exhalations of those
masks contorted with hate.
“Get out of the way, you scab! We’ve done with
you! . . . Off to the stake, Clemenceau, with rest of
them! . . . Go back to your drabs, you dirty bourgeois!
Long live the Commune! Kill! Kill!”
Then, suddenly, a rumour had spread, atrocious and
joyful.
“They’re done for! It’s finished ! They’ve got their
marching orders! Lecomte had the wind up. Into the
ditch, into the grave with them! Let’s cut them to bits.
They ought to be eaten, the blackguards!”
A girl, pulling up her skirts till you could see her thin
thighs, danced her joy at the thought of their being
“done in.”
“The garden’s all blood. Come and see it. That’ll
teach ’em. . . .” Then came the Carmagnole:
Madame Veto avait promis
De faire egorger tout Paris,
Mais son coup a manque
Grace a nos canonniers.
On lui coupa la tete . . .
Vive le son du canon!*

*Madame Veto had promised to cut
The throats of all in Paris, but,
Thanks to our gunners all who came,
Madame Veto missed her aim.
Now we’ll cut off her head . . .
Long live the cannon’s voice!

II
CLEMENCEAtT
The spell broke. He must have dreamed aloud, for,

opposite him, next to their beautiful hostess, who was
listening with that dreamy look women have when
relieved of their normal preoccupations, was Alphonse
Daudet, wiping his monocle and talking of the Rue des
Rosiers in his musical and sensitive voice:
“I saw it four days after—yes, it was the 22nd of March
—that tragic little house. There was still the smell of
powder in the air, . . . and a flower that had escaped
the bullets, just where Lecomte fell butchered by a
sergeant at point-blank range. At first the fellow had
seemed inclined to spare him. . . . ‘You are going to
promise us, General . . .’ Then he changed his mind.
. . . It was frightful ... I can still hear Flourens shouting
to me from the carriage as I stood on the platform of
a suburban station, just before his brutal death, ‘ Solvitur
acris hiems.’ ”
“A nightmare!” someone said.
Clemenceau had recovered himself:
“The Commune was really the Revolution in minia¬
ture. Without it we would not have had the Republic.
Isn’t that so, Lockroy?”
His voice bit on the words.
“But certainly, my dear fellow. . . . You were lucky
to get out of it, . . .” said Victor Hugo’s son-in-law
ironically, and added:
“And you too, Rochefort. Thiers wanted nothing
better than to have you shot; he held you responsible
for burning his shack in the Place Saint-Georges. . . .”
“Of course! He was a scoundrel, nothing but a dirty
little scoundrel.”
12
A POIGNANT MEMORY
Gustave Geffroy checked a laugh and murmured:

C’est Aldolphe Thiers qu on me nomme,
Sucre nom d’un petit bonhomme.
“All that has gone,” said Gouzien, “like die shadows
and the wind.” He got up and, running into the
drawing-room, sat down at the piano and in a vigorous
voice launched into the refrain:
“Those who join the Menard revels
All are lucky, lucky devils . . .
With a tra-la-la,
With a tra-la-la la-la-la-la!”
There was now a general move from the table. It was
two o’clock in the morning. Someone said that the hail
had stopped. Challemel-Lacour made a sign to Clemen-
ceau and Lockroy, and the three got together in a corner
of the smaller drawing-room to talk about the political
situation, which was somewhat confused since Gambetta’s
death and the party muddle.
“Jules Ferry and his set,” said Clemenceau, “are follow¬
ing in Gambetta’s footsteps. We are hitched on to
Germany’s coat-tails. Bismarck is allowing us to play at
colonies, and the idea of Revenge is as dead as nails.
That is what Madame Adam seems to think as well,
according to what Marcere says at least, and he is in
her confidence.”
“Marcere isn’t an authority,” said Challemel. “He is
nothing but an echo of the Adam lot, which is itself the
military set and knows nothing about politics.”
At that moment a snore was heard from behind a
Japanese screen. Lockroy got up, moved the screen aside
and revealed the sleeper, an old man with long white
!3
CLEMENCEAU
hair. It was Father Considerant, one of the figures of

the 1848 revolution, who had made the effort of getting
into an antique and threadbare suit in order to watch
Victor Hugo’s grandchildren dance. But, tired by all
the noise and feeling out of his element in that modern
age, he had dispensed with supper and gone to sleep
instead. Madame Aline Menard was told and she gently
woke the old man and had a room prepared for him,
for he could not go home in such weather.
“What splendid chaps they are,” said Clemenceau;
“those of his generation. He reminds me of Blanqui.
Have you noticed how silent old Hugo is ? Is he always
like that, Lockroy?”
“Yes, except when there’s a servant’s petticoat about,
and then he wakes up. There’s no holding him then;
he is terrifying. Priapus himself.”
“I thought he was mourning for Juliette. . . .”
“He weeps for Juliette and caresses Blanche. It’s the
Pantheon for him!”
This raised a laugh, and, after joining in, Clemenceau
said:
“I am sorry for him, poor old chap. In the Senate
where we got him elected everyone starts laughing as
soon as he opens his mouth. That is why he keeps quiet,
I expect. Bah! Shall we be even as vigorous as he at
his age? What are you thinking about, Challemel?”
“I am thinking what you think, Clemenceau, and you
Lockroy, what Madame Adam thinks, that this giving
up of the idea of revenge is a serious thing and that we
will have to denounce it in the Chamber. But we
will have to be careful of German reprisals. 1875 is
T4
A POIGNANT MEMORY
not so long ago. The thing will have to be done

indirectly.”
“On the colonial question, perhaps. An opportunity
may occur.”
Paul Menard, pleased with the evening and the supper,
appeared rubbing his hands together.
“Hullo, what are you conspirators doing here? Been
rocking poor Considerant to sleep?”
“We were talking about the waning desire for Revenge,
and colonies.”
“Those grave problems can wait. It is about time to
go to bed. I am catching an early train to-morrow for
Unieux. Have you your carriage, Challemel?”
“Of course, old man, and I’ll drop Lockroy at Avenue
d’Eylau. His wife, the old man and the children have
already gone home. Good night.”
When he had gone, with a step that was still firm,
Lockroy said:
“We haven’t many men of that stamp on our side.”
He counted on his fingers: “Him, Scheurer-Kestner,
that dependable Alsatian, Targe—and that’s the lot.”
“And,” added Clemenceau, “of another kind, Berthelot
and Renan. Berthelot should be made use of; he is more
active and less sedentary than his friend Renan.”
“Used for what?”
“In one of the ministries. Don’t forget we are living
in an age of science and progress.”
“Listen,” said Lockroy, laughing, “I was Renan’s
secretary in Syria. There were Madame Renan, Henriette,
the great man’s sister, the great man himself, and I.
Being a young married couple, the Renans slept lovingly
J5
CLEMENCEAU
in a bed hung with little bells. When these bells rang,

the jealous Henriette would run into the room with a
flannel waistcoat, crying: ‘Ernest, you will catch cold.
Put this waistcoat on at once!’ Oh, they’re terrible, these
sisters!”
Clemenceau, whom Madame Brindza hardly ever
bothered, had decided to go home on foot. The walking
freed his thoughts, and they ran riot in his lively orator’s
imagination, mixed up with memories of his parents and
the Vendee; for he was emotional by nature, although
outwardly rough, sarcastic and indifferent. The need for
Revenge was not just a thing of mere words. At
Bordeaux, he and Scheurer-Kestner had felt the forfeiture
of the two beloved provinces with an extraordinary
intensity, such as they had never before suspected . . .
Shylock’s pound of flesh. Those Germans were a great
nation, but fundamentally enemy, and enemy they would
remain until the end of time. How could one dream
of coming to an understanding with such people?
The sky had cleared after the hail-storm and the stars
shone down. Here and there the damp, black earth was
beginning to dry. The streets were deserted. But even
so, there were still three cabs at the stand in the Avenue
d’Eylau, with the coachmen asleep in their seats. They
must have heard about the party in the Rue de la
Faisanderie or of some other in the neighbourhood. The
great mass of the Arc de Triomphe appeared. Ought
one to admire Bonaparte as a son of the Revolution, or
detest him as the Emperor with that court of his, a
ridiculous parody of the monarchy? Had he not, as
Napoleon, betrayed the Revolution, trailing it about
16
4
A POIGNANT MEMORY
from battle-field to battle-field—and what a pitiable

successor!
As he reached the circus of the Champs Elysees,
Clemenceau, who was walking with his stick hanging
by its iron head from his overcoat pocket, saw coming
towards him in the circle of light thrown by one of the
lamps a man as bearded as Pelletan, as careless as he in
his attire, but with greying hair and wearing an ancient
top-hat. He looked bedraggled from having been out
in the rain so long, and with his long legs resembled
Don Quixote.
“Good-evening, citizen Clemenceau.”
“Good-evening, my friend.”
“You don’t recognize me. I am Riffard, da Costa’s
friend, one of the Commune, and a political follower of
yours. Ah! you’ve got on well! I only hope your
opinions won’t fade as time goes on, like those of some
others have.”
“No fear of that. They’re even getting redder.”
“That’s something worth hearing.”
“Listen, Riffard, if you feel like talking a bit, walk
along with me. Only, I won’t stop, as I should catch
cold. March nights are dangerous.”
“It’s true; you are a doctor—Doctor Clemenceau! Oh
I knew your dispensary well. At the moment I am on
my beam ends and looking for a job.”
“What can you do?”
“Proof correcting. I have worked on the papers. If
only you could take me on for La Justice. I wouldn’t
expect too much.”
“Can you spell?”
b 17
CLEMENCEAU
“Yes, and I even know French.”

“Tell that to the marines! One never knows
French. ...”
“Not like Daudet and Zola, certainly. Not even like
Valles. But I used to write a bit, in the old days, for
some of the rags. It wasn’t too bad.”
“All right, I’ll make you proof-reader, and perhaps
give you other odd jobs besides. Come to the office
to-morrow. You seem to be dragging a bit. Where are
you off to?”
“To Les Halles. At the moment I sleep in a doss
house. It’s no joke at forty-six, and with synovitis in
your joints.”
Clemenceau took a five-franc piece from his pocket.
“Here my friend,” he said, “you can get a plate of veal
and a glass of wine with this, anyway.”
But Riffard drew himself up with unaffected dignity.
“Many thanks, citizen. I haven’t come to begging yet.
I am asking for work and nothing else.”
“Very well. Excuse me, I am in a hurry. Till
to-morrow.”
When he had got in and was climbing the stairs the
owner of La Justice reflected that he himself had not
always enough to pay his bills at the end of the month,
and that this poor devil he had just promoted was
superfluous.
“Bah! I’ll tell him to black his face like a nigger
and then send him to old Schoelcher. All the same, what
a lot of rubbish that blasted Commune has left behind!”
Some years earlier he had owed his best speech to the
Commune. It was the one he made in reply to the report
/
18
A POIGNANT MEMORY
on the amnesty, and it had produced a great effect. He

had afterwards learned from a reliable source that on
reading this piece of precise and cogent eloquence
Bismarck, who was much impressed, had summoned his
secretary, Holstein, and, with the paper still in his hand,
had said:
‘ Here’s a fellow, this Clemenceau, on whom we must
keep an eye. I am asking Paris for information about
him.”
The rising young politician never anticipated that this
would result in his being kept under strict surveillance
by the Surete-Generale, or that a dossier about him, which
was full of calumnies, would be conscientiously passed
round by the police and then handed over to the secret
funds people. Up till the day he became Minister for
Home Affairs in 1907, Clemenceau, in his naivete, knew
nothing of the mechanism or the ways of those dreaded
officials of the Rue des Saussaies.
Back in his modest flat he caught sight of a letter as
he was just on the point of getting to bed, and recognized
the writing as that of his paper merchant, a hand he
knew well. It was a demand for payment of his account
for January and February. This came to a fairly stiff
figure. He would have to borrow, for it was not possible
to put off paying any longer. He ran through the list
of his friends and acquaintances, but the thought of that
sort of “loan” made him feel sick. He would rather,
he thought, go to a money-lender, one of those cheap
hangers-on who are always hoping for some decoration
or other or a ministerial windfall. There was one of this
kidney among his shareholders who was an usurer in a
T9
CLEMENCEAU
big way. Perhaps, after all, he had been wrong to refuse

Paul Menard’s million. But, no, borrow from a friend
and your friendship is ruined for ever, and friendship
is one of the most precious things of all. His father
would have approved that.
Every night before going to sleep Clemenceau would
gaze for a long time at the portraits of the parents he
had loved so well, which stood on his mantelpiece. His
father . . . with his resolute, severe features and his
stubborn brow. When, in the days of the Empire, that
father he loved and respected was being taken off, a
prisoner, to Nantes on a charge of being involved in some
conspiracy, he had said to him through clenched teeth,
in front of the police guard: “I will avenge you.” To
which the suspect had replied in his firm voice: “If you
want to avenge me, work.” His mother, what a sweet
and pretty face, and how it shone with goodness. . . .
What was it Hugo used to say about his dead mother’s
eyes, those eyes that had followed him throughout his
life? Those heady wines of Menards confused his
memory. This scrutiny, which stood him in stead of
prayers, being over, and feeling too restless to sleep, he
took from a drawer the rough sketch of an article he was
trying to write for La Justice. An editor who did not
write in his own paper seemed to him ridiculous. Of
course there were several like that, but they were either
duffers or else business men. Whereas he, Clemenceau . . .
He dipped his pen into the ink, and, by the light of his
little lamp, attempted to co-ordinate his sentences—an
operation which was quite mechanical when he spoke.
Dawn was always the time when he composed his
20
A POIGNANT MEMORY
speeches, jotting down, as he thought, merely the general

outline and the various headings. The rest he left to
the spur of the moment. There was in him a spring
of improvization which gushed out in a light and brilliant
stream that flowed along clear and untroubled, while his
brief, jerky delivery only made his speech the more sober
and telling. This mastery gave him a sense of ease,
which communicated itself to his hearers. He had only
to open his mouth to persuade. He swam like a fish in
running water, making his way through the cunning
difficulties of the French language and reappeared on
the other side, alert and mocking. Whether in the
Chamber or at a public meeting it was always the same;
his fellow deputies rushed off to hear him speak, as did
the people. But, set paper and ink before him and he
became confused and hesitant, got tangled up in paren¬
theses which seemed like weeds that he had neither the
courage nor the means to eradicate. . . . This particular
morning was no different from other mornings—he
sweated, cursed, and made no headway.
“Oh, damn the thing! I give it up! Camille will just
have to be annoyed.”
For Pelletan, who was very fond of him, was imploring
him to send in some copy.
“Write like you talk, for God’s sake!” he would say.
“You are not at a loss for subjects.”
“No, but as soon as I sit down they take themselves
off.”
“And not when you are standing up?”
“When I am on my feet the arguments, which run
away when I try to write, marshal themselves beauti-
21
CLEMENCEAU
fully. Camille, it is essential, you understand, for me to

be vertical if I am to express myself. In that position
ideas come thronging to me ‘at the sound of my voice,’
as Montaigne says, ‘like the thunder to the bells’
chime.’ ”
Camille Pelletan had done in the Rappel, which
belonged to Victor Hugo and his sons, some priceless
pictures of members of the right wing of the National
Assembly, which he called the Light Brigade. He was
a caricaturist of the highest rank, but, in the language
of 1881, a red communard. He lived, as did Paul Arene
(that delightful writer of Provencal stories), with a rather
masculine lady-love, who led him a fine dance. The two
of them occupied a ground-floor flat in the Avenue de
l’Observatoire, which they shared with a cage-full of
parrots and another of monkeys. Whenever Camille had
taken a drop too much he became irascible and would
not put up with the caustic comments of this virago
whom he had not bothered to take to the altar, but gave
as good as he got. In the end the two cages—which
stood on the window sill—would go hurtling on to the
pavement, amid the howls and shrieks of their occupants.
Clemenceau knew all this, and used to say of this man,
for whom he had a great affection:
“That devile, Camille, when you invite him to dinner
he misbehaves himself in the soup tureen.”
Pelletan, who had a real gift for writing, used to
implore his dear Clemenceau, of whom—being an artist
—he made innumerable sketches, to “read the good
authors, chiefly those of the sixteenth century, Montaigne
and Rabelais. It’s there you can learn, and nowhere else.
22
A POIGNANT MEMORY
. . . Besides, beware of using the genitive, and, as a

general rule, no parentheses. Look how old Hugo avoids
parentheses.”
“I can’t do without them. It’s beyond me. Voltaire
bores me stiff. Diderot is my favourite.”
“He’s mine too. But one mustn’t say so.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t suit universal suffrage. Remember
what Pascal said: ‘Take away probability, and you will
no longer please the people. Put in probability and you
can no longer displease them.’ And Gambetta’s ‘When
universal suffrage will have raised its sovereign
• 5 55
voice. . . .
“Thank God he’s done with.”
“And so will you be one day! We all shall.”
And Camille Pelletan would go back to his caricatures,
his unkempt beard scratching on the paper.
Cornelius Hertz, who had foreseen Clemenceau’s
political fortunes, lent him the required sum without
grumbling, and also without obtaining the seat on the
board of La Justice for which he asked. “I am quite
willing to have his money,” said that paper’s owner
gaily, “but I don’t want his collaboration.”
He added: “Financiers do not understand anything
about politics. They think everything can be done with
money, and it’s not so. Take me, for instance—I couldn’t
be made to go to church for ten thousand francs.”
His hatred of the clergy was as strong and sincere as
his anti-monarchism. His father had inculcated in him
a horror of a priest-ridden government and he main¬
tained, as did all the radicals, that the Pope ought not
23
CLEMENCEAU
to interfere in France’s affairs and make her a second

Italy. State education should be non-clerical and com¬
pulsory. They had had enough of Jesuits and Ignoran-
tines and their hold on children’s souls. The generals
who came from the Jesuit colleges all aspired to bring
off an eventual coup d’etat.
That had been seen on 16th May, when MacMahon
was president. Clemenceau thoroughly intended, when
the natural tipping of the parliamentary scale and his
“left” tendency brought him to power, to send the High
Command and the bishops about their business, and effect
the separation of church and state by appealing to the
masses, but without allowing them to start another
Commune. A scientific government, purely scientific,
that is what the radical government would be, with a
strong authority directing it: his own. As for the
admirals, those “sons of archbishops,” as Pelletan jokingly
called them, they too would have nothing left them, but
to toe the line.
Such were the thoughts, at times even contradictory,
that ran through the head of the young orator who was
beginning to become very popular with the students,
especially the medical students, who were the most active
from every point of view. On the other hand, he was
banned by Charcot and his set, whose influence was
decisive, because of his past attacks on Gambetta, who
had been an intimate friend of the famous doctor.
Charcot used to say of him, as he raised his finger:
“Mr. Clemenceau has some good qualities, but he goes
too far in everything, and that is what will impede his
political career.” But what was destined to impede his
24
A POIGNANT MEMORY
political career was, in the first place, his hostility towards

Germany whose influence in France, since her victory,
was far-reaching, and secondly, his talent for ridiculing
his contemporaries, colleagues, and even, when he felt
like it, his best friends. He was incapable of keeping a
joke or any witticism, however cutting, to himself, and
that served him many a bad turn.
The women, of course, had their eyes on him, now
that their idol Gambetta was dead. His legal wife, his
“Americaine” as he called her, did not count with him,
and he was determined to get rid of her one way or
another at the first opportunity. He was very fond of his
daughters, moderately fond of his sister, Brindza, and a
little fonder of his brothers Albert and Paul, who shared
his political feelings and many of his memories.
His sports were fencing, pistol shooting, riding, walk¬
ing and love affairs, but his real passion was oratory.
Loyal in friendship and strict in matters of honour, he
despised subterfuge, intrigue and backstairs politics, as
he did anything crafty, crooked or abnormal. Vice he
could never stand, though when there were no delicate
lady’s ears to hear him, he could be as crude as the rest.
25
CHAPTER II
THE PAPER, THE CHAMBER AND THE

INTOXICATION OF SUCCESS
One day towards the middle of January, 1885, the staff

of La Justice was assembled in its offices in the Rue du
Faubourg-Montmartre to celebrate its fifth anniversary.
They were waiting for its owner, Clemenceau, to arrive,
before pouring out the champagne. One and all respected
and were fond of him, while some held him in very
special esteem and thought he was cut out for a great
future. Among these was Camille Pelletan, the chief
editor, a bitter polemist and an enthusiastic artist, who
sketched Clemenceau in every style and manner, particu¬
larly as Macbeth receiving the witches’ prophecy: “Greet¬
ings to you, who will be king!” Beside Pelletan stood
Gustave Geffroy, a Breton republican who gave allegiance
to that other from Vendee. He had a habit of talking
through clenched teeth. “That’s stunning! Clemen¬
ceau was, is and will be stunning!” Then there was
Louis Mullem, Leon Cladel’s brother-in-law, fat, pessi¬
mistic and a polyglot, with a smiling face and eyes-which
softened beneath their wrinkled lids whenever the name
of Clemenceau was pronounced. A musician of the
highest rank, an excellent writer and novelist, Mullem
was a scoffer, and had a way of hitting on admirable
phrases at every turn; for example, setting off against
Tolstoy’s The Power of Darkness, The Impotence of
26
THE PAPER, THE CHAMBER AND INTOXICATION OF SUCCESS
Light. Edouard Durranc was a burst of laughter from

the South in a replete and agile body, and an excellent
friend and companion.
That celebrated saying, “The Republic was so wonder¬
ful under the Empire,” which is generally attributed to
Forain, was Durranc’s.
Charles Martel, a kindly giant with sharp eyes, did the
dramatic criticisms. Sutter Laumann occupied the uneasy
post of sub-editor and gathered in the copy. Taken up
with his parliamentary duties and a violent love affair
with a beautiful singer, Clemenceau hardly ever wrote
for his paper, but he looked over the copy and decided
its political angles, which at that time intersected hope¬
lessly. A rebel by nature, and a scoffer, he never kept
back any remark however vitriolic and made enemies
every day. He had great respect for Aulard, the historian
of the Revolution, who wrote in La ]ustice under the
pseudonym of “Santhonax.” Clemenceau had taken the
chair at the first of Aulard’s lectures in the Salle Gerson
at the Sorbonne, and, to the manifest delight of everyone,
had compared the movement of 1789-1795 to a fighter
who is assailed on all sides and returns blow for blow—
“If he can’t see who is hitting him, he behaves like a
raving lunatic.” Thus, through an inner exaltation
which had its roots in his bridled passion, he had made
a fetish of the Revolution and identified it with his
country. He had the soul of a Jacobin, and there too he
cherished the idea of Revenge, but for better reasons and
in quite a different way to Gambetta, who had only
dreamed of coming to an understanding with Bismarck
and visited the woman known as de Paiva, a spy whom
27
CLEMENCEAU
marriage with a wealthy Prussian of the lesser provincial

nobility had made Countess Henckel von Donnersmarck.
“A brawler and a boaster,” was Clemenceau’s summing-
up of Gambetta, but he nevertheless praised him for his
republican conduct on 16th May. For, like Renan, he
was nothing if not just.
When, some months before, Gambetta had died of
appendicitis, then called typhlitis, the owner of La Justice
had said nothing, in contrast to Rochefort, who held that
“Death was no excuse,” and blithely trampled over
graves. Clemenceau thought Rochefort amusing and
courageous, but superficial. “You can’t learn anything
from him. . . .” “To learn, to enlarge one’s field of
knowledge, and thus help the progress of suffering
humanity,” was the particular bee in his bonnet just then
and one he shared with his chief contemporaries. The
study of medicine, which he had pursued zealously, had
given weight to what he said both in ordinary conversa¬
tion and in the Chamber. He also took an interest in
the arts of war, and in a former director of infantry at
the War Office, Boulanger by name, who was said to
be a staunch republican and an ardent upholder of the
Revenge. For it would not do to allow a reactionary to
come into power, one who worked for a coup d’etat, as
Gambetta had, at the instigation of Mme Adam, with
Miribel.
It was not only the graduates of the great military
colleges but also the priests who menaced the ideal of
progress. The Jesuits especially had not budged an inch
since the days of Saint Ignatius. Clemenceau and his
faithful Pelletan wondered whether every succeeding
28
minister were not led by a “crow,” whether his wife

were not tied to some “crow’s” apron strings. His being
a protestant saved Freycinet from this suspicion, but only
just. Did not the French clergy recognize a Roman Pope
as the commander of their conscience! Their doctrine,
therefore, was both anti-revolutionary and anti-national.
The law should pursue them without mercy. Mme
Adam’s salon had exercised the most unfortunate influ¬
ence in this respect, for, on the pretext of its being
“Athenian,” she extended her favour to these enemy
"brothers” of the new regime, which was the result of
the people’s free choice.
While denying that he practised the mystagogy of
Victor Hugo, who dwelt on Olympus “in retirement,”
Clemenceau was yet one of his levites and believed with
him in the perfection and emancipation of man through
science. He differed from Rousseau in that he considered
humans to be in their natural state despicable and capable,
when circumstances offered, of the worst meannesses. “We
live surrounded by rotters.” But these were chiefly to be
found in the salons, in parliament, congresses and the
universities. Pooh, he thought, all you had to do was
to walk over them, horsewhip in hand, and immediately
“they would take flight like a covey of partridges.”
Now that, fifteen years after the advent of the Republic,
the fires lighted by the Commune were out, it seemed
fitting, and even advantageous, to take an interest in the
fate of these new pariahs, the working classes. Charity,
the stamping-ground of the clergy, must be replaced by
help in the shape of work, and the public assistance
appropriation increased for that purpose. The owner of
29
CLEMENCEAU
La justice knew the peasant world well, that aristocracy

of the Vendee and Provence, which is an inexhaustible
source of new blood for the middle classes. But he knew
very little about the working classes, especially of Paris,
and had a vague mistrust of them dating back to March,
1871. The education of the youth of France would have
to be reorganized from the bottom up. Social legislation
had been rendered necessary by the fantastic development
of industry. Yes, but where was one to begin? How
could one have both order, which was indispensable, and
the power behind the masses, which one would like to
use?
These were a few of the ideas, a mixture of Auguste
Comte, Michelet, Blanqui and Charles Robin, which fer¬
mented in that animated brain.
Clemenceau was at last in possession of the necessary
tool: a daily Parisian paper. This was the organ of
radicalism, just as the Republique Frangaise, in which
Joseph Reinach had succeeded Gambetta, was the organ
of opportunism. A frightful word, opportunism, and one
which masked a commodity still more frightful that lent
itself to the worst compromises. In the eyes of the young
radical leader compromise was the greatest pitfall of
parliamentary politics, a thing of amendments which end
in a little Act of five lines and overthrow all one has
been trying to build up. How many people there were
who proclaimed incendiary motions in the cafes and else¬
where, but in the lobbies of the Chamber compounded
with their worst adversaries, sometimes for a bribe, some¬
times out of snobbishness, or so as to get friendly with
the “big bugs,” those whose word was law in the com-
30
mittees. Radical is a word that means that one would

never be a party to any of these customary dirty and
degrading devices, that one would uphold one’s point of
view to the death, that one would not, for any price,
betray the cause of the left wing, the cause of the people
as expressed by universal suffrage.
Suddenly a tremor ran through the newspaper’s dusty,
never-swept offices, through the half-dozen squalid rooms
where its editors were boxed together. The “boss” had
arrived.
Slim, elegant and alert, dressed in tails and a white tie,
scented with eau-de-cologne, a cigar in his mouth and his
eyes shining with roguishness, shaking hands all round,
with a brief remark for each: this was the man whose
friends expected great things of him and who seemed
at that time to be in a fair way of realizing their expecta¬
tions.
“Is the kid here?” he asked, after handing his overcoat
and stick to the office-boy.
“The kid” was his brother Albert, the barrister, in
whom he always took a special interest. Then, turning
to Mullem, the foreign editor, he asked: “Is there any¬
thing new?” Mullem made a vague gesture. The
Tirard budget was the current topic, and there was also
the re-election of the Senate and the scrutiny of the
register. On each of these points the leader and the party
had their settled opinions. But the important question
of the hour was the colonial one, as represented and
championed by Jules Ferry, one of the opportunists.
Clemenceau summed it up for this group of his
colleagues, who gave cheerful deference to his opinions:
31
CLEMENCEAU
“It’s very simple. Ferry is carrying on Gambetta’s

policy of rapprochement with Germany, whereas for us
there is only one possible one, that of Revenge. Bismarck
has tried to put us off the scent with colonies, which are
a frightful waste of effort, men and money, in order to
set us at the right moment at loggerheads with England,
and leave him the tertius gaudens. That is why I am
fighting Ferry; not that I think we should pick a quarrel
with Germany, which we are not at the moment in a
position to fight. But it is not towards China and
Tonking that our eyes should be turned to-day. It is still
and always will be to the eastern frontier that we should
look. Mullem, what do you think about it? You go
through the German and English papers every day.”
“I am entirely of your opinion. Ferry is trying to get
into Germany’s good graces and Germany is grateful to
him.”
“By Jove! That will have to be seen to. I’ll put my
spoke in that wheel at the first opportunity.”
Someone said: “And what about Russia?”
“For the Russia of the Tzars,” said Clemenceau,
“France is still the land of revolution—Satan’s country.
I don’t know how you say Satan in Russian. Mme Adam
thinks she is checking Bismarck with Gortchakoff. What
an illusion! Oh, women in politics! It’s lucky that
Mme Grevy is only interested in making jam. . . . But
enough of that. On this occasion let us drink to the
paper, to the French revolution and to the triumph of our
ideas!”
His curt voice with its manly tone gave the impression,
even in so simple a toast, of a man who knew what he
32
wanted and was so certain of himself as to gain and

compel your confidence. The champagne was uncorked
—it was not a very good champagne, but all that the
publicity fund of La Justice could afford—and a dish of
petits fours handed round. Clemenceau was in a hurry
to get back to his mistress and in her arms escape for
a few hours from the cares of politics. He chatted with
first one and then another of the men around him, and
listened attentively to what Geffroy had to say about the
impressionist painters, especially Monet and Renoir.
There was an exhibition of the works of these two at
some art dealer’s.
“What do they bring to painting?” asked Clemenceau.
“Light, purely and simply light. And that’s some¬
thing.”
And Geffroy, who felt deeply about these things, gave
a little stifled laugh.
“Who is the better in your opinion, Monet or
Renoir?”
“For faces, Renoir . . .”
“For example?”
“His portrait of Mme Charpentier and her children at
Zola’s publishers in the Rue de Grenelle. I told them
you would call and they are expecting you.”
“That’s good of you. I’ll go and see it. I know
Charpentier—he’s a decent chap. Hasn’t he started an
art review?”
“Yes, La Vie Moderne, with Bergerat, Bracquemont
and some others. Flaubert gave him an unpublished
pky."
“Oh, yes, his Chdteau des Coeurs—it was a wretched
33
CLEMENCEAU
thing. But, I say Martel, didn’t old Flaubert get a play

acted once?”
“Yes, Le Candidat—a complete flop.”
“Novelists,” said Clemenceau, “cannot paint the
political scene for the good reason that they know nothing
about it. Look at Zola. Sheer drivel; there’s no sense
in it.”
“All the same, L’Assommoir is a fine thing.”
It was Pelletan who thus interrupted, standing there
bearded like a river god, with a sheaf of proofs in his
hand.
“Certainly, but Nana is sheer filth.”
“That’s going a bit too far. Bordenave, the theatrical
manager, who always says ‘my theatre . . . call it my
brothel!’ well, that’s a lifelike picture.”
“I have often been behind the scenes, but I never heard
anyone speak like that.”
At that moment the boy brought in a note for Clemen¬
ceau. He opened it at once and read:
“I am not well this evening. Impossible. I’m going
to bed. Kisses.”
“Ah,” thought the owner of La Justice, vexedly, “this
changes all my plans. I don’t feel like working to-night,
nor like going to a cafe, or even home. To-morrow’s
Sunday.” He called out: “Martel! Durranc!”
“Here we are. What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that I am not sleepy, that to-morrow
will be Sunday and that I am going to take you to
Fontainebleau. The last train goes at one-ten. We will
see the forest covered in snow and we’ll talk. Then back
to-morrow in time for dinner. That suit you?”
34
Those who worked with Clemenceau were accustomed

to this sort of escapade and were never astonished at any¬
thing he did, being always ready to follow him anywhere.
The unconventional and whimsical side to him was not
the least of his charms.
“Have you a decent overcoat?” he asked Durranc, who
felt the cold and was not strong.
“It’s old and not luxurious. But it’s a good friend . . .”
“And you, Martel?”
“The same here.”
“Let’s get going then.”
“Good night, children.”
“Hooray for Clemenceau!”
Clemenceau shrugged his shoulders. “What kids they
are!” An hour later they were all three in a 2nd-class
carriage where the warmth and the gentle movement
made them doze. On arrival at Fontainebleau they made
for the Black Eagle Hotel and asked the porter, who
though half asleep still recognized so regular a visitor,
for three rooms. When they met again next morning
it was nine o’clock.
“We will go and have a bite and then take a stroll
in the forest,” said Clemenceau.
A stroll! Durranc and Martel knew what that meant.
Eight miles at the least and no lunch till two o’clock.
“Pooh! It will give us an appetite. And then, there’s
snow in the sky. It will be delightful.”
“We shall fall over,” remarked Durranc, who was not
much of a sportsman.
“Durranc, you are a pessimist. Think of Calderon’s
play—The worst is not always sure to happen. There
35
CLEMENCEAU
is not enough snow falling to make it slippery: at least,

not just yet.”
“Which direction are we taking?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s nicest to follow your nose.
Everything is beautiful in this old forest of mine. The
only thing it lacks is ponds, like in my Vendee. Also,
there are no birds, because, being always thirsty, like
Pelletan, they wouldn’t find anything to drink.”
“Wasn’t it Jules de Goncourt who spoke of a ‘swine
of a nightingale’ which had prevented him from sleeping
by ‘howling the whole night.’ ”
They laughed. The sky was yellow and a dim light
bathed the bare trees.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Clemenceau. “But you,
Martel, don’t care a damn about painting. Nor you,
Durranc. Ah, it’s decided to snow at last. ...”
Then, after a long silence, with no sound but the foot¬
falls of the walkers which the white flakes soon muffled,
Clemenceau said:
“I am rather fond of forests, very fond of plains and
don’t like mountains at all—they stop up the view. What
is beautiful is the coming of spring to the woods, when
everything crackles and all the springs begin to run. It
is amazing that no musician has thought of giving expres¬
sion to it.”
“Wagner has, in that long bit in the Valkyrie that
Mullem plays. . . .”
“I know. It is a beautiful movement, but it lacks
nature’s wildness, that sense of eruption.”
They arrived back at the hotel at about half-past one
as hungry as wolves. At their request some cabbage
36
soup with bacon and haricot beans had been kept for
them.
“Jolly nice, this mixture! The spoon stands up in it.
To enjoy a real cabbage and bacon soup like this properly,
one must take an eight-mile walk. Twenty miles would
be better still. Wouldn’t it, Durranc?”
“I’ll tell you after I have had a glass of wine. As far
as I am concerned, I’m done.”
“You old woman! I can’t think why you wear
trousers! Twenty miles is my customary dose when I am
at home. . . . This soup really is excellent. Waiter, you
can tell the proprietor that.”
A few minutes later the proprietor put in an appear¬
ance, all in white, and took off his traditional cap.
“Are you pleased, sir?”
“Delighted!”
“The bacon is not too salt? That’s always a danger.
And the haricots not done too much?”
“Everything is done magnificently. What is this wine
you have given us?”
“It’s from Macon, sir. That is my home.”
“It’s quite good. Send up another bottle at once. . . .
Now let’s talk about serious matters. What do you think
of the paper, Durranc? And you Martel?”
Durranc replied: “I think it’s a bit solemn, not over-
clever, but well brought out. Naturally, we don’t get
the news that the Figaro does.”
“Especially about the theatre,” put in Martel.
“That’s a question of money, Martel. In journalism,
as in politics, finance governs everything.”
“And in private life as well.”
37
CLEMENCEAU
“Do you think I don’t know that! This business of

being an M.P. would ruin me if I gave to one-tenth of
the people who try to touch me. When I am in the
Chamber I receive no one. Every visit means a request
for either a job or five francs. I’ve had enough of it.”
“You eat too quickly,” put in Durranc. “You’ll get
a pain in your stomach. And you a doctor!”
“Exactly. When I was a student I ate my lunch in
a quarter of an hour and my pals did the same. In the
evening we had soup, real soup, like this, and cheese.
But intellectually what an intense life it was! Medical
training is more substantial, vastly more so, than Greek
and Latin. There are fine things in the literature, art
and philosophy of ancient Greece, but they are not a
patch on biology or anatomy. How I enjoyed those even¬
ings alone with my half-skeleton! A whole one cost too
much. I can still see Yorick’s skull in my hand, with
its sphenoid and its ethmoid. Durranc, Martel, why
didn’t you study medicine?”
By the time they reached the coffee the snow was
falling more heavily, accompanied by scurries of wind.
The chimney began to smoke. Durranc stifled a yawn.
“I know what’s wrong with you,” said Clemenceau.
“You want a liqueur? You are in a hurry to poison
yourself.”
“So am I,” put in Martel.
“Waiter, two brandies.”
“And you? . . .”
“Oh, very little does me. I need to live a long time.
I want to see the real Republic.”
“And to lead it?”
38
Well, why not? Judging it by the present cabinet

and those who belong to it, it shouldn’t be over difficult.”
As he spoke a priest stumped in, wearing a pair of
heavy clogs. He had a kindly face, round and clean
shaven, a pair of mischievous eyes and, when he took
off his huge hat, the baldness of his head was like an
enlarged tonsure. He asked for a grog and sat down
by the remains of the fire.
“Nasty weather to-day, your reverence.”
"Oh well, it’s the season for it. Is the wife well? And
little Robert?”
“Yes, they’re all right, your reverence. Things are
all right for the moment. All we’ve got to do is to wait
for the spring without worrying.”
“Never worry—that’s a good rule,” put in Clemenceau.
“Isn’t it, father?”
“All the more so since providence knows what is good
for us, whereas we do not.”
“Monsieur Clemenceau,” said the innkeeper quickly,
thinking it better to say who Clemenceau was in case
someone should drop a brick. Clemenceau bowed.
Martel and Durranc smiled.
“I am from the Vendee like you, M. Clemenceau,”
said the priest, “and from a village not far from yours—
Les Herbiers.”
“I know it. I often walk about there. There’s a fine
view from the Alouettes Hill.”
“It stretches right over to the Sabot woods. That part
is full of great memories—Charrette and the Chouans—
but forgive me if I offend you by talking like this. . . .”
“Not at all. We radicals believe in complete liberty
39
CLEMENCEAU
of opinion—as long as we are allowed to have our own.”

There was a silence. The priest drank his grog slowly,
enjoying the way it burned his mouth and warmed his
stomach.
“It’s time we were off . . .” remarked Martel, taking
out his watch.
“All right. Go on ahead and I’ll catch you up. I’ll
just settle the bill.”
When his friends had left, Clemenceau called for his
bill. The priest lowered his voice and said to him: “I
hear, M. Clemenceau, that you are going to attack our
persecutor, Jules Ferry.”
“Yes, but not because of his religious policy. On that
point I share his views. For his colonial policy.”
“I have a brother who is a missionary in China. He
is in great danger. The Chinese are very incensed against
us, and then there are the pirates as well. Monsieur
Clemenceau, why are you so against us? We harm no
one. . . .”
“I am against you because you obey a foreign
sovereign.”
“How’s that?”
“You are subjected, in everything and for everything,
to the Pope’s authority.”
“In all spiritual matters, certainly . . . but in other
things. . . .”
“And also in what you call ‘mixed’ affairs. I am above
all a patriot. Such a thought as that I find unbearable.”
“I also am a patriot, Monsieur Clemenceau, and on
that subject we can agree. A brother of mine was killed
in 1870, at Buzenval.”
40
“Yes, France is a family divided. She will have to

be sewn together again.”
“Without tearing the stuff on either side. I am pleased
to have met you.”
“Why so?”
“Because you have a good face.”
“And so have you.”
“And because you will go far.”
“No farther than the churchyard.”
“But very late, and after a great victory, when you
have conquered yourself.”
“Monsieur Clemenceau,” said the innkeeper, “you will
miss your train.”
“Thank you, my friend. What did I give you for a
tip?”
“Twenty-five centimes, sir.”
“Here, there’s another twenty-five. That will make
half-a-franc for you, so long.”
“So long, sir.”
“Goodbye, father.”
Walking at a quick pace that was almost a run Clemen¬
ceau reached the station to find the Paris train already
in. His friends signalled to him and he hurried to their
carriage.
“Ah,” he said to them, “I got engaged in a religious
controversy again. What a mania it is!”
Then, suddenly: “We will go and feed at Brebant’s
near the office. It’s not dear, and I believe it’s the day
for pig’s trotters a la Sainte Menehould—which you pro¬
nounce Sainte Menou.”
It had stopped snowing. Clemenceau’s being at
41
CLEMENCEAU
Brebant’s on a Sunday created a stir. Catulle Mendes

was there in the midst of a circle of young men reciting
Baudelaire’s poems.
“It’s he! It is he, isn’t it? No, it’s not he!”
“Good evening,” Mendes called to him across two
tables, and scratched his mane of fair hair.
“Good-day, Mendes. ...”
Going up the Rue Montmartre the three friends noticed
in front of a chemist’s shop a crowd of people surround¬
ing a policeman holding by the hand a little girl in tears.
Her face was all swollen and bleeding.
“What’s the matter with the kiddy? Has she fallen
down?”
“No, her father has been beating her with a poker.”
“What a brute! What’s your name, little one?”
“Nini Clanchepain, sir.”
“Clanchepain—that reminds me of something. You
live in the Rue de Trevise, don’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Her father is a coppersmith, M. Clemenceau. And
one of your influential voters,” added the worthy bobby,
somewhat slyly.
“He is none the less a precious scoundrel. Come with
me. I’ll dress her face at the chemist’s. It will be like
being back in the dispensary again.”
When he saw who he was dealing with the chemist
was all eager hurry and Clemenceau, falling back into
the old ways, washed the wound with care, gave it a
rough dressing, and then scribbled a report of a few lines
which he sent to the inspector of police. That night the
child should sleep with the porter’s wife at the office and
42
in the morning they would see. Nini, who understood

what was happening, implored forgiveness for her
unworthy father.
'‘No, little one, don’t worry. He will not beat you
any more. Look what a pretty little thing she is! . . .
and puny, just skin and bone, more like a sparrow.”
This little display of spontaneous compassion touched
Martel and Durranc. Their redoubtable chief was like
that, capable of giving his time and attention to a poor
mite who had been beaten by a scoundrelly father. The
father, informed of what had happened, came running
to the office, still half-drunk, filthy, stinking like carrion
and braying like an ass.
“This is a bit too much, upon my word! There’s been
a mistake, sir. The little one fell down. I had nothing
to do with it.”
“Will you shut up, you wretch; if not I’ll have you
put in prison.”
“In prison! I like that! Me, Clanchepain, your
electioneering agent in prison!”
“And sooner than you think, too!”
“But where is my little Ugenie, sir?”
“With the porter’s wife, and there she stays until
to-morrow when I will find a bed for her in a clinic or
a hospital.”
“My daughter belongs to me, I suppose?”
“Not since you tried to kill her. Get out—buzz off!
Go on, make yourself scarce!”
The drunkard raised his arms, calling upon heaven to
testify to his innocence and his powerlessness. On the
steps had gathered a crowd of women who shouted abuse
43
CLEMENCEAU
at him and threatened to give him a hiding. The mis¬

fortunes of little Nini were the talk of the neighbourhood.
M. Casimir, who sold eiderdowns, had talked of adopting
her. Her blackguard of a father had half starved her
since her mother died and if it hadn’t been for that nice
Mme Auxerre of the tripe-shop goodness knows what
would have become of the poor kid!
Rumour grows apace in Montmartre, and it was soon
being said that Clemenceau had torn a poor little girl
away from her father who was strangling her, and
adopted her. And others added that the girl was his
own illegitimate child whom he had had by the wife
of a tinker and that the legal father had been put into
prison, which, after all, was going a bit too far.
“My modest personage,” said the owner of La Justice,
“easily gives rise to stories.”
Later he was to have better reason for saying that.
Some days later he was informed that an Austrian, a
certain Mr. Herzog who was something of a personage
in Viennese financial circles, wished to have a talk with
him.
“What does the fellow want with me?”
“He did not say. But it seems to be urgent.”
“Four o’clock to-morrow at the office.”
Herzog, who wore a black beard and spectacles, had
on a magnificent fur coat. On his little finger was a
ring which had a chain fastening it to a bracelet. This
was quite enough for Clemenceau.
“I haf come on behalf of the State Bank, by whom I
am empowered. Here iss my card.”
“What about?”
44
“It appears, Herr Director, that you are intending

shordy to gombat President Ferry’s government as regards
the colonial question.”
“How do you know that?”
“Public rumour.”
“What of it?”
“I haf been asked to tell you that it might be in your
interest not to continue with the broject.”
“In what way?”
“By not interfering, or, at least, by limiting your inter¬
ference.”
Herzog then lowered his voice to say: “Our group
would be grateful to you.”
“Explain yourself more clearly, sir. I don’t quite
follow ...”
“It would be a good security, of which fifty shares of
two thousand francs each would be placed at your dis¬
posal.”
“In other words, you have come here to buy me for
a hundred thousand francs?”
His visitor made a vague gesture, took off his glasses
and polished them with an embroidered handkerchief.
Clemenceau gave a strident laugh.
“Learn this, Mr. Herzog; I am not a pig at a fair
and I am not for sale. Tell your shareholders that from
me.”
“Well, well, I’m sorry.”
He rose heavily and held out a flabby hand which
Clemenceau pretended not to see. At that moment Sutter
Laumann came in and Clemenceau said to him:
“You’re just in time. Mr. Herzog here came to offer
45
CLEMENCEAU
me, on behalf of Vienna, a hundred thousand francs

to leave Ferry alone. What do you advise me to do?”
Sutter Laumann burst out laughing and Clemenceau,
taking the papers he handed him, said:
“And now, what have we got on the front page this
evening?”
Nevertheless, some of his important fellow deputies,
both of the left and the right, advised the leader
of the radicals to abandon his project for the time
being.
“An offensive against Ferry would be very inoppor¬
tune and would not be understood. The news from
Tonking is good. Negrier has the troops well disciplined.
Briere de l’lsle says everything will be all right. This
is a windfall for France which will give us a chance
of getting a firm footing in the yellow world. Now, the
yellow world is a tremendous reservoir of men and
money. Look at England with her Chinese customs.”
Others saw the position from the point of view of
parliamentary tactics and said that a direct attack, even
on good grounds, would be playing into the hands of
the opportunists and would increase the cohesion of
Ferry’s partisans, while the desired turn to the left and
the rise of radicalism would come of themselves.
“It’s absurd,” Clemenceau retorted. “You can never
get victory without fighting. Letting things slide has
never done any good.”
The lobbies of the Chamber re-echoed with these dis¬
cussions in which the active ministers took no part for
fear of losing their jobs, and treated their formidable
adversary as a “bit mad.”
46
“I may be a bit mad, but it is a divine madness,” said

Clemenceau.
Nevertheless, the radicals began to compromise with
the imperialist right wing, which was headed by Paul de
Cassagnac, a man of violent and courageous tempera¬
ment and an adroit tactician, but handicapped by a slight
impediment in his speech.
Public opinion was divided. Brier e de l’lsle, Negrier,
Courbet and Domine enjoyed for their heroic defence of
Tuyen Quan a certain popularity in Paris which made
up for Ferry’s unpopularity. The latter’s physiognomy
was against him; he looked like a butler, with his huge
nose and great whiskers, and he was so shy that he was
never able to speak properly; also his manner was cold
and distant. All the same, the intimate members of his
staff were attached to him and because of this hated
Clemenceau, to whom they ascribed the foulest treacheries
and accused his paper, which was in financial straits, of
the dirtiest possible contrivances. Did he not spend his
nights with a celebrated actress? Was he not often to
be seen at the opera among the pretty ballet girls? All
that looked suspicious. Besides, there were many
financiers, themselves no better than Cornelius Herz, who
saw in these colonial enterprises possibilities of profitable
deals to be made when occupation was completed. As
Clemenceau said: “One starts with missionaries, goes
on with soldiers and ends up with bankers.” To which
could be retorted that everything has its good side and
its bad. The monarchy had had its sharks, such as
Semblanây and Fouquet, but had known how to rip
open those too-gilded stomachs when the moment came,.
47
CLEMENCEAU
At each meeting at the Circus Fernando Clemenceau

now attacked Ferry’s policy. The problem was still
undecided when suddenly there happened that which was
to rouse the country and prove that those who had stood
for the recovery of the two provinces lost to France for
fifteen years, against Ferry’s long-term policy, were right.
China, which was represented by an English official of
the Chinese customs, was on the point of giving in to
the French demands when the following telegram, which
was immediately communicated to the press, arrived in
Paris on 29th March:
Hanoi, 28th March,
11.38 p.m.
“I am grieved to inform you that General de Negrier,
seriously wounded, has been forced to evacuate Lang Son.
The Chinese, debouching in great force, in three columns,
have launched a violent attack on our positions in front
of Ki-Lua. Colonel Herbinger, confronted by these
superior numbers and having exhausted his ammunition,
informs me that he is obliged to retreat towards Dong
Sin and Than-Moi. I am concentrating all available
forces on the Chu and Kep passes. The enemy is being
continually reinforced on the Song Koi. Whatever
happens, I hope to be able to defend the whole of the
Delta. I ask the Government to send me reinforcements
as soon as possible. Briere de l’lsle.”
Early in the afternoon, while the paper-boys shouted

the news and the people of Paris snatched up the editions,
a considerable crowd, converging along the quays, the
Rue de Bourbon and over the Concorde Bridge, thronged
against the walls of the Palais Bourbon. Many, who had
no idea of the importance of Lang Son, Dong Sin and
48
Than-Moi, began to think there was going to be another

revolution like that of 4th September. The regiments
of Paris and Versailles were mobilized. Anger and
anxiety were in the air. The name of Ferry, accompanied
by curses, and that of Clemenceau, his denouncer, went
from mouth to mouth in a crowd which only showed
signs of getting out of hand in the late afternoon when
the fall of the cabinet was certain. The regime was
visibly tottering and the radicals grouped around La
Justice seemed like its saviours.
Clemenceau, whom this disaster to his country favoured
as much as Sedan had Gambetta—though Lang Son was
not to be compared with Sedan—forced himself to remain
calm and composed in the midst of all the tumult. In
his own room, which was more or less secluded, he was
assailed by members of the right, left and centre, who
came hurrying to congratulate him, and by the editors
of the Paris papers and the foreign correspondents. His
demeanour was the unpretentious and rather sad one
of a man in a position to say “I told you so.” His only
response to the questions with which he was bombarded
was a sorrowful gesture. The members of the opposite
camp were prostrated. Briere de l’Isle’s telegram was
reminiscent of that of Napoleon III after Sedan. It was
as though it was all happening over again, and one might
have thought that the Chinese were already preparing
to besiege Paris. Women who had husbands or brothers
over there sobbed, and people talked about the horrible
tortures the Chinese reserved for their prisoners.
The Chamber was convened in an uproar, as usual at
such times. The stained-glass window lit up and the
D 49
CLEMENCEAU
session was opened, while the wretched members of the

moribund government gathered in their offices to draw
up a demand for a credit of two hundred million for the
dispatch of ten thousand reinforcements from Algeria.
They did not ask for the vote of confidence they could
not expect, and when this was known there was a general
outcry of: “The cowards! . . . The swine! . . . Out
with them, and quickly too!”
The Chamber was crammed and its galleries filled to
overflowing when Clemenceau purposefully mounted the
rostrum and waved away the traditional glass of
Bordeaux.* He was in great form and tried to hide
the personal pleasure which the disastrous news caused
him. He had resolved to be brief. He bit his words and
concluded thus, while the Chamber listened breathless:
“I am of the opinion that at the present time there
can be no debate between the cabinet now in office and
a republican member. . . . All debates are over between
us. We no longer wish to hear you; we no longer wish
to discuss with you the interests of our country. We
no longer know you; we no longer wish to know you.”
A great thunder of applause followed this manly
declaration, and everyone got to his feet. Pale, shaking,
and looking like an Asiatic executioner, Clemenceau
pointed with outstretched finger towards the members
of the cabinet, of whom all one could distinguish was
the pimply nose of the wretched Ferry. If the owner
of La Justice had asked for permission to cut off, there
and then, the head of the “Tonkinois,” he would have
received it immediately.
*The author of this book was present at the sitting.
50
This unforgettable session marked the death of oppor¬

tunism, the bones of which Charles Dupuy later tried
in vain to resuscitate. The departure of Ferry and his
colleagues, carrying their ministerial portfolios, was
greeted by the most violent abuse: “Get out, you toads!
Out with you, you scum! . . . Don’t show your faces
again! . .
Ferry cut a sorry figure. He was very uneasy and
hid his face as much as he could. He was the living
image of a skunk, but a well-bred skunk. It is said that
he waited an hour and a half in one of the rooms till
the crowd dispersed. Members who the day before had
greeted him, now passed by pretending not to see him.
It was then that one of his secretaries, Georges Hecq,
who was afterwards under-secretary at the Ministry of
Beaux Arts, went up to him and said:
“You are the victim of a great injustice, but, believe
me, the future will avenge you.”
“What’s got you?” said one of Hecq’s colleagues. “Do
you want to ruin your career? You can see for yourself
he is finished.”
Ferry remained standing there, without a companion,
without a friend. Hecq offered him his arm as far as
the Cour de Bourgogne where he would pick up his cab.
“His hearse, you mean!” said one of Hecq’s friends
to him.
Paris was already rife with all sorts of prophecies.
According to the rules of the game Clemenceau should
have been the successor of the “Tonkinois” he had over¬
thrown, but providence, which was holding him in reserve
for another task, was on the watch in the shape of old
5i
CLEMENCEAU
Grevy, the President and a man who hated strong person¬

alities. He would not mind a radical, but not that
radical; and as the presidential chair was still too firm
for such senile stubborness to be ignored, Ferry’s
vanquisher was not, to the general amazement, called
upon to form a government. Clemenceau made a mental
note of this and resolved to keep a rod in pickle for the
sly dog of Mont-sous-Vaudrey, to be used should occasion
offer. It was Brisson who was asked to form the cabinet,
with the assistance of the Elysee pet, Freycinet.
“Pooh!” said Clemenceau’s friends and collaborators,
“it’s only a step back to make a better jump. Before
a year is out he will be at the head of the government.”
Indeed, after this dazzling victory, which became a
milestone in the parliamentary annals, the owner of ha
Justice was regarded as the coming man in the Chamber
and importance was given to his least utterance. His
eloquence, so much a thing of its own in its vigorous
terseness, took the place in parliament, at public meet¬
ings, even in the admiration of the drawing-rooms, of
that much more vulgar kind of the late Gambetta, which
goes quickly out of fashion. The experts discovered in
it the “conventional” style of the Revolution, but with¬
out the least conventionality. But the capitalists of every
category found him more formidable than charming, and
accused his programme of bordering on socialism with
its plans for a tax on inheritance and other analogous
measures, while, at the same time disliking his champion¬
ship of the Revenge. He became the subject of
arguments, if not quarrels, round family tables where the
young were for him and the old against. The women
52
also joined in, some thinking him ugly and mongoloid,

though with a promise of lively sensations, while others
found his commanding appearance—he held himself very
upright—attractive. He had, besides, plenty of wit of
the most caustic and unexpected kind. By the American
whom he had married and with whom he did not “get
on,” he had had three children. He was not rich but
he always maintained the appearance of a gentleman.
Faithful in his friendships, unfaithful in his love affairs,
remarkably intelligent, but not very sensitive, and every
inch a fighter—that was how they judged him. And
once Paris has labelled a man it seldom changes the
label. Being arrogant and ever ready to criticize and
blame, he offended all the cowards, and their number is
legion, to whom each of his outbursts seemed a personal
affront.
The Chamber is, apart from anything else, an amusing
place, the great Club of Paris, where one can hear all
the gossip and whence all the scandals take their first
flight.
The provincial influx had not yet smothered the
Parisian nucleus of a score or so shrewd and knowing
fellows, round whom the parliamentary journalists
seethed. There was great competition in the lobbies as
to who could tell the best story or invent the most
amusing nicknames.
It was in this tumultuous epoch that Gambetta’s old
friends, such as Thomson and Etienne, got together with
Clemenceau’s supporters to have a go at Grevy and his
circle. They had no difficulty in discovering that Grevy’s
son-in-law, one Wilson, the member for Losches and an
53
CLEMENCEAU
unscrupulous fellow, was leading a vicious and dissolute

life, and together with an old procuress named Limouzis,
had started trading in decorations from the very Elysee
itself. The secret service police and the director of a
defunct newspaper, Le ige Siecle, whose name was
Portalis, held all the threads of this disgusting story. One
of the first to hear of it, Clemenceau now had his revenge.
But he wanted to prolong the pleasure and so made
friends with Thomson, a nice, fairly intelligent fellow
with a bit of a stammer, whom, many years later, he
was to make First Lord of the Admiralty.
Brisson made Allain Targe, who had been Minister
of Finance in Gambetta’s ephemeral cabinet, Minister for
Home Affairs. A man of recognized honesty, with a
reputation for cutting remarks and a flowing beard,
Targe’s aim was to suppress secret funds and reform the
political police, in which, needless to say, he did not
succeed. At the Ministry of Education was a little
bewhiskered member of the radical party, Rene Goblet.
He was about as tall as a jack-boot, asthmatical, as
obstinate as a mule, very patriotic, and everyone prophe¬
sied a fine future for him. But the man destined for
the most tragic, if not the finest, future was Sadi Carnot
at the Office of Works, a black-bearded, sad and silent
man, wooden and like one condemned to death, as indeed
he was. The artist, Caran d’Ache, first made his reputa¬
tion with his drawing of Carnot as a carved wooden toy.
None of these people was fit to lick Clemenceau’s boots.
Left to himself, he did not refrain from occasionally
describing one or another of them with one of those
scratches of his, which always left a scar. “He’s an
54
absolute tiger! ’ said Targe, who delighted in them, and

the expression caught on.
The owner of La Justice was preoccupied with another
matter. Ihe way was now cleared, but where was the
general who could crack the hard nut of the Revenge
and still not contemplate the coup d’etat it was essential
to avoid? In the time of the revolution there had been
citizen-generals—such as Dumouriez and Hoche—and it
was someone of that type for whom the head of the new
Jacobinism was quiedy looking. Madame Adam, who
had the same intentions as he, had founded the Nouvelle
Revue and round this she gathered all the heads of the
French military staff and later some of the Russian
military staff—she was in touch with the Chancellor
Gortchakoff—of whom the most important was Skobelef.
This gave rise to a spirit of emulation, and even rivalry,
between Juliette Adam’s salon and that of the Menard-
Dorian’s, where, as we have seen, Clemenceau reigned
supreme. This, however, did not prevent the two ladies
from visiting each other or from being very intimate on
occasion.
Lockroy had taken care to see that Clemenceau took
no part in the national funeral given to Victor Hugo.
Although they both belonged to the same group, there
was no love lost between these two. Their temperaments
were too different. Lockroy was deceitful and under¬
hand; Clemenceau detested dissimulation, hypocrisy and
masks, and whenever he came across one pulled it off.
Lockroy was no orator, which Clemenceau was par excel¬
lence, and, finally, Clemenceau knew all about the
scandalous way in which Victor Hugo had been treated
55
CLEMENCEAU
by his son-in-law. “Ah, poor old chap, what a way to

end your life!” Then Clemenceau was the possessor of
a daily paper, whereas Lockroy was not, and that again
was a matter of envy. An attempt at refloating Lalou’s
La France, with Millerand and Lockroy as directors, fell
flat.
Ferry’s fall had had repercussions both in England and
in Germany. In England, where France’s colonial expan¬
sion was begining to excite a certain amount of alarm,
which the policy of Revenge did not as it was an affair
between continentals and only helped England’s
hegemony. In Germany, where Ferry was considered,
in spite of his “new frontier line of the Vosges,” as a
Germanophile and of being in favour of renouncing
Alsace-Lorraine. Thus the fall of the “Tonkinois” had
the immediate effect of further attracting Bismarck’s
attention to the man who had overthrown him, Clemen¬
ceau. A password began to circulate in the narrow offices
of the Wilhelmstrasse, spread out through the Chancel¬
leries, and found its way into the press: “Clemenceau,
England’s man.” The possibility that there might be
something in this pernicious idea was strengthened by
the fact that the owner of La justice had, in America,
learned to speak " English fluently. Although origin¬
ating in Berlin, the phrase soon found complacent ears
in Paris, among them those of Blovitz, the Bismarckian
correspondent of The Times. Blovitz was a mysterious
personage and entirely devoted to Henckel von Donners-
marck and the head of the German secret police in Paris,
Alphonse Lenoir, who had succeeded in wriggling him¬
self on to the administrative side of the Nouvelle Revue.
56
The German police in Paris. That may sound

fantastic, but, nevertheless, it had been reality ever since
the payment of the indemnity of five billion francs had
liberated French territory. Paiva had resumed the recep¬
tions she used to give before the war of 1870 and she
and her husband kept themselves informed of the
military reorganization of France. They had a list, which
they kept up to date, of the most important Revenge
supporters. They had connexions with certain of the
papers in receipt of secret funds, the principal of which
was La Lanterne, whose manager, a certain Eugenie
Mayer, was in their pocket. Later on another Bis-
marckian agent whose name was Rosenthal, but who
called himself Jacques Saint-Cere, succeeded in getting
on Le Figaro, then the foremost Parisian paper, as one
of its foreign editors. Quite a German France grew up
in this way but Clemenceau never suspected it, being by
nature careless and rather trusting. It was not till his
accession to power, twenty years later, that he was to
discover the misdeeds of the German police in Paris and
of the political police system in general. Moreover, he
was not a freemason—which explains much—and when
he was shaken three times by the thumb in a certain
manner, would laughingly exclaim: “No, no, I donT
belong to it!”
The inferiority of the generals of the Second Empire
compared with the German generals had struck him very
forcibly and he tried to find a reason for it. Might it
not be because the nursery of the German generals was
Lutheran, so that they absorbed a certain amount of
critical spirit, whereas the French generals were nurtured
57
CLEMENCEAU
by die Jesuits. During his childhood and youth he had

heard the disciples of Saint Ignatius and their monita
secreta spoken of with horror. In the Quartier Latin he
had found the same prejudice, and still more so in medical
circles. He was a man who easily got ideas into his head
and once there they stuck. There was no doubt in his
mind that clericalism had been the cause of France losing
the war in 1870. If the Revenge were to succeed it was
necessary as far as possible to entrust the high command
to men of the left wing, or at least to those free from
Romanish superstition. The difficulty was to ferret them
out and push them to the fore.
Then, at the very moment when the parliamentary
elections of 1885, which had been carefully prepared by
the Comte de Paris, seemed to give an advantage
(entirely momentary*) to the right, a certain general,
Director of Infantry at the War Ministry, with the com¬
forting name of Boulanger, was recommended to the
leader of the radical party as a valuable soldier and a
trusty republican. Here, perhaps, was the man of destiny.
“Does he spell his name with an ‘e’ or an ‘a,’ this
Boulanger? That’s very important.”
“With an ‘a,’ like the man who bakes your rolls.”
“Well, let’s hope this rare bird, this Boul-Boul, will
be able to roll up the Germans.”
*111 informed in matters of parliamentary mechanism, the Comte de Paris

had not envisaged the subterfuge of invalidation, which the republican
tacticians had closely studied.
58
CHAPTER III
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
“Well now, from a professional and technical point of

view, what do you think of him as Director of Infantry,”
Clemenceau asked the left wing colonel from the War
Office whom he had asked to call at his home so that
he could find out about the real talents and intimate
opinions of Boulanger.
“I think he is a sincere republican.”
“Yet there is that letter of his to the Duke d’Aumale:
‘Blessed will be the day. . . ”
‘‘A moment of weakness . . . who is without such in
his professional life, or in his everyday life!”
“That’s so! Is anything known as to his feelings with
regard to Germany?”
“He was wounded in 1870, and he has a horror of
Germany, and the French politicians who are under
Bismarck’s influence are, in his opinion, traitors.”
“That suits me. But are there any proofs of that?”
“You have my word as proof.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes, and has a daughter, who is married to his admirer
and friend, Captain Driant.”
“I have heard good accounts of Driant. I should like
to meet him.”
“Whenever you like. He also is a republican.”
59
CLEMENCEAU
“The spirit of the Revenge is declining everywhere.

I am afraid of the general being got at by the reaction¬
aries, which would lead to my fighting him. I should
like to have an intimate and secret conversation with
him.”
“Whenever you like, wherever you like and however
you like.”
Some days later Clemenceau and Boulanger met as
arranged, in a neutral house, from which all the servants
had been sent away for the time being. They shook
hands.
“General,” said Clemenceau, “I am thinking of making
you War Minister in the cabinet which will replace
Brisson’s. I have heard the best accounts of you. You
have some most energetic friends. That is why I have
decided to place my political influence at the disposal
of your candidature. But let that remain a secret between
us. One indiscretion would be sufficient to put a stop
to it. You thoroughly realize how important a post in
the Republic yours would be?”
“I think so.”
“I was Mayor of Montmartre when you were wounded
during the riot on 18th March, 1871. Since that day I,
a Jacobin, have had a profound horror of riot and its
extremes. What about you?”
“So have I.”
“But Gallifet’s repression of it was no less odious to me.
And you?”
“It seemed atrocious to me; one might excuse it at
a pinch, but it was atrocious.”
“How can it be excused?”
60
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
“The Commune insurrection took place in the presence

of the enemy. . .
“Of course! If it had not, it would have failed from
the very start. It would never have gone so far, otherwise.
But the 4th September also took place in the presence
of the enemy. What do you think about that?”
Boulanger was not expecting this. He was taken aback,
like a child who does not know his lesson. Clemenceau
took pity on him. “There is no general rule for such
circumstances,” he said. “The criminal mistake of the
Second Empire was its unpreparedness for war. Those
people were idiots, and, in this Rochefort is right—
scoundrels.”
“There is no doubt about it.”
“But, mark this well, much as I desire to see you in
the Rue Saint-Dominique (the War Office) at such a time
as this, I would not hesitate to send you before a court
martial if ever I was certain that you were betraying
our democracy. That is what I wanted to tell you.”
“That’s quite natural,” said Boulanger pleasantly. “You
need have no fears on that score.”
“Not for the moment. But there is something about
you that attracts popularity. That’s the temptation.
That’s the danger against which I wanted to warn you.
And that’s why I wished to have what is called a ‘heart
to heart’ talk with you.”
Boulanger was to say later that it was this conversation
with the celebrated parliamentarian of the left wing
which drew his attention to prospects of which he had
never before dreamed. The day of the military review
at Longchamp did the rest. As for his interrogator, the
61
CLEMENCEAU
impression he made on Boulanger was that of a man

who did not know what he wanted. He wanted the
Revenge, but not that the soldier who carried it through
should earn the nation’s gratitude. He confessed as much
later on to his mistress, and they both of them laughed
heartily about it.
Popularity. That, and the question of force, was the
great problem which preoccupied the impetuous owner of
La Justice. On the one hand, you could not get very
far without popularity and the concurrence of the mob,
as Freycinet’s example showed. On the other hand, the
intoxication of popularity led straight to the active or
passive desire for dictatorship, as the recent case of
Gambetta proved. But how had Gambetta’s popularity,
which seemed strong and securely founded, crumbled so
suddenly at that meeting in the Saint Blaise Hall at
Charonne? He could find no explanation, till one day
in the Chamber he put the question to a group of his
colleagues, one of whom, a member of the indefinite
centre party, answered:
“It was because Gambetta did not really like the people
and the people sensed this.”
“You admit, then, that blind crowds have got
intuition?”
“Certainly, and I believe too in the lasting strength
of sincerity.”
“It’s one way of looking at it. . . .”
“Who is that colleague of ours, the robust one with
a fair beard, who answered me just now? He seems
intelligent . . .” asked Clemenceau, and was told:
“His name is Jaures. He comes from the South, as you
62
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
can tell from his accent. He was a student at the Train¬

ing College for Secondary School Teachers. He belongs
to the left wing of the centre.”
“Really, he comes from the Training College and has
ideas of his own. That’s curious! . .
When in January, 1886, Freycinet was entrusted by
Grevy with the formation of the cabinet which succeeded
Brisson’s and started on a tour of enquiry, Clemenceau
pointed out Boulanger, “very capable, tractable and a
republican,” for the important office of War Minister.
Freycinet could not get on without the support of the
radicals and so of their leader, for whom he had other¬
wise no love. After consulting little old Goblet, who
hemmed and hawed over his answer, aîd Lockroy, who
simply replied by playing about with his eyeglass, he
decided to choose “Boul-Boul.” For the Admiralty he
picked on Admiral Aube, the torpedo and cruiser theorist,
and, for the Home Office, Sarrien, whose name (fa rien
■—that’s nothing!) was, as Clemenceau remarked, “a pro¬
gramme in itself.” Lockroy, who had headed the list
for Paris, because he was the son-in-law of Victor Hugo
—whose last years he had tormented—was given the office
of Minister of Commerce, for which he had not the
slightest aptitude, and the task of arranging the exhibi¬
tion of 1889, which it was hoped would help the budget.
“And what about you?” Clemenceau was asked.
“Me? I am going to be Minister of Nothing, the most
interesting job of the lot.”
In the War Office, Rue Saint-Dominique, everyone
thought things would start to hum. But Boulanger, who
had his ambitions cut and dried, had only one wish—to
63
CLEMENCEAU
be pleasant to everyone and particularly to his subordin¬

ates. He had given instructions to his son-in-law, Driant,
that he was, above all, to do everything that any member
of the Chamber, right and left or centre, asked him. He
himself, as a gesture of cordiality, always clapped his
right hand, a soft hand, covered with fair down, on the
shoulder of the person to whom he was talking.
It had rapidly got about that Boulanger owed his office
to Clemenceau. The latter went almost every day to
the Rue Saint-Dominique and reminded Boulanger that
they had gone through Nantes Lycee together at a
distance of four forms. He warned the soldier, who was
a magnificent fellow but superficial and entirely ignorant
of politics, against parliamentary pitfalls and drawing¬
room intrigues—for already in the salons this brilliant,
golden-bearded minister was a topic of amorous con¬
versation.
“Be on your guard against invitations to dinner from
people of the right. Prince Plonplon* is quite right in
saying they are a bad lot.”
“Who is Plonplon?” Boulanger asked in affected
naivete, knowing very well all the time.
“The son of Jerome, Princess Mathilde’s brother, the
sworn enemy of the Empress.”
Boulanger had already received an emissary from this
half-cracked being. Plonplon was a socialist merely out
of perversity: stupid in some things and not in others,
passionate and a spitfire, he lived in Prangin in a marvel¬
lous situation on the shores of Lake Leman.
One day Clemenceau pushed into his minister’s office
* Napoleon.
64
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
a frightful looking individual, a Jewish type, who tied

himself up in salaams. “I have brought old Rook along
to see you, General,” said Clemenceau; “he is a bit of
a bad hat, but he knows how to manage people and will
at times be able to give you some valuable tips.”
Thus introduced, Cornelius Herz made an effort to
laugh, getting from Clemenceau: “Don’t make those
faces, Corneille; they only make you uglier. Say good-
day to the general.”
He brought his new mistress there too, the ravishingly
lovely wife of a complaisant diplomat, and to her he spoke
in an entirely different voice, one full of respect and
tenderness. “Women are strange beings, as you know,
general,” he said. “Madame wanted to see you and
congratulate you on being such a fine horseman. Man is
the horse’s greatest conquest.”
These unceremonious ways, however, did not keep the
owner of La Justice from assiduously gathering informa¬
tion as to the needs of the troops, about which, moreover,
he was already well informed through the Army Com¬
mittee of the Chamber. The springs of parliamentarism
were not yet rusty, and whoever wanted to find anything
out could do so despite the inertia and opposition of the
various government departments. One department of the
War Ministry, the 2nd Office—called the Information
Office, particularly attracted the vigilance and curiosity of
the leader of the radical party, for here he encountered
a conspiracy of silence which irritated him beyond
measure. When “all the bores” had gone the privileged
ones and the minister had a talk with gloves off in
which their mutual suspicion raised its head: “That
e 65
CLEMENCEAU
Clemenceau is a nuisance,” said the service people;

“wanting to poke his nose into all our affairs! What’s
it to do with him?” “They’re a perfect clique,” reflected
Clemenceau. “They hate us because we have an eye on
them. They will have to be brought into line.” His
implacable memory took note of everything.
He spoke about this to the slim, evasive Freycinet, who,
foreseeing one or two “executions”—as such things had
been called with Clemenceau since 18th March—tried to
wriggle out of it from the very beginning of the con¬
versation. Freycinet even instructed Aron to tell the
owner of La justice, once in every three visits, that he
was out.
One day, as Aron (Jesiersky’s predecessor and keeper
of the archives) was conscientiously carrying out his task,
Clemenceau walked into Freycinet’s office without wait¬
ing for permission and announced himself.
“Ah! There you are M. Clemenceau! I hope
everything is in order and going along to your satis¬
faction.”
Piles of dusty documents were brought in which,
although not of much use, called forth picturesque
remarks from Clemenceau. Medicine still interested him
and he recommended a certain ointment made of zinc
oxide to Aron to cure him of his skin disease which, said
he, “You must get rid of, old boy. It will hinder you
in your love-making.”
Aron, who had not the slightest desire to go love-
making, damned the job he had been given and sent this
impertinent member of parliament to the devil.
Having been elected in both the Seine and the Var
66
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
districts, Clemenceau had decided on the Var, where he

would be, he thought, less harried than in Paris. It was
no good thinking of his dear Vendee which was almost
entirely reactionary and where he would only have come
a cropper. All the same, it was there among his own
people that he would have been most at home. Perhaps
one day they would recover from their royalism and
adhere en masse to the Republic, according to the law
of evolution and progress.
He had got to know a charming and exceptional
woman whose salon, a rival to that of the heavy-witted
Princess Mathilde in the Rue de Berry, had for years
been the trysting place of all the coming men in politics,
journalism, literature and the bench. The Countess de
Loynes, who had been engaged to Baroche, the son of
Napoleon the Third’s minister who was killed in action
in 1870, united in her person a delicate beauty, shining
eyes (she was painted by Amaury Duval), a sweet and
insinuating voice and a charm which linked her with
the beauties of the eighteenth century, such as a Geoffrin
or a du Deffand. She was receiving at that time both
General Boulanger and his mentor Clemenceau. From
the confidences each made her and which, being remark¬
ably discreet, she did not pass on to the other, she was
fully aware that “the mixture,” as she called it, might
explode at any moment.
“Clemenceau is so suspicious, Madame,” said Boulanger,
“that he is becoming unbearable. I find that he has been
asking the porters whom I have been receiving at the
ministry. He is afraid of my being corrupted by the
right.”
67
CLEMENCEAU
“Our general, Madame, is about to slip through my

fingers. I know that he has accepted an invitation from
the Duchess d’Uzes which is, to say the least, out of place.
I also know that he has met in society a certain noble
lady who is infatuated with him and that the- infatuation
is reciprocal.”
“Clemenceau, my friend, you surely cannot exact from
him a continence you do not practise yourself.”
“And there’s another thing I have discovered: that is
that he is not a bit revolutionary. He hasn’t even got the
faintest idea of that great epoch. Outside his profession
he knows nothing. He is as ignorant of life as . . .”
“As a soldier,” said Madame de Loynes, laughing.
“That’s it exactly. Those fellows with their swagger
hats, their morals and habits of obedience, remain school¬
boys right up to an advanced age. I would like them to
be more emancipated, less conformist. . . .”
“And then, my friend, you would call them fomentors
of coups d’etat and agitators, and denounce them in your
paper.”
“That’s quite possible, but I would respect them
more.”
“How is your affaire going, Clemenceau?”
“Splendidly. She is delicious, and after a disagreeable
surprise—you’ll guess what—I have packed my wife off
to America. My sister Brinza is taking care of the girls,
and as for my boy, he brings himself up without help.”
“I know a young tutor, highly recommended by M.
Lemaitre, who could help him with his studies, if neces¬
sary. His name is Hugues de Roux and he is charming
and discreet and, it seems, also a fine scholar.”
68
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
“But, my dear friend, I cannot afford to have a private

tutor and pay his ordinary school fees as well. Oh, what
a nuisance it is when the mother isn’t there to look after
the children!”
“Whenever necessary, Clemenceau my friend, come to
me. You know that I am absolutely devoted to you and
nothing is too much trouble when it is done for you.
By the way, I have seen Magnard and spoken to him
about your contributing to Le Figaro as you told me that
this would help you to make both ends meet.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he would willingly accept your anonymous
collaboration but he was afraid your signature might
frighten away his conservative subscribers, that is to say,
all his subscribers and nearly all the readers of his paper.”
“An anonymous collaboration would soon be found
out and would do me harm in the Chamber and with
my electors. An open and frank collaboration is the only
thing.”
“You have so many enemies!”
“I also have as friends all the enemies of my enemies!”
Madame de Loynes laughed and tapped his sleeve with
her little old-fashioned fan, a sign of friendship with her.
She went on:
“I have also put in a word with Hebrard of Le Temps.
He said: ‘Why, of course, that would rejuvenate my
paper. We will talk about it again. You know that
most of my people are Ferryists. Bourde is a thorough-
paced colony fiend. And, by Jove, Clemenceau is their
bugbear.’ By the way, my dear friend, why do you dis¬
like the colonies business so much?”
69
CLEMENCEAU
“You ask me that? Because it is already diverting us

from Germany and will do so more and more. The
Revenge is the only thing.”
Mme de Loynes’ eyes shone with fire, and she laid
her long, pretty hand on that of the rugged fighter.
“I am with you in this with all my strength, my
friend.”
“I know. But keep an eye on the general. Don’t let
him escape us. He must not do as Gambetta did. . . .”
For his part, the general had asked Mme de Loynes to
receive him alone and without witnesses. He had hardly
entered the room before he said:
“Madame, I have serious news to tell you.”
“Oh, dear, dear. You frighten me, my friend.”
“Calm yourself. It’s not really serious: rather, it is
delightful. I am in love. . . .”
“Ah, now I understand!”
“I want to tell you about it. You are the only one
to whom I can unburden myself. With you I can be sure
it will be kept a secret.”
“Thanks very much. Is she pretty?”
“Better than that—adorable.”
“Has she any political opinions?”
“She is a reactionary, like you, as much as you.”
“What will Clemenceau say?”
“He won’t know anything about it, and, in any case,
I don’t care.”
“Make men ministers and they disobey you! ... Is
she fair or dark?”
“Fair.”
“Married?”
70
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
“Entirely free.”
“Rich?”
“Not exactly rich. But comfortably off. Here is her
photograph—look. ’ ’
Mme de Loynes looked attentively at the charming
photograph, and said:
“Beauty and goodness. I congratulate you, my friend.
Only remember that you now have a weak spot, a chink
in your armour. I’ll not speak about it to a living soul.
But it will leak out.”
“I have been unhappy. Now I am going to be happy.
Ah, Madame . . .”
“To live happily we have to live hidden!”
“That is just what we count on doing, Marguerite and
I, as soon as I can get away.”
A few days later Arthur Meyer, who had connexions
in high society, in the opposition parties and in the
Ministry of Home Affairs, announced to Mme de Loynes
that he had an important communication to make.
“Sit down. What is it all about, my friend?”
Arthur Meyer, general editor of the Gaulois, the
Parisian aristocracy’s paper, was bald, with a halo of
stiffly waving hair sticking up from the nape of his neck.
Every morning his hairdresser went to flatten down these
disobedient tufts and restore them to their place. Meyer’s
apothegms were celebrated. He had from the beginning
manifested a lively sympathy for Boulanger’s infatuation,
which had given him standing among the general’s
admirers.
“Madame, this is really serious. The general is in
love.”
71
CLEMENCEAU
“Ah! You give me news! Well, since when has it

been forbidden to love?”
“It is to be feared that this passion may absorb him
and make him indifferent to his duty towards the
nation. . .
“You talk like a book. Where did you get your infor¬
mation?”
“From my contributors. A great paper like the Gaulois
has information about everything.”
“Is the object of this passionate ardour known?”
“She is Madame de Bonnemain, a person on the fringe
of society.”
Meyer’s snobbishness made Mme de Loynes want to
laugh. The editor of the Gaulois added:
“He has met the Duchess d’Uzes, who certainly has
designs on him. The result of the last elections took his
breath away and his republicanism is, it would seem,
badly shaken.”
“What sort of a man is his friend Count Dillon?”
“He is a man with insight who knows his way about
the electoral map. I have had a long talk with him.”
“Bring him here one day. I should like to know him.”
Meyer made an entry in his note-book. “Very well,
I will, Madame.”
“An undertaking like that calls for money, a lot of
money. Has Count Dillon thought of that?”
“He thinks of everything; so does the Duchess. It is
said that Deroulede is very struck on it.”
“I’ll find out about that. The League of Patriots would
indeed be a great asset. Deroulede has with him someone
of whom M. Lemaitre thinks a great deal—someone who
72
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
talks loudly, is as dark as Erebus, a bit long-winded in

his dissertations, someone by the name of Thiebaut.”
“Georges Thiebaut. He is a plebicist. He’s got a fair
amount of spirit, but I am told that he can be very boring
and—how shall I put it—redundant.”
As the affair took shape and the enthusiasm aroused
by the general on his black horse, Tunis, at the review
of 14th July persisted, Mme de Loynes invited Deroulede
and Meyer to dinner, telling the chief of the League
of Patriots to bring with him his friend Thiebaut. Count
Dillon, having a presentiment of what was to happen, had
declined. Jules Lemaitre was at the dinner, somewhat
astonished at this sudden infatuation of the Parisian
population which was now spreading to the provinces
and more than sceptical as to Boulanger’s personality as
one could see from the spark of laughter in his light
eyes. The food, as usual, was exquisite and the wines
choice, Mme de Loynes’ table being, by general consent,
the best in Paris.
They had hardly sat down before Deroulede started a
long speech, the most prominent part of which was his
big nose, explaining his attitude to “General Revenge”:
“He represents my patriotic ideal; he incarnates it, and
that is why I joined in with him. That is your opinion,
too, isn’t it Thiebaut, and yours Meyer?”
Annoyed at having been mentioned second, Meyer con¬
tented himself with an affirmative nod of his bald head,
while Thiebaut talked about a “flourish of red trousers”*
and the necessity of “giving effect to universal suffrage”
by organizing a plebiscite.
^Translator’s note: Pantalon rouge, French Soldier.
73
CLEMENCEAU
“And you, Lemaitre, what do you think?” asked

Deroulede, who found the critic’s caution irritating.
“My dear friend, I am a modest pedagogue whose views
have little importance. Mme de Loynes will permit me
to reserve them.”
At this moment a servant brought a message from
Magnard to say that he would drop in for dessert.
“Now, there,” said Lemaitre, “is a man of sound ideas.
It would be interesting to know”—and he turned towards
the mistress of the house—“what your friend Clemenceau
thinks to-day of his protege, what Warwick thinks of his
King. . . .”
“Clemenceau!” declared Deroulede, “I mistrust him;
we are compiling a dossier against him.”
“Be particularly careful,” retorted Lemaitre, “about the
authenticity of your dossier.”
“We are only accepting facts, incontestable facts.”
“One always believes them to be that to begin with ...”
and Lemaitre gave vent to his little spurt of laughter
which Mme de Loynes interrupted by saying:
“M. Lemaitre, you are unbearable. Let M. Thiebaut
speak.”
“The general’s popularity vexes Clemenceau, Madame.
He wants to monopolize patriotism and the Revenge.”
“Play-acting!” put in Deroulede.
“Why play-acting, friend Deroulede? I believe Clemen¬
ceau to be sincere in that.”
Then the conversation turned on Rochefort who was
all enthusiasm for the general, and the hunchback
Naquet, whom nobody had expected to see beside the
black horse.
74
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
“Naquet has some influence with the radicals. This

influence will help to counterbalance Clemenceau’s, which
has grown hostile.”
As the guests were at dessert Francis Magnard, editor
of Le Figaro, was announced. He had a sharp eye, a
well-kept, slightly grizzled beard and was somewhat curt
of speech. He was wearing a grey lounge suit with a
blue tie.
“You come at the right moment, Magnard,” said
Lemaitre; “we are all wanting to know if we should
adhere to Boulangerism, and why.”
“But is Boulanger himself adhering to Boulangerism?”
“Assuredly. Not only that,” added Meyer, “but he is
on the point of giving pledges to the royalists. That
I know for a fact.”
“Oh yes,” rejoined Magnard, “the Duchess d’Uzes. I
mistrust, in the first place, the higher dignitaries of the
Church, and then society people. As to the army, that’s
a different matter. But has Boulanger got the profes¬
sional respect of his comrades? In the case of a real
burst-up, would they stick to him?”
“That’s a thing one never can tell, my dear sir,”
objected Deroulede. “It’s up to us civilians, to-day, to
urge the military into action.”
“How?”
“By taking their horses by the bridle and putting them
in the right direction.”
This reply made Magnard say, later on: “That fellow
is loyal, but silly; one of these days he will drop a big
brick.”
“We will have to proceed electorally now that we have
75
CLEMENCEAU
funds,” said Meyer. “Whenever there is any vacancy,

wherever it may be, we must put up the general.”
“What about the failures?”
“The successes will make up for them. As soon as
there is a vacant seat in Paris, then, forward with
Boulanger!”
“That’s my opinion,” put in Thiebaut. “I repeat my
phrase—‘a flourish of red trousers.’ ”
“And supposing there is a slip?” said Lemaitre.
Magnard laughed. He liked Lemaitre immensely and
had an idea of taking him on to do little, shrewd and
lively paragraphs for Le Figaro like those in Le Temps.
It was Mme de Loynes’ plea for Clemenceau that had
given him the idea.
Mme de Loynes had a horror of notoriety. She asked
only one thing of her friends: silence. Therefore it was
with pleasure that she saw the Duchess d’Uzes, whose
ambition was the opposite of hers, take a place in society
gossip—because of her real munificence—that she herself
would never have wanted to occupy. The greatest service
she did for Boulanger, so swiftly caught in the toils of
Venus, was to gain Rochefort over to his side, on whom
she exercised a moral ascendance because of the wisdom
of her opinions and the sagacity of her advice. But she
never broke with Clemenceau, whose character she
appreciated as she did what she called his “sense of
honour.” To her a sense of honour and patriotism were
more important than anything else.
Thoroughly intoxicated by his popularity and not really
knowing her well, Boulanger one evening asked Mme de
Loynes to accompany him to the opera, where he had
76
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
a front-row box. She accepted, but kept in the back¬

ground and put a pretty little woman of no particular
importance beside the general. In the intervals the whole
audience turned round to cheer their idol. Then came
the end of the performance. The general had offered
his arm to Mme de Loynes and when they appeared on
the steps—for it was fine and dry—there was a great,
general shout of “Long live Boulanger!” The general
turned with an infatuated expression towards his com¬
panion, whose hand lay Jightly on his arm, and said:
“All that’s for my darling!” “After that,” said Mme de
Loynes, “I no longer had any belief in his success. That
sort of thing is what the English call ‘very vulgar.’ ”
However, while holding out his right hand to the
royalists, Boulanger, under Dillon’s direction, also
extended his left hand to the imperialists, especially to
Prince Napoleon. The latter welcomed everyone and
everything provided that the intermediaries were openly
or secretly hostile to the Empress Eugenie, the mother
of the late Prince Louis, who was his bete noire. The
reasons for this persistent hate have never been known,
a hate shared by Mathilde, this excitable, stupid man’s
sister, who, it is true, had hoped at some time to wear
the crown. Naturally Boulanger’s dealings with the
imperialists were known to the royalists within a fort¬
night, and vice versa. Meanwhile Naquet, a shrewd Jew,
tried to establish contact with the Rothschilds who, how¬
ever, remained suspicious and timid, being frightened of
the general’s lightning rise to popularity.
Naquet loved unbosoming himself, particularly to his
friend Lockroy—whom he had accompanied on his
77
CLEMENCEAU
honeymoon in Italy—and what he had to say just then

was interesting.
“I said to Strauss” (the Rothschilds’ chief lawyer, who
later married Bizet’s widow, the lovely Egeria of Drey-
fusism) “that the general has plenty of chances and that
it would be absurd not to recognize the possibility of his
seizing power.”
“And what did the Rothschilds reply?” asked Lockroy.
“That it depended on the fluctuation of Government
stock.”
At the Ministry of Commerce, which bordered the
quays, Lockroy was taking his evening meal with his
wife and Victor Hugo’s grandchildren. Boulanger, on
his way from the Rue Saint-Dominique, looked in with
his kindly smile and a collection of odds and ends of
gossip, among which the subtle Lockroy easily dis¬
tinguished the bits that came from the War Office, those
from the Ministry of Intelligence and those emanating
from society and the Gaulois.
“Will you have a liqueur, General?”
“I won’t refuse it, my dear friend. It’s a good story,
isn’t it?”
“Very amusing. Alice, where is the old brandy?”
“There it is.”
“Not higher than the glass, please.”
“And now,” asked Lockroy, “when are you making
your coup d’etat, general?”
“My dear friend,” replied Boulanger, “your question
is the same as my porter asked me yesterday evening. I
answered him as I answer you: ‘The time is not yet
78
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
All this was said in a bantering yet somewhat menacing

tone. It would not be correct to say that Boulanger’s
chances of becoming dictator grew less as time went on.
On the contrary, they increased, and Lockroy said to his
intimates: “I was perhaps wrong to hold back. He is
about to demolish all my ideas as to the pusillanimity of
the soldier.”
“At the moment,” said Laisant, “there is no danger.
But wait till he reaches the turning point.” Later on it
was Laisant who turned.
Once certain that his protege was escaping him and that
he was making pacts with the worst of the reactionaries,
Clemenceau dropped him like a hot brick and avoided
meeting him thereafter. But there was no scene as every¬
body had expected. Then, when the Ministry for Home
Affairs was entrusted to Constans, whose personal ignomy
was known to Clemenceau—indeed no one doubted it,
for Constans and his wife, a terrible virago, were known
throughout republican circles as “the poisoners”—he
refused to associate himself with what he called the
“opposite set,” and answered all questions as to whether
he would take sides with a sharp: “I prefer to remain
on the fence.”
His military protege at this time was the obscure
General Ferron, “a new Moltke,” but this did not last
long and history has no record of him.
Then came the general’s astonishing series of victories
at the polls, the more complete because they were
unexpected and extended from the North to the
Dordogne. All the electioneering specialists were dumb¬
founded and confounded when the workmen of the
79
CLEMENCEAU
North, for example, voted solidly with the most conserva¬

tive regions, those that Pelletan called the most “ respect¬
able.” There was sorcery in it, it was a phenomenon.
Boulanger was a nice chap and a good sort, always ready
to do anyone a service, a faithful comrade and a perfect
lover; but as far as politics were concerned he was a
mere babe in arms and took for his spokesman a rip like
the lawyer Laguerre, as rotten a fellow as that Constans
whom he attacked in Parliament. Laguerre’s only merit
lay in having married a beautiful and artful blonde,
Marguerite Durand, who was a passionate feminist.
Boulanger’s general staff was made up of a great tall
fellow, not over-shrewd, called Millevoye, who was in
love with a tall, generous Irishwoman, Maud Gonne; a
young writer from Lorraine, full of promise and an
ardent patriot, Maurice Barres by name; the hunchback
Naquet, and some other lesser lights.
Good society in Paris was in the main favourable to
Boulanger, who had found a means of uniting the most
opposite camps in a common loyalty. Betrayed by
Gambetta, the spirit of the Revenge had come to life
again with Boulanger, except in the Quartier Latin which
was entirely rebellious. Clemenceau was delighted with
this refractory spirit, which showed the good sense of
youth. Two medical students, Jean Charcot and the
author of this book, translated Rochefort’s famous saying
about “the bacon in the hat” into action by taking two
young eagles, which an admirer of Charcot had sent him,
and a large piece of bacon to the general’s house in the
RueJDumont d’Urville. They were congratulated on this
by the Republique Frangaise.
80
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
Then, after this gigantic wave of enthusiasm before

which Bismarck — after the Schnoebele affair — had
retreated (a good lesson, which Clemenceau made a note
of from afar), came betrayal. The Surete-Generale and
Constans succeeded in breaking up this mixture of
royalism, imperialism and patriotism. The idol of the
crowds, who was completely absorbed in adoration of his
beautiful mistress, was isolated, and the object of his
adoration, who was already seriously ill with tuberculosis,
terrorized. The rest of the story is known. After Mme
de Bonnemain’s death Boulanger, mad with grief, com¬
mitted suicide.
Lockroy said with a sneer: “Like a comic opera second
lieutenant!” Some vultures of the press, like Edmond
Magnier of I’Evenement, insulted the corpse while it was
still warm, which, said the disapproving Constans, “had
killed itself.” Clemenceau kept silent. This episode
served to increase his dislike for military chiefs but did
not shake his faith in the Revenge.
One day as he engaged in a philosophical discussion
about this great drama with the sympathetic Madame de
Loynes, a servant brought in the post. Among the letters
was a copy of some rag of a newspaper in which Madame
de Loynes discovered a scurrilous article directed against
Lemaitre and signed by a miserable blackmailer, known
and notorious as such. Madame de Loynes read through
this dirty article which referred to her openly by name
and, as she was known to be rich, amounted to blatant
blackmail.
“Look at this!” she cried to Clemenceau. “It’s
despicable.”
f 81
CLEMENCEAU
The owner of La Justice read it attentively. As he was

finishing it the door opened and Lemaitre came in.
“Good day, Clemenceau . . . What is the matter,
Madame? Ah, I see you also have received that filthy
article. Don’t worry. It is of no importance. The
author is a man universally discredited, a specialist in this
type of thing. Let it drop.”
But Clemenceau raised his head and, taking off his
glasses, said: “I am not of your opinion, Lemaitre. A
person in your position, with your reputation, cannot
possibly keep quiet under such imputations.”
“But what do you want him to do, my friend?” cried
Mme de Loynes, very distressed.
“He must call him out. If necessary, I will be his
second. ...”
“Oh, my God !” cried Mme de Loynes, in terror. “But
the poor dear doesn’t even know how to hold a pistol
or a sword.”
“He is the offended party, Madame. He will choose
pistols. I will teach him how to use one in a couple
of lessons. ...”
“But if this villain kills him. . . .”
“That, Madame, would anyhow be better than being
thought a coward.”
This brutal remark wounded Lemaitre, who said
quietly:
“I did not know that Clemenceau was so bloodthirsty.
But since he thinks I ought to fight, I’ll fight.”
“That will make all the other scum leave you alone.”
“Couldn’t he bring an action instead?”
“The blackmailer’s lawyer, who in all probability is
82
GENERAL BOUL-BOUL
as much a blackguard as his client, would throw mud

at you both all over again. No, no, what this fellow
wants is a bullet in his flesh.”
Lemaitre sent his seconds to Giboyer who was eager
for publicity and enchanted with this unexpected piece
of good fortune, and they exchanged two shots without
any result. There was no reconciliation. Clemenceau,
who was Lemaitre’s chief second, said to him: “You
aimed like a pig. But he, luckily, aimed like two pigs.”
Later Mme de Loynes asked Clemenceau why he had
made Jules Lemaitre risk his life for no real reason, and
Clemenceau replied: “Because his little laugh irritated
83
CHAPTER IV
CALUMNY
,
Calumny good sir, ah, calumny.
You know not what that thing is you despise
The day following Boulanger’s suicide, Clemenceau was

talking with Arthur Ranc, adviser to La Republique
Rrancgaise and the doctrinaire of the regime. He respected
this retiring little man, who was loyal and unostentatious
and had the soul of a conspirator. Alphonse Daudet
was a great friend of Ranc, and when he took his wife
and young son to Champrozay during the Commune,
had lent him his flat in the Rue Pavee. For Ranc was
suspect with the Communards and accused of being luke¬
warm, just as, later on, he was suspect at Versailles.
Ranc was bald, bearded, moustached, had a little
paunch and wore glasses. His voice was rather hollow,
but for that there was all the more expression in his
piercing and often mocking eyes.
“Boulangerism has collapsed,” said Ranc, “which is
not surprising, considering the gang of imbeciles who
gravitated round the poor general. But you will find
all that lot against you now. You will have to watch
your step. It is a good thing you like a fight.”
“They are quite right to be angry with me,” said
Clemenceau. “I fought against Boulanger, my own
84
CALUMNY
work, as hard as I could. But not with the same weapons

as that scoundrel Constans, for example.”
“Police methods, and absolutely despicable! It is
rather funny that, with all your perspicacity, you didn’t
believe in political police. / know them; I have seen
them at work. That was a master stroke of theirs.”
“They are a low set, a lot of black coats and trilbys.”
“But they stick together, they have cohesion, while
politicians come and go. The police played their part
on the 4th September. They excel in spreading false
rumours. It is a good thing to have one or more of
them in your pocket. You haven’t any?”
“Certainly not! I should have to keep an eye on them.
Think what a bore that would be!”
“Let me tell you you are wrong, and that you will
regret it. For you are an advance guard, my dear friend,
and advance guards are in an exposed position. Do you
like Balzac?”
“I admire him to the highest degree, even though he
is a royalist and on the side of the clergy, as witness his:
‘I write by the light of these two torches, monarchy and
religion.’ He is a fine writer.”
“Well, read again what he says about the police
of his time, about Corentin, and Coutenson and
Peyrade. . . .”
There was a silence, and then Ranc added:
“The Surete-Generale played a great part in the Revolu¬
tion, even before the days of the Committee of Public
Safety, though there is very little known about it as the
archives have disappeared. Perhaps something could be
found in the Carnavalet Museum. The curator at the
85
CLEMENCEAU
moment is Henry Ceard, one of Zola’s disciples and a

very nice fellow.”
‘‘I know him well,” said Clemenceau. “He is charm¬
ing and very erudite. I will go and see him one of these
days. Ah, this revolution—the further I go, the more
I love it. All our problems attacked at the same time,
and this in the face of a hostile Europe. . . .”
“Your Aulard still gives you satisfaction?”
“Certainly. But he is always afraid of not having
enough references! Oh, these historians! They smother
themselves with references, comments and notes. They
expire under heaps of valueless papers. They turn into
scribes. But all the same Aulard is a marvellous worker,
and his lectures carry weight. They are attended by
hosts of students.”
“That’s as it should be. The Sorbonne has always been
one of France’s vital spots. It’s up to us to occupy
it.”
The two men parted mutually satisfied, though neither
had any great affection for the other. Ranc went back
to his burrowing and Clemenceau to his agitating. Never¬
theless, as member for the Var his influence was less
than when he had represented Montmartre, and he was
aware of it. He wanted to break away from the budget,
electoral matters and questions of colonial and foreign
politics, with some intellectual and historical speech.
Paulo majorca canamus. An opportunity to do so arose
out of a rubbishy play by Victorien Sardou, called
Thermidor, then showing at the Comedie Franâise.
The reactionary, so-called “16th of May” press (though
it had already travelled far from MacMahon) had long
86
CALUMNY
been announcing this play. Its author, an inveterate

babbler of the kind which makes everyone else at table
keep silent so that he can tell his own tales, had a fund
of stories—old chestnuts—about the Reign of Terror
which he trotted out during the course of his innumerable
dinners out. The members of the clubs and society told
one another: “His play will have great political import¬
ance.”
At about the same time Taine published his Origines
de la France Contem-porame, interesting books, crammed
with notes and permeated with a breath of mingled eager¬
ness and timidity. He attacked “spontaneous anarchy,”
a chimera of his flaming but limited imagination, in a
style that was at once vehement and restrained and which
satisfied the national good sense. This did not get any¬
where, but moved towards it at a good pace. He was
pleasant and easy to read, and, while condemning every¬
thing, was not offensive about anything. Princess
Mathilde, who used to invite him together with Renan
(the petty interpreter of our saviour Jesus Christ) to her
wretched meals, reproached Taine for damaging the
imperial and Jacobin structure of the university—a matter
about which she, poor soul, did not know the first thing.
However, she respected him and his “lofty conscience.”
Few women have ever existed more sensual, more stupid,
and yet with better intentions than she. She was divided
between her impetuous desires and a certain amount of
good sense, mixed up with family prejudices. Attracted
by Clemenceau’s intelligence and his reputation as an
orator, she yet did not dare to invite him to dinner, and
contented herself with asking the members of her circle,
87
CLEMENCEAU
particularly Edmond de Goncourt, about the morals and

habits of this slayer of Ferry.
“Is he well educated?”
“Certainly,” said Goncourt, who had a great fancy for
Clemenceau.
“I have heard that he is corrupt and runs after
women.”
“Less so than Morny,” replied Goncourt.
“Is he witty?”
“Invite him here and you can judge for yourself.”
“I cannot. Taine told me he would never come here
again if I received that communard.”
“And Renan, what has he had to say about it?”
“That Clemenceau never says his prayers.”
Edmond de Goncourt burst out laughing in his kindly
way. He had a tender affection for the “Princesse,” but
knew that she was undoubtedly very silly. Moreover, at
that time she had no political influence whatever, and
her principal source of erroneous information was Frederic
Masson. For lover No. X she had an old engraver,
Claudius Popelin, who, for his part, had become
enamoured with one of the Princess’s maids of honour
who was already of “a certain age,” and this kept the
tongues of Parisian society wagging. Clemenceau knew
all these intimate details and laughed at them. Now and
again, while sewing or working at her tapestry in its
frame which, of course, was studded with eagles’ heads,
Princess Mathilde would say to her bosom friends:
“I really think I will invite Clemenceau.”
“Oh, Madame, don’t do that.”
“Why not? Does he smell nasty?”
88
CALUMNY
“No, but he is full of atrocious ideas.”

lhats just what amuses me. Sainte-Beuve was full
of atrocious ideas too. I should like to know this great
master of parliamentary eloquence.”
“He would shock you.”
“Nothing shocks me. Popelin, you irritate me.”
Thus things went on in the Rue de Berry. The
Princess knew from other sources that Clemenceau was
a frequent visitor of Mme de Loynes and this made her
jealous. And, finally, she was at that time afraid of
being expelled from France and thought that by associat¬
ing with the radical leader she would be relieved of this
nightmare.
When the Thermidor affair broke out she roundly
declared herself against Sardou.
“He must have wanted something to do, the wretch,
to stir up this bother among the public. ...”
“But, Madame, after all there’s no law forcing the
French to admire and cherish the Terror.”
“The Revolution achieved great things, and, in the
first place, it made Napoleon.”
“Ah, Napoleon!” cried Masson, raising his long arms
to heaven.
“Ah, Napoleon!” ecstatically echoed the chorus of
diners, who were cramming themselves with inferior
meats and adulterated wines under the eyes of twelve
gigantic, fat-calved butlers in red knickerbockers.
Sardou, at first, could not believe his ears. What,
Clemenceau was going to raise a question about it in the
Chamber ?
“So people may no longerr use the Rrrevolution as
89
CLEMENCEAU
topic?” (The author of Thermidor spoke with a great

rolling of rs.) “Where’s our liberrty? What rrright has
this M. Clemenceau to meddle? and this M. Potatoes and
Bacon?* I’ve got all my proofs. I’ll answerr for everry
word of it!”
“Bravo, Sardou!” cried Sarcey. “All true France is
with you.”
“True France” was profoundly indifferent, for it only
knew the Revolution from the history books, which repre¬
sented it as the origin and acme of French patriotism.
Certainly there had been some out-and-out rotters among
the parliamentarians, such as General Boulanger. But he
had killed himself, and for a woman too! One doesn’t
do that, if you really love your country. Well, Clemen¬
ceau put his question, triumphed, and declared amid
universal applause that the Revolution was “basic”—
which meant nothing, since blood or filth can be basic—
and Thermidor was withdrawn. Clemenceau’s colleagues
teased him, saying:
“It’s obvious that you haven’t seen the play. It’s just
idiotic. It ought to have been left to die a natural death.”
“You don’t understand anything about it,” retorted the
owner of La Justice. “The Revolution is basic. I won’t
allow anyone to touch it.”
The ever-watchful German police in Paris exploited the
discontent of the theatrical world, where Sarah Bernhardt
wept and kept on repeating: “It is horrible, really
horrible! If that is liberty,” she said to Porel, the
manager of the Odeon, and Koning of the Gymnase,
“then a fig for it!” The indignation spread to the clubs
‘Translator’s note: this is a pun on Aulard’s name—lard being bacon.
90
CALUMNY
and the boulevards, and radicalism began to assume the

appearance of intolerable despotism.
At the Comedie Frangaise, everyone was heart-broken
and talked of “a blow to civilization, an infringement
of the laws of God and man.”
In the Chamber Clemenceau’s colleagues took him to
task:
“My dear fellow, that was rather rash of you. I wTas
with you. But what about the liberty of the stage?”
“Pooh, pooh! You can’t have liberty without intelli¬
gence,”
At the dinner of the “Originals” feeling ran high and
many even talked of handing in their resignation.
“But Sardou’s play is idiotic. It is only right that we
should be rid of it.”
“It is like the prohibition of Le Roi s’amuse. We are
living in a Clemenceau monarchy.”
La Justice naturally upheld it’s owner’s views, and was
practically the only paper to do so. The others expressed
their disapproval in no uncertain terms. In the end
Clemenceau went to the Var and explained the whole
matter to his constituents, and they, never having heard
of Sardou, Thermidor or Robespierre, applauded him
frantically. “He’s right, he is! Our member is right!
Long live Clemenceau! Down with Thermidor! To
hell with Sardou!”
“If I had gone to the Var,” said Sardou, greatly
impressed and rather proud, “I should never have escaped
alive.”
This comic affaire went on for several weeks to the
great joy of the Parisians. The only one to benefit by it
91
CLEMENCEAU
was Sardou, for whom the “Friends of Dramatic Liberty”

gave a banquet at which Sarah Bernhardt expressed her
indignation and kissed the playwright on both cheeks.
Later on Thermidor was allowed back at the Comedie
Franâise, this time with the members of the Convention
painted as lifeless figures on the canvas sets, which pro¬
duced a marvellous effect. The text ran, “Strangled by
a bell,” one of the queerest efforts of Sardou’s imagina¬
tion, with the famous song from Theodora: *
Sur les places publiques
Quand tu rodais le soir,
A 1’ombre des portiques,
Chacun a pu te voir.
Ah ! Ah ! Theodora !
Ah! Ah! Ah!
It was then that a vague whisper began to be heard in
various circles in Paris, an indefinite rumour coming from
no one knew where: “Clemenceau has been bought by
England. He is in the pay of the English Government.”
It was later discovered that this infamous and absurd story
had originated in diplomatic circles, especially in the
German Embassy in Paris, and in certain editorial offices
—particularly that of Le Petit Parisien, one of whose
shining lights was a tall, pretentious fellow named Ernest
Judet who was the pet of one of its directors, Marinoni,
the inventor of the rotary printing machine. A former
pupil of the Training College for Secondary Teachers,
*In every public square,
When at eve you took the air.
From behind the window glass
Everyone has seen you pass.
Ah ! Ah! Theodora!
Ah! Ah! Ah!
92
CALUMNY
fairly well educated and backed by the one-and-a-half

million copies which in those days issued from the presses
in the Rue Lafayette, Judet’s ambition was to be a great
politician. He could not bear the thought that he had
been deprived of the part by the demagogic leader of the
radicals. Moreover, he detested England, had a keen
admiration for the young German Emperor, Wilhelm II,
and desired an alliance between Paris and Berlin against
London.
A celebrated blackmailer had had, some years before,
the idea of starting a daily paper to which he had given
the title—admirable in view of his profession—Rumour.
These vagrant mists of rumour suddenly concentrated in
one dark cloud, which broke over the head of the owner
of La Justice on the occasion of the Panama scandal.
It seems most probable that this cleverly constructed
scandal which was launched in the Chamber without
documentary proof, but with the utmost plausibility, by
so absolutely honest and honourable a man as Jules
Delahaye, also owed its inception to the desire of a jealous
Germany to thwart the second national enterprise of
Ferdinand de Lesseps. Germany knew that substantial
sums had been given to French members of parliament
and newspaper owners to facilitate the issue of prize
bonds, which required a majority vote, and to give the
undertaking as widespread publicity as possible. This she
knew through the Surete-Generale—the head of which
at that time was a certain Soinoury—which had, besides,
passed on its information to that malicious and artful
man, the quondam Chief Commissioner of Police,
Andrieux. It was Andrieux who, while keeping well
93
CLEMENCEAU
behind the scenes, passed on the elements of the case

to Delahaye. Delahaye, an ardent catholic, in those days
only saw in Clemenceau the head of radical anti¬
clericalism. As will be seen later it was this same
Delahaye who, recognizing his error, was twenty-five
years later to become through his brother Dominque the
most ardent advocate both in the Chamber and in the
Senate of Clemenceau’s being made Prime Minister.
The real cleverness of the 1892 affair lay in the way
in which it turned patriots and supporters of the Revenge,
like Deroulede and Barres, against the radical leader,
whose fundamental beliefs were exactly the same as theirs.
There are moments when History laughs and this
laughter, sometimes quiet, sometimes uproarious, is very
seldom understood till many years have passed.
The fight between two swindling Jews mixed up in the
Panama business, Cornelius Herz and the pseudo “Baron”
Jacques de Reinach, who was a relation of Joseph Reinach
(without a “de”), offered an opportunity of hitting at
Clemenceau through one of his sleeping partners in La
Justice, the “Old Rook” as he jokingly called him. His
enemies invented the story that Herz was the intermediary
between Clemenceau and England.
In the spring of 1896 the writer of these pages was
present at a large dinner given by his parents to several
distinguished guests at Brown’s Hotel, Dover Street. The
guests included, besides Georges Hugo and his young
wife, Stanley and young Mrs. Stanley, Admiral Maxse
and Henry James, and two of the most eminent English
politicians of the day—John Morley and Arthur Balfour.
After dinner, which was a very lively and friendly affair,
94
CALUMNY
the guests went into the smoking-room and the conversa¬

tion turned on Clemenceau, of whom Admiral Maxse,
the founder of the National Review, had for many years
been an intimate friend. My father said that he was
very fond of Clemenceau and that neither he nor
Goncourt had ever believed that he had been sold to any
power whatsoever.
“He is a keen and uncompromising patriot and has
never had two halfpennies to rub together—in fact, he
is unbelievably indifferent to money. Even if this
Cornelius Herz did put money into La Justice as many
others have, what does that prove? . . . The whole thing
is sheer malice and calumny pure and simple.”
"Bravo!” Admiral Maxse approved warmly. “I will
vouch for the honour of my dear old friend Clemenceau,
as I would for my own.”
The conversation had thus gradually taken an almost
solemn turn, and everyone was looking forward to hear¬
ing what the two statesmen would have to say. It was
John Morley who spoke first.
“Never,” he declared vigorously, “never to my know¬
ledge has Her Majesty’s Government, under any pretext
whatever, sent any funds to M. Clemenceau, nor to any
person acting on his behalf.”
“It is ridiculous,” confirmed Arthur Balfour, “to assert
anything else. Morley and I both knew of this rumour
and we went thoroughly into the whole thing and dis¬
covered that there was nothing in it. When Professors
Charcot and Brouardel came to London to see whether
Cornelius Herz was in a fit state to be moved, the thing
was talked about everywhere—even in the Chancellory.
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CLEMENCEAU
The opinion of those most fitted to know was unanimous

and definite: that the thing was gratuitous calumny and
nothing more.”
“Well,” concluded Alphonse Daudet, “you haven’t told
me anything I didn’t already know, but that settles that.”
Clemenceau knew of this incident and, when my father
died the following year, I saw him cry without making
the least attempt to hide his emotion. A few months
before his death my father wrote to Clemenceau, who
later reminded me of it: “In the event of my sudden
disappearance, I leave my son Leon in your care.” Then
came the Dreyfus affair (December, 1897).
But, to return to the Panama scandal. It was then
that the Petit Journal brought out the famous drawing,
“Aoh Yes.” This depicted Clemenceau, in evening dress,
dancing a jig on the stage of the Opera and juggling
with sacks of gold to the strains of an orchestra conducted
by a bewhiskered Englishman. Hundreds of thousands
of crudely coloured reproductions of this rather inferior
drawing were circulated throughout the whole of France,
but mainly in Clemenceau’s constituency, the Var. La
Justice, changing its tone, retaliated as best it could with
the pens of its principal contributors. But what could its
tiny circulation do against the enormous one of Le Petit
Journal?
Then followed Deroulede’s famous attack on Clemen¬
ceau in the Chamber, when, after a short allusion to
Cornelius Herz, he turned towards Clemenceau and said:
“There is someone here whom you all fear because of his
pen, his tongue and his pistol. Well, I defy all three
and name this someone; it is Monsieur Clemenceau.”
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CALUMNY
To this Clemenceau replied in a dry, disdainful voice,

which I can still hear: “Monsieur Deroulede, you are a
liar.” The Chamber held its breath like at a cock-fight.
The result was an indecisive duel with pistols. Perin and
Paul Menard were Clemenceau’s seconds, and Barres
acted for Deroulede. If Clemenceau had killed Deroulede
it would certainly have been a frightful calamity. But
if Deroulede had killed Clemenceau we would not have
won the Great War. On what little things fate depends.
Deroulede, the mouthpiece of that idiotic calumny
which, I repeat, had no foundation whatever, was lacking
in judgment and easily flattered. Barres followed him
blindly, remembering Boulanger. The radical party,
whose attitude in this affair was very weak, did not rally
round its leader as strongly as one would have expected,
and Lockroy made himself conspicuous by the eagerness
with which he broadcast Deroulede’s accusations. His
perfidy was strongly condemned by his colleagues, and
Paul Menard and Perin even took him to task for it in
private. As for Clemenceau, scornful of intrigues and
rumours, he understood precisely nothing of the whole
business. For a long time he had laughed at the stories
that were hawked round about him and made fun of
the deputies of his own party to their faces. Knowing
only scorn, he did not believe in hate and took no notice
whatever of the warnings which reached him of the plot
that was being hatched against him and his dreaded
influence. His attitude was that of “they wouldn’t dare.”
He was greatly astonished at missing Deroulede at such
short range, and had been seen to gaze at his pistol
with a murmured “Amazing.” In his opinion the presi-
G 97
CLEMENCEAU
dent of the League of Patriots was a poor boob. It was

at about this time that, being head over ears in debt, he
made up his mind to sell some trifling Japanese ornaments
which he had once bought on the advice of Edmond de
Goncourt. This distressed him and he confessed to his
exuberant friend Aline Menard-Dorian, when she came
to pay him a visit: “One gets attached to the little
things.” His immediate circle, his two brothers and his
sister, were indignant that it should have to come to this,
while his political opponents rubbed their hands in glee.
Rarely had something been so cleverly made out of
nothing.
Recognizing the emptiness of their case against
Clemenceau and realizing that it would not be long before
this was discovered, his enemies resolved to fill up the
gaps with forgeries. The political police manufactured,
with their customary crudeness, a number of spurious
documents which purported to prove the venality of the
member for the Var, and—an inadvertent refinement—
also incriminated Rochefort. This monstrosity was
entrusted to a mulatto, Norton by name, who claimed
to have got it from some mysterious personages supposed
to be in a position to know; and Millevoye, who was
as great a duffer as he was unimaginably credulous,
agreed to raise the question in the Chamber, even though
he had been warned by a minister to whom he had sub¬
mitted the documents that he ought to be very chary
of doing so. I can still see him climbing the steps of
the little staircase like a confident giant, with the incrimin¬
ating papers in his hand. Clemenceau, who was sitting
in one of the front seats, looked at him with mocking
98
CALUMNY
curiosity. The Chamber was packed, for all Paris had

come to see the “execution.”
Death was instantaneous, but not for the person
expected. The reading of the so-called receipts, which
were self-evident forgeries, began to elicit murmurs which
grew louder and louder until they were succeeded by
general hilarity when Rochefort’s name was pronounced.
Clemenceau literally doubled up, waving his arms about
and slapping his thighs, and made a show of shaking
the discomfited orator warmly by the hand. The Presi¬
dent, the secretaries, and the ushers, all roared with
laughter, as did the spectators in the public galleries,
for the absurdity of the whole thing was so apparent
that it would not have deceived a child of seven. I
watched Barres who, dumbfounded to begin with, ended
up by being amused, but regretfully, like everyone else.
All the same, he did not join the crowd of deputies who
queued up to congratulate the man whose political down¬
fall they had been so ardently desiring five minutes
earlier. As for Millevoye, he had disappeared, presum¬
ably to rejoin the mulatto, Norton. Rochefort’s merci¬
less tirades against his former comrades in Boulangerism,
which appeared in the Intransigeant during the next ten
days, were worth reading. Never had he been in such
good form: “Without any doubt, they are scoundrels,
all of them, low-down scoundrels. . . . They have never
been anything else!”
Though this resounding victory quashed the calumny
in Paris, it persisted in the Var where, when the time
came for him to seek re-election, gangs of roughs in the
pay of Le Petit Journal greeted Clemenceau with a chorus
99
CLEMENCEAU
of “Aoh yes.” This happened so frequently that he com¬

pletely lost his temper. His indignation inspired his
Salerne speech, one of the finest of his career, in which
he gave a general and particular account first of his
public and then of his private life. He detailed his
expenditure; so much for his riding lessons, so much for
his food, so much for his family, punctuating each period
with a resounding “Where are these millions?” Carried
away by his subject, he surpassed himself (so his audience
said), and was able to enlarge on his theme, yet without
overstatement. The “Aoh yes-ites” were silenced. If he
had delivered this speech in the Chamber—as Geffroy
said to me—he would have been made Prime Minister
the next day. When he had finished the whole of the
hall was on its feet acclaiming him. Many were crying.
The Salerne speech has not been equalled in the whole
history of republican eloquence.
All the same, Clemenceau was beaten in the second
ballot and lost his seat. Le Petit Journal and the German
Embassy had done their work thoroughly.
From this bitter fight against calumny—the origins of
which eluded him, as they did his collaborators—Clemen¬
ceau emerged steeled, but at the same time filled with
an immense disgust. His sense of irony remained unim¬
paired, nor had this episode in any way modified his
biological, philosophical and psychological ideas. He had
made good note of his false friends, those traitors who,
at the crucial moment of the crisis, had tried to ham¬
string him and who had rejoiced in advance over his
defeat at the polls. He had also made note of those who
had closed their ears to the calumnies; these were the
too
CALUMNY
men of letters—Daudet, Goncourt, Zola, Mirbeau, and

the artists, with Monet and Rodin at their head, as well
as the medical students who had so recently rebelled
against Boulanger. In him, as in all strong characters,
gratitude was as strong as rancour.
How was he going to employ his new-found leisure?
In writing novels or plays, or perhaps a great political
pamplet in which he would speak out all that was in
his heart. Besides, he hadn’t a penny left: his paper
was collapsing; that is to say, he was losing his means
of defence and attack. Socialism did not tempt him:
indeed, as a peasant and a patriot, he instinctively revolted
against it. A History of the Revolution ? But would he
do any better or even as well as Michelet?
This idea tempted him for a moment—then he remem¬
bered the Thermidor affair, which led him to pay a visit
to Henry Ceard,* of the Carnavalet Museum, of whose
erudition and common sense he had often heard from
Geffroy.
“I am disgusted with active politics,” said Clemenceau.
“I would like to show how the Revolution is basic, how
the years 1789-1795 are the cement of France. You know
more about this than anyone. Will you help me with
your advice?”
Ceard liked Clemenceau’s temperament and personality.
But he had a leaning towards reaction, and his horror
of the Revolution was profound. He was one of those
who taught me to share that horror. An anti-revolution¬
ary because he was a patriot and a medical student into
’Henry Oard dedicated his first play Les Resignes (The Resigned) to
me. In spite of the difference in our ages, we were intimate friends.
IOI
CLEMENCEAU
the bargain, that was Ceard. It is from him I obtained

the curious conversation which is faithfully recorded here.
Clemenceau: I have in mind a book on the Revolution.
Aulard’s is crammed with documents, but it is a bit
cringing and lifeless. One must put fresh life into it
all, and I have come here to find the means of doing so.
Ceard: We have in the Carnavalet some interesting
things, but we haven’t everything. Here is a fine text:
“The order to the Swiss (signed by Louis XVI and written
in his own hand) to ‘cease fire and retire to their
barracks?’ . . .”
Clemenceau: Certainly, it had had its day and knew
it. That’s a strange document—but not the thing for a
partisan of the monarchy.
Ceard (laughing): I should think not. I am no
partisan of the monarchy, but, in view of the results, I
feel that I am—you will forgive me—what my friend
Gabriel Thiebaut calls “an indifferent.”
Clemenceau: At times I also am indifferent, and
Geffroy may have told you so. But there is one thing
about which I do not compromise—my country.
Ceard: Nor I. (Clemenceau took him warmly by the
hand.)
Clemenceau (thoughtfully): They were grand chaps
all the same, those members of the Convention. Do you
think Danton can have been a thief?
Ceard: It seems to me that Frederic Masson has proved
it from the records in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. . . .
Clemenceau (excitedly): Have you seen them ? That
Masson is a rabid Bonapartist.
Ceard: No, but . . .! There is no doubt about it.
102
CALUMNY
Clemenceau: A pity! But Robespiere, he at least was

honest?
Ceard: The Incorruptible ? How could you even think
he wasn’t. Our hats of! to him!
Clemenceau: And Marat, whose picture I see here, in
his bath? He was honest too. There is a story I got
from Degas: one day when someone was disparaging the
men of 1793 to his mother, that noble, wrinkled old
woman suddenly exclaimed, “Be quiet sir, they were
admirable beings!” Indeed, they did seem to be so.
But what are your views on the origins of the
Revolution ?
Ceard: Oh, they are confused! I think that from the
second half of the eighteenth century on the Revolution
was already in men’s minds—under a moral guise.
Clemenceau: The Liaisons Dangereuses? Valmont
and Mme de Merteuil.
Ceard: Exactly. But there is also Goncourt’s La
Femme au XVI1F Siecle.
Clemenceau: Explain what you mean.
Ceard: Those women, who were profound atheists and
who took death lightly and without prayer, bred a genera¬
tion whose only interests were the good things and the
intrigues of this earth, men who would make their way
through tears and blood.
Clemenceau: They wanted the general good. . . .
They were disinterested.
Ceard: Without doubt, but they were blind and
frenzied.
Clemenceau: The Republic opened their eyes.
Ceard (getting excited): Only to shut them again
103
CLEMENCEAU
immediately. The dechristianization of France is a bitter

folly.
Clemenceau: Do you deny the influence of the priest¬
hood; that conscience has been extinguished by the con¬
fession ?
Ceard: The real extinguisher of conscience is atheism.
Clemenceau: And you are a student of medicine?
Ceard: I am.
Clemenceau: Then, my poor France, you must go to
the convents!
That was the end of this dialogue. Ceard, a great mind
in a modest exterior, insisted on the fact of Clemenceau’s
animation. Yet behind this could be sensed, from that
time on, the crash of broken illusions.
Deja j’en tends tomber, avec des chocs funebres,
Le bois qui retentit sur le pave des cours.
(Already I hear falling with melancholy clash,

The wood resounding on the stones of the court.)
In the days that followed, whenever anyone mentioned

Clemenceau, Ceard would say, “He is a devotee of the
Revolution,” and Clemenceau would say of Ceard, “He
is on the side of the priests.” But Ceard was a child of
the university and the medical school, and -proof against
the illusions of his day. He wrote a gloomy and little-
known masterpiece, Land for sale on the seashore, and
advised his friend Zola about several of his novels—
particularly on the genealogical table of the Rougon
family and Doctor Pascal. He carried the secret of his
friend’s death with him to the grave.
Clemenceau, disgusted with politics—but not for long
104
CALUMNY
—had in mind to write a novel, which he intended to

call The Strongest, and went and asked Alphonse Daudet
how he should set about it.
“It’s quite simple, my dear friend. You must make a
plan, but not too rigid or detailed or you will tie yourself
down too much. Then you must decide what your
characters are to be, and place them. And then, when
your pen starts to take the bit between its teeth, don’t
pull at the reins, but let yourself go. For the rest, you
know as much as I do.”
Alphonse Daudet knocked the ashes out of his little
pipe, a gift from his beloved Flaubert, of whom he never
ceased to think, and, after a silence, added:
“There are some little tricks of the trade. For instance,
I have a habit of writing my last chapter first. It serves
as a guide for the rest.”
“Do you go over what you have written?”
“Once, usually: after my wife has revised and corrected
it. She is a good judge.”
“You are lucky to have a collaborator in your wife.”
There was bitterness in Clemenceau’s voice as he said
that. Alphonse Daudet went on:
“Do you miss politics and the atmosphere of the
Chamber?”
“Not at the moment. One sees things differently, that’s
all. . . . Just one more question. I have been told—it
was Geffroy—that you make a lot of notes, that you have
exercise books full of them. Is it a help?”
“Yes, because I am not always sure of my memory,
and, as I smoke my pipe a lot, I cannot give myself a
tap on the forehead and say ‘It’s all there’.”
I05
CLEMENCEAU
Clemenceau having alluded to the calumnies with

which he had recently been overwhelmed, Daudet
shrugged his shoulders and said:
“Calumny is the ransom you pay for success, the tally
of those that envy you.”
From this conversation, which then turned on other
things, Clemenceau went away comforted. Geffroy was
right. There was something about Alphonse Daudet
which belonged to him alone, an affectionate conception
of life. He maintained that he had no gift for generaliz¬
ing, but he saw so far into the concrete that he seemed
to plumb the breadth and depth of existence.
Being eager to see Daudet again soon and have him
dissipate his melancholy, Clemenceau went with Geffroy
to Goncourt’s place the next Sunday, that being the day of
the little weekly meeting they called the “attic meeting.”
Besides their host with his white hair and lively,
black eyes, there had already arrived Octave Mirbeau,
Huysmans, and a taciturn English journalist. Mirbeau
was looking at an album of Japanese prints. Huysmans
lounged against the wall smoking a cigarette, his great
forehead puckered as though he were filled with worry
and disgust. Mirbeau and he detested each other like
cat and dog—because of their different temperaments.
Silence and constraint hung heavy in the air, but dis¬
appeared with the entrance of Alphonse Daudet. After
saying “Good-day!” to Goncourt, Daudet turned to the
former owner of La Justice with a “Well, Clemenceau,
how’s the book going?”
“Oh, so-so! I think I shall retire to the Vendee and
work on it there.”
106
CALUMNY
“I envy you. I should very much like to go and work

in Provence . . . but it’s impossible.”
“You have Champrozay,” said Clemenceau.
“At this time of the year it’s cold there, and it is diffi¬
cult to heat that great barracks of a place. I’m a chilly
mortal.”
“Why now,” put in Clemenceau, “I rather like it a
little chill, with wind and rain, for a brisk walk in the
country.”
“You are one of these active people—I’m not.”
Mirbeau liked Clemenceau for the mixture of brusque¬
ness and cordiality in his manner. Huysmans, who had
a horror of politicians, most of his colleagues and the
people of the South in general, did not. Goncourt had
his eye on Huysmans’ bald head which was resting against
a valuable tapestry, but did not dare to speak to him
about it. The door opened and Forain appeared—small,
alert, with a fine head like a quizzical cameo, a mixture
of Bonaparte at Toulon and a street arab. He was
followed by Maurice Barres, thin, sallow, and continually
throwing back a lock of black hair which fell over his
forehead. Barres and Clemenceau exchanged a look in
which there was no friendliness, and Barres, after shaking
hands with Goncourt, crossed over to take the two fingers
Huysmans extended to him and then went and sat down
by the side of Alphonse Daudet. The two had a great
liking for each other. Forain could be heard laughing.
Mirbeau bit furiously at his nails. The people there were
so diverse and incompatible that it was impossible to find
any subject for general conversation till Daudet, apropos
a Japanese print by Outamaro, began to speak of the
107
CLEMENCEAU
natural elegance of women in general and in particular

of those of Provence.
Clemenceau praised the women of Sables d’Olonne
with their graceful calves which they always showed, and
expatiated on the custom of maraichinage, that kiss which
is prolonged into sharp pleasure. At this moment Maurice
Nicolle, a house physician in one of the hospitals, came
in. In appearance he was like Balzac when young, and
a credit to his generation. He explained the physiological
mechanism of maraichinage with authority, spoke of the
sublingual gland, of the nucleus, of the hypoglossal nerve
—“Hypo what?” Goncourt asked—of the bulb, and other
parts of the human machinery. Clemenceau listened with
a friendly feeling for this learned young man who seemed
to be so well up in anatomy and in whom he sensed a
kindred spirit.
Conversation now became general. Mirbeau left, and
also Huysmans, which made things all the pleasanter.
Alphonse Daudet remarked that the absence of women in
a gathering made men talk of nothing but them.
The talk, rising up like a spiral of smoke, turned on
the deceptions and the deceits of life. Clemenceau, who
was standing, his right hand in his pocket, began
to speak again: “My father—you remember him,
Geffroy? . . .”
“A wonderful fellow,” said Geffroy through his
clenched teeth.
“. . . was alone at the time in our country house,
where there were none but old servants, in whom he had
every confidence and whom he treated like friends. One
night as he was going up to bed after reading all even-
108
CALUMNY
ing, he heard voices in the kitchen and, going down

the few steps to it, found his servants saying the most
scurrilous things about himself, his wife and his children.
And a cold stab shot through his heart, for he was a
thoroughly kind man. ‘What a simpleton I have been!’
he thought, and went upstairs again, put out his light,
and reflected bitterly on the realities which are hidden
behind the world of appearances.”
“A fine subject for a novel ...” said Daudet. “For
my part, whenever I come across some handsomely situ¬
ated property, whether castle or lordly estate, smiling
in the sunshine, I always wonder what drama is being
played out on that charming stage. In the same way, I
cannot see a judge in his red and black gown condemn¬
ing some poor devil who has stolen a loaf of bread or
offended public decency without wondering what he has
on his own conscience, that noble judge. . . .”
It was getting late. Clemenceau took his leave. This
literary evening had exhilarated him and he started on
the first chapter of his book that same night. He knew
very well what he wanted to say, but the words in which
to say it did not come to him so easily, as on the rostrum
in the Chamber or at some public meeting, where he
even had to curb the abundance of his ideas. There was
some psychological mystery in this which interested him
and which he determined to fathom.
109
CHAPTER V
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Once back in the healthy air of his flat Vendee, with its
wide, marshy horizons and vivid memories of his child¬
hood and boyhood days, Clemenceau turned his thoughts
inwards. The flood of calumny which had been loosed
upon him with such senseless rage had left behind a con¬
fusion of sensations, ideas and all sorts of contradictory
plans. This he now strove to put in order for, in his
eyes, it was work and method which gave life its equili¬
brium. He had seen both sides of action—success and
failure—had explored Parisian life behind the scenes and
known and satisfied the desires of love. Art and letters
now opened their arms to him and he decided to devote
himself henceforth to the latter. He wanted to create
a work at once critical and imaginative, using both
mediums of book and paper.
Two questions occupied his mind: that of form, which
was less trouble to him now than it had been, but which
nevertheless was still not easy; and that of the right type
of books to read, for on this would depend his style.
What style should he choose? The most direct, the most
restrained, but yet also the most expressive: Voltaire and
Caesar. He started rereading The Commentaries in Latin
but discovered that he had forgotten too much of that
vigorous and beautiful language, so he got hold of
no
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Amyot’s translation, which is, at the same time, a splendid

French lesson. He realized that his literary education had
suffered from the eagerness with which he had plunged
into politics in his youth and from the amount of study
demanded by the science of medicine, and that here he
would have to start all over again. For a time he even
thought of taking up Greek again so as to be able to
read Demosthenes, for whom he had always had a prefer¬
ence, in the original. He gave up the idea, but eagerly
read anything which had any bearing on that great orator
and citizen of Athens. Being obliged to limit his expendi¬
ture in view of his restricted income, he was not able to
buy all the classical works he would have liked. He had,
besides, the expense of his three children and was of
course no longer in receipt of his parliamentary salary
now that he had lost his seat. Eugene Fasquelle and
the firm of Charpentier, the big publishers of the Rue de
Grenelle, had given him a good contract, but it was on
his novel, which was to appear first in VIllustration with
illustrations by Jeanniot, that he was counting to augment
his little fortune. And who knows, perhaps, one day the
theatre . . .
Every day, as was his custom, he took a long walk
in the country, turning all these things over in his mind
and dispelling the fits of melancholy which would
suddenly descend upon him. At one time, when the
whole Chamber followed him, when his least word had
its weight, when he had overthrown Ferry in a moment,
he had thought that when as leader of the radical party
he became Prime Minister, he would be able to devote all
his intellectual and oratorical powers, all his political
hi
CLEMENCEAU
influence, and all the strength he felt within him, to the

task of recovering Alsace-Lorraine, either by fighting for
it or by negotiations backed up by England. It was this
dream which had brought upon him the “Aoh yes” and
that despicable drawing in Le Petit Journal. But now
there was no longer any question of these great expecta¬
tions, as Dickens has it. He had altered the whole course
and setting of his life. Instead of the lobbies of the
Chamber he now had his study and a life of conversa¬
tion, reading and travel—harder but no less interesting
than the diversity of the parliamentary round.
All the same, he continued to take in several papers
which he scanned hurriedly so as to keep himself in
touch with events; but these seemed distant and stunted,
as though he saw them from another shore. After a
period of bitterness he began to feel relief at being no
longer mixed up in it. What a lot of useless talk ! What
a lot of fools and cowards they were! His happiest
moments were spent with his novel, developing the
character of his Squire Puymaufrey and the great indus¬
trialist, and making them speak in language suited to
their characters. Sometimes he would wonder whether
he were not overdoing the dialogue, at others he would
angrily tear up some pages which he considered weak.
Like plays, a novel requires a lot of preparation. Unless
you lead up to things they will not carry conviction nor
will there be any reality in your surprises. You must
make things live and conviction will only come with
simplicity and the ring of truth. It is the hardnesses,
the rough edges and the contrasts in your characters you
must describe. Never forget that there is such a thing
112
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
as evolution or that Montaigne called the world “a

perennial seesaw.”
However, when Clemenceau was pleased with what he
had written, when the chapter had turned out well and
he had not scratched out too much, he would treat himself
to a few pages of Balzac or a scene from Shakespeare,
watching to see how they did it, how, in Goncourt’s
words, “it was all strung together,” and whether it
followed Flaubert’s formula and “held on both sides.”
This kept Clemenceau occupied till it was time for his
frugal dinner which he took alone, except when some
neighbour or an old friend of the family came to keep
him company. Then, after a little conversation, he would
say good-night and go off to bed. But always he kept
a pencil and a sheet of paper within reach so as not
to waste any of the hours when he could not sleep. For
it would seem that even the most studious and hard¬
working of mortals must still be called lazy, when you
think of the moments he does not use, the observations
he does not make and the notes he does not take. Apart
from the hours spent in sleep, a large part of existence
is in this way given over to sloth and lost for ever.
An old servant did the housework and prepared his
meals, just like the Nanette in his novel. He dearly
loved a chat with her and made her tell him all the
local gossip and the little doings of Tom, Dick and Harry.
Then, as he was known to be a doctor, the peasants
started coming to him about their gnarled rheumatics.
“Doctor, I can no longer do this or that. ...” “Well
then, don’t do it my friend.”
The good people of his native village had never believed
H IX3
CLEMENCEAU
the calumnies advanced against him: “Naught but lies,

all that!” Many thought that he should put himself up
for the Vendee; but, in the first place, there was no seat
vacant, and, then, he dreaded the thought of all the fuss
and bother of an election in the place which was his
refuge and where he only visited and received those whom
he wished to see.
His faith in Darwinism was undiminishd, and he pro¬
posed to apply it to human society and show how its
applicability remains unaltered. While Zola floundered
about in a badly evolved theory of heredity with his
imaginary Rougon-Macquarts; while Daudet held aloof
from depicting society and confined himself to his
memories of the Empire or his own adventures in love;
while Flaubert revived Don Quixote in the guise of the
sensual and dreamy Mme Bovary and brought the days
of 1848 back to life in his L’Education Sentimentale, he,
Clemenceau, proposed to introduce his readers to that
world of industry which had grown out of the Revolu¬
tion, out of tradition and the soil, and for which some
of his colleagues in the National Assembly would serve
as models. This was in itself a difficult task and one
full of mighty contrasts. At certain times, especially
when the air was clear and fresh, the book he was to
write would take shape in outline and then he experienced
a kind of almost physical well-being. At others its lines
became confused and then he would stop what he was
doing and take up some book on medicine, history or
philosophy, in order, as he said, to recover his grip on
himself. There would also come upon him, in a flash,
the knowledge of the immensity of the task that awaited
114
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Democracy: that of remoulding human nature by means

of appropriate laws which yet took into account the
enormous upheaval that was the advent of industry.
Clemenceau arrived at the conclusion that human affairs
can only be settled by the contact of man with man.
Theories were all very well in the silence of one’s study,
but they led to nothing. It is only facts that count.
Darwin, the great Darwin, got his idea of man’s simian
ancestry from watching, from the deck of his ship, some
monkeys playing on the beach. “In order to understand
the world of industry, that of employers and employed,
which is so different from that of the country gentleman,
I must come in contact with both the one and the other.”
He had a chance to do so in the Unieux works of his
friend Paul Menard, that taciturn but observant and
experienced man who worked, as Zola said, “right in it.”
Having long since lost all sense of religion, Clemenceau
believed only in progress and the perpetual beneficence of
science. Physiology and medicine were only groping
their way along, but they were always coming upon
improvements, and Broca and Charcot’s discovery of
cerebral localizations was something fundamental which
would, perhaps, show the way to the origin of thought.
He liked Auguste Comte’s saying about humanity going
on learning as long as it lived. He would not hear of
either regressions or omissions, nor of any reverse to his
medal, and his critical faculty ceased to function where
his idols were concerned. He only just stopped short
of worshipping them, as he did the great Revolution.
When he thought of the state of unrest and struggle in
which he had lived for years, he relished the repose and
ii5
CLEMENCEAU
silence of the fields, as a parched man under a torrid

sky gulps down a cool drink. He caught himself murmur¬
ing: “Ah, how good it is!” and, looking back, saw his
duel with Deroulede as a thing as ridiculous as
Deroulede’s own attack on him. Old Renan had been
right, with his man-in-the-moon way of looking at things.
A peasant himself, by blood and in many of his
sympathies, Clemenceau was sorry for the state of
ignorance in which all these fine people stagnated, with
their belief in the devil and other old wives’ tales, piously
listening to the dull sermons of the priest and crossing
themselves when it thundered. He dreamt of a general
education for all, which would dispell all these mysteries
by showing people how their liver and kidneys worked
and their blood circulated. Was not that the duty of
Democracy? Was it not the legacy of the Revolution
and Condorcet’s dream; not the aim of universal suffrage ?
Each single individual must be in a position to understand
and plead his own interests as much as those of the com¬
munity. Already he could see a sequel to his novel,
and each day brought a fresh problem to his inquisitive
but dogmatic mind, to be solved according to the ideas
of Spencer and the other evolutionists. Though he him¬
self, without being aware of it, was a mass of prejudice,
he defined wisdom as thought devoid of prejudice.
L’Illustration was pressing for delivery of the manu¬
script of Les Plus Forts while his name was still on the
lips of the public, for fear that Paris might quickly forget
him as is its way. But the American papers still con¬
tinued to devote long articles to him which were full of
fabrications, such as that he practised vivisection exten-
116
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
sively or that, with a few of his friends, he was secretly

preparing to split the government. The arrival and
perusal of these cuttings gave him many an enjoyable
half-hour.
He very soon began to feel the lack of a woman in
his life, and started a half-sentimental, half-brutally sexual
correspondence with two of his former mistresses, both
of whom were actresses. However, they luckily refrained
from asking him for money, a request which, at that
time, would have greatly embarrassed him. His purely
platonic correspondence with Mme De Loynes, who was
of a safe age, was irregular; yet it was always a joy to
him to see her thin handwriting, which had the fineness
of autumn rain on a seashore, on the envelope which
bore her crest and famous device: “I only fear what I
love.” From time to time some tradesman would send
in his overdue account; these received a short glance and
were consigned to the depths of a drawer.
His silence alarmed his friends—was he ill ? Then one
day he received a visit in his solitude from Paul Menard.
“Ah, you’re just the man I wanted to see. I need some
expert advice, for my book, on the relations between
employers and workmen. You are in a better position
than anyone to give it me. But I’m in a bit of a hurry
for it, as l’Illustration and Jeanniot are pressing me.”
“Nothing easier, my dear friend. Come with me to
Unieux. In three or four days you will know as much
as I. I’ll arrange an interview for you with my foremen
and another with some of the workmen.”
“Do you ever have strikes?”
“Like everyone else. They don’t usually last long.”
H7
CLEMENCEAU
“In the event of differences, are you the arbitrator?”

“I should think so. It’s I who pay!”
Coming from one who was supposed to be “left,” this
answer displeased Clemenceau as being hardly in accord
with the movement. However, he rapidly packed his
bag, told his old servant who expressed her fear he would
not have enough clean shirts, and set off by train with
his faithful friend. On the journey Menard explained all
sorts of things about how they worked the various services
—insurance, deductions from wages, how often accidents
occurred and the free treatment given to their victims.
As he was the protestant member for Herault, which
was far away from his works, Paul Menard had no local
trouble to fear at his elections. Clemenceau, who
regarded Menard as a man of iron and very well up
in his business, nevertheless noticed a certain hesitancy
about him and mentioned it.
“My dear man,” replied Paul Menard in his slightly
husky voice, “many of these questions concerning capital
and labour are still in the development stage and far
from clear. The working-class world is in a state of
constant fermentation.”
“We radicals have had a bit of a hand in it.”
“But the socialists have gone further still.”
“They overbid us.”
“The day will come when they will threaten us and,
perhaps, even supplant us.”
“That day is not yet. Have you heard of Guesde?”
“Yes, he is a good man, but a terrible theorist. Like
Benoit Malon.”
“Oh, that chap! He’s unreadable! Personally, I
118
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
believe the ‘Great Day’ will only come if the military

governor of Paris and the Chief Commissioner of Police
are both imbeciles.”
Thus talking, they arrived at Unieux. News of Clemen-
ceau’s coming had leaked out, though there had been no
announcement of it. The engineers liked the idea of
meeting him, but as far as the workmen were concerned,
all they knew was that he was a masterful man, a fine
speaker and one of whom it was best to be careful. Paul
Menard they regarded as a bourgeois like the rest of those
who swim in money and take an occasional liberty with
their employees’ wives.
Clemenceau said to his friend: “Hurry up and arrange
this meeting with your foremen, because I must get back
to the Vendee and my novel.” He was becoming quite
the author.
The meeting between the impatient author and the
engineers, in whose eyes social revolution was an absurdity
and a joke, yielded nothing. Each of the “technicians”
to whom he was introduced vented a different opinion
and the result was wearisome discord.
“Well?” queried Paul Menard over their evening leg
of mutton.
“Well, I am no wiser than I was at Roche-sur-Yon.*
I listened to all they had to say, but there was nothing
to be got out of it.”
“They have, nevertheless, given you statistics.”
“Yes, but all very muddled. What on earth is one to
make of it all?”
“That’s just what I think,” said Menard. “And, more-
*The chief town of La Vendee
n9
CLEMENCEAU
over, it seems to me that their demands are much more

concerned with their own personal interests than with
those of the workmen or the firm.”
“That’s my opinion.”
On their side the foremen, those sergeant-majors of
industry, had not liked Clemenceau: “He pretends to be
listening, but his thoughts are somewhere else. All he
was anxious about was to get back to Paris.”
“He’s a parliamentarian like all the others; only he
happens to be a bit more lively and loquacious.”
“It appears that he was bought by the English while
he was over in America.”
As for his conversation with the workmen, it was pure
comedy. The sharpest of them employed an abstruse
terminology of which Clemenceau did not understand a
single word. It was rather like peasants from Seine-et-
Oise or the Urals arguing with some Kaffirs about
problems concerning Valparaiso or the pampa.
One of them, a fine speaker who went by the name
of Surcoffre, greatly regretted that the boss was not
present at the meeting: “He is the one who knows most
about it. We chaps haven’t enough education.”
“But you have your experiences and your personal
needs.”
“Our needs are sometimes too personal”
They laughed. Surcoffre said he thought that
employers’ profits were legitimate, those of the share¬
holders less so, and profit-sharing for the employees very
much to be desired. But everything ought to be done
legally. There was no need to behave like a ruffian, or
start the stupidities of the Revolution over again.
120
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Clemenceau jumped when he heard that. “What,” he

cried, “the stupidities of the Revolution! It was the
Revolution that emancipated us all.”
“It scarcely looks like it.”
We owe it to the Revolution that we are talking
together so friendlily at this moment.”
“So, citizen Clemenceau, you think that people did not
talk with each other before the Revolution?”
“Of course they did. That’s not what I meant. . . .
You don’t understand these things, my friend.”
“I understand very well, and I think that’s not over-
polite of you. Being a member of parliament doesn’t
make you know everything.”
“In the first place, I am no longer a member. And
secondly, I don’t think I know everything, and have come
here to learn.”
One of the others interrupted here: “Come on, Sur-
coffre, don’t get angry. Citizen Clemenceau didn’t mean
to hurt your feelings.”
In this way the conversation got side-tracked and
finished up in firm handshakes. Paul Menard laughed
heartily when he heard the details. “I have long known
that the working man is impervious,” he said. “Just
as you think you are about to confound him, he escapes
>5
you.
“All the same, it’s comical to hear an industrial labourer
talk about the stupidities of the Revolution.”
“There are a good many reactionaries by temperament
among them. And there are also a good number of
catholics. They don’t show it, because they know I am
a protestant. But I know that several of them call me
121
CLEMENCEAU
“the infidel.” Most of them have their children

baptized.”
“They don’t yet understand that religion is a decoy
which promises them after death all that they haven’t
had during life.”
“What does that matter if this decoy helps them to bear
the ills and sorrows of this life.”
“You speak like a sky pilot, my friend. Our duty is
to enlighten those around us, even at the risk of inculcat¬
ing in them the spirit of revolt.”
Paul Menard did not reply, so as not to vex his guest;
but he had no desire to commit suicide by encouraging
the spirit of revolt in his works. He was grateful to
Surcoffre for the reasonableness of his opinions, and
resolved to give expression to his gratitude at the first
opportunity.
On his return to the Vendee Clemenceau set to work
on his book again, but his defeat in the Var and his visit
to Unieux had shaken his faith in the good sense of the
masses.- Certain of Paul Menard’s ideas had surprised
him." How little one knew even one’s best friends!
Perhaps, too, the fact of being an employer had an influ¬
ence on one’s character and point of view.
Jeanniot came to pay him a visit and submit some
illustrations for Les Plus Ports. He also wanted to make
some rough sketches of the Vendee. His stay was
extremely pleasant. The artist was hard of hearing but
he was gay and quick and read one’s words from one’s
lips. The two men, being very busy, scarcely met except
at meals, yet there developed a bond of friendship between
them. They talked of Degas, Monet, Renoir and Sisley.
122
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Jeanniot was a friend of Degas and a passionate admirer

of his talent, which Clemenceau thought a little sad and
gloomy, though original and vigorous. Monet, in his
opinion, was light itself and the very sunshine of nature.
After dinner they would sit yarning over their coffee—
with a lack of restraint, which sprang from their mutual
passion for the French genius and hatred of Germany.
Jeanniot had fought in the 1870 war and was another of
those who longed impatiently for the Revenge. But
would it ever come? The general inertia was so
great.
“We need a man capable of electrifying the country.
To-day ideas are not enough. I thought at one time
that Boulanger. . . . But there was nothing in his thick
head.”
“A man? I can only think of one. . . .”
“Who is that?”
“Yourself, of course!”
Clemenceau burst out laughing. He had passed the age
of illusions, had seen at first hand the meanness of parlia¬
mentary life and the degeneracy of society in general. His
only ambition now was to write what he thought and
to philosophize with his friends over a good and simple
meal amid beautiful scenery. Strife and uproar—there
was nothing more futile. A little dust before the final
ashes—that was all there was to it. Jeanniot strained
his ears as he listened. Then, when Clemenceau stopped,
he said: “Show me your hand, . . .” and Clemenceau
took off his grey cotton glove and held out his aristocratic
hand under the light, but with an expression of scepticism
on his face, for he did not believe in “these old wives’
123
CLEMENCEAU
tales.” Jeanniot examined palm and fingers for a

long time, turning and re-turning the object of his
scrutiny.
“Well, am I due for a legacy? It would come in
handy.”
“No. I am looking at something else. Your life is
marked by upheavals.”
“How is that?”
“Upheavals and contradictions. You will live to be very
old.”
“The devil! That’s bad luck!”
“Very old, and you will live to see extraordinary things
happen. ...”
“Men will become good? They will love their neigh¬
bours?”
“Not exactly. But you will have a part of the
highest importance to play. Yes, and you will suc¬
ceed.”
“Ah, this is interesting. Let’s hope the devil doesn’t
carry me off first!”
“Soon you are going to have a great desire, if not a
great love. . . .”
“It’s about time. Is she French?”
“No; a foreigner.”
“That makes the second! Is she going to deceive
mer
“I can’t tell you that. But you will weep. . . .”
“Now, that surprises me. What about her; won’t she
weep too? . . . And then? . . .”
“And then you will be mixed up in battles, in gun-fire,
in atrocious dramas.”
124
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
“Bravo! With varying luck?”

“With your luck, which you carry in you.”
Jeanniot left the following day, to Clemenceau’s regret.
He would have liked him to have stayed several weeks,
for he enjoyed his wit, his loyalty and his fieriness. Once
he gave his friendship he never went back on it. If love,
in his eyes, was an ephemeral thing, friendship was some¬
thing sacred. It was while he was in this frame of mind
that he suddenly thought of his Alsatian friend, Scheurer-
Kestner.
Strasburg was under German rule and Clemenceau
knew that he would be watched there, as Gambetta had
been, when, just after the war, he went with Leonie
Leon to visit her supposed nephew, who was really a
son she had had by Napoleon Ill’s tame detective,
Hyrvoix. But Clemenceau had no intention of trying
to trick the German police as that “wild lunatic” had
done. Between his arrival in Alsace and the time when
he was spotted and watched, there would be a few days
in which to speak freely, and in all bitterness, with his
old friend.
With Clemenceau action was never long in following
his decisions. Ten days later he arrived at Strasburg in
springlike weather and took lodgings in the old town
with a respectable old lady of seventy-five from Mont-
beliard, who was a relation of the Dorians. His passport
was made out in the name of Monsieur Arnaud. What
struck him most was the atmosphere of sombre sadness
which weighed over the town, which once used to
be so gay; and he remembered that song of the old
days:
I25
CLEMENCEAU
In Strasburg, the lovely garrison town,

Dilly-dilly, down-a-down,
You drink good beer, eat white bread and brown,
Dilly-dilly, down-a-down,
The ladies ne’er say you nay or frown,
Dilly-dilly, down-down-adown,
The little girls are best of any town,
Dilly-dilly, down-a-down.
Worst of all was meeting, at every turn of the street,
the Boche officers in uniform, with their great cloaks from
beneath which swords protruded, their flat caps and their
arrogant air. These Herren took up the whole of the
pavement and from inside their shops the shopkeepers
of Strasburg followed their progress with a look of
mingled anger and fear. Twenty years of occupation had
not changed the sentiments of Alsace one iota. That,
at least, was a consolation. “The swine, the dirty swine !”
said Clemenceau to himself over and over again as he
made his way to Scheurer-Kestner’s house. The old
friend of his Bordeaux days had not changed either; he
was as patriotic as ever. The two spoke their rage and
their unalterable hope.
“When one thinks that there are Frenchmen who
believe in the young Kaiser’s friendliness for us and in
the possibility of better relations with those people! . . .
What lackeys’ souls! . . . But here in Strasburg you don’t
have such pests.”
“No; we know the Germans, and that makes it impos¬
sible for there to be any traitors among us.”
“Not one Judas?”
“Not one. Alsatian patriotism is not theatrical. It
126
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
does not gesticulate. It does not rattle its sword. But it

is solid and unshakable and we shall never be subdued,
never!”
The two “nevers” were strongly emphasized, and
Clemenceau was deeply moved. After two days spent in
his company, his affection for Scheurer-Kestner was
stronger than ever, and the German environment weighed
less heavily upon him. “May we, dear friend, before we
die,” he declared, “see the tricolour wave again over
Strasburg and hear in its streets the sound of the
Marseillaise. At the time of the Schnoebele affair we
thought we had done the trick. You ought to have seen
the faces of the people in the streets. What an air of
confidence!”
“And what sort of face did the Boche officers pull here?”
“They pretended to be unmoved, but Boulanger’s
popularity worried them and they wondered if it had
spread to the troops.”
“I should think it had spread to the troops! At
Grenoble among the Chasseurs Alpins the men, like their
officers, believing that mobilization had been decided on,
left the barracks shouting ‘Long live Boulanger!’ What
a pity Boul-Boul had so little character and was in such
a rotten set! Well, the opportunity will come again.
Our national vigour is not exhausted.” -
The day following this conversation Scheurer learned
indirectly that Clemenceau’s presence had been discovered
and that, since his passport was made out in a false
name, he would be well advised to take the train home,
if he wished to avoid bother.
“I ought not to have walked about so much,” said
127
CLEMENCEAU
Clemenceau. “The Paris papers have made my mug too

well known. The good citizens of Strasburg must be
surprised to find that I don’t juggle with sacks of English
gold, as in Le Petit Journal.”
Behind this jesting remark was a bitterness which
Scheurer did not fail to notice. Before they separated the
two friends embraced warmly.
“Let us think of it always, talk of it sometimes,” said
Clemenceau. There was a lump in his throat as he got
into the train, and he even waved his handkerchief out
of the window, like a village sweetheart.
“Why,” he thought, “wasn’t I in Goblet’s place at the
time of this blasted business! I should have known
whether the time for action had come, and if it had,
would not have hesitated a moment. But Goblet was a
little provincial solicitor, Boulanger a uniformed lover,
and Florens a well-meaning dreamer. The gun was
good, firmly at the shoulder, and the cartridges were
there.”
As they crossed the frontier at Pagny the ticket
inspector, who had recognized Clemenceau, went to his
carriage and engaged him in conversation. “I often go
this way, sir, and every time it breaks my heart. When
are we going to turf these spiked helmets out? I have
some cousins living just outside Strasburg. They say they
feel crushed under the Germans. I am for Deroulede
and would rather admit it at once, and I was for the
General too, but I feel things are hanging fire too long.
Because, as you know as well as I, in the long run these
things are forgotten. Our children will become resigned
to it. Some of them have already said goodbye to our
128
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
lost provinces. And doesn’t that make you sick! Excuse

me not staying longer, sir. I must go and inspect the
tickets. Hope to see you again soon, sir.”
•5f
Clemenceau and the painter Carriere were discussing

the approaching banquet which his admirers were giving
to the aged Edmond de Goncourt. Clemenceau had a
great liking for Carriere, who was painting his portrait,
with his rugged head, half-closed eyes and little nose.
The painter always spoke in a confidential tone and inter¬
larded his sentences with little murmurs of “’tis, sn’tit.”
Alphonse Daudet’s young daughter, Edmee, whom he
was painting standing beside her illustrious father, had
said to him one day: “You paint in white, yellow, blue
and green, and it always makes grey.” This had
enchanted him. It was Carriere who once said of Barres:
“He is a hunchback put straight.”
“And now,” asked Clemenceau, whom posing bored,
“what does Goncourt say?”
“He says that he won’t hear of his banquet being post¬
poned because Coppee is ill, and that the ceremony must
take place whatever happens.”
“That’s right! Coppee might die.”
“He would! Goncourt never had any luck. . . .”
“But, really, what in your opinion are Goncourt’s
politics, Carriere?”
“He is a revolutionary reactionary.”
“That’s damn funny, and interesting too, seeing I’ve
got to make a speech at the banquet. Daudet and Geffroy
have asked me to and I can’t get out of it.”
i 129
CLEMENCEAU
“Yes, of course ... he began, with his brother, with

the Duchesse de Chdteauroux and Marie-Antoinette, and
continued with Germinie Lacerteux. He’s a gentleman,
as Flaubert used to say.”
“Sure thing. But I know nothing, or next to nothing,
about him. Has he gone in for women?”
“Not to any extent. All one knows is that he once
took his brother Jules’s mistress into his house.”
“Daudet hasn’t anything to say about it.”
“He hasn’t, because he doesn’t know anything. Gon-
court can be pretty close. That Burty fellow makes out
that his Japanese prints are enough for him.”
Clemenceau burst out laughing.
“Impossible! These literary johnnies will invent any¬
thing. I have been to Goncourt’s place and I’ve seen his
admirable collections. It’s only too certain that he is
entirely reactionary. . . . His war cry is ‘Down with
progress! ’ And yet, he likes it in art. He loves your
work, Carriere; but he doesn’t seem to admire either
Manet or Monet much. Quite frankly, what do you
think of him as a critic?”
Carriere, who was cleaning his palette, breaking up the
colours with his thumb, was perplexed. He had a great
respect for Clemenceau, “the prince of the originals,”
and for his apologist Geffroy, who had been the first one
to understand his work properly, but he didn’t want to
run Goncourt down, nor did he want to over-praise him,
so he compromised:
“The Goncourts discovered the art of the eighteenth
century and Japanese art. You cannot deny that. I
don’t know enough to judge their historical works. As
130
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
to their literary works, I like them—especially Madame

Gervaisais and Germinie Lacerteux!’
“Thank you; now I have got my outline. There will
be a lot of people at this banquet, I suppose?”
“It will be packed. The Goncourts have some enthusi¬
astic followers, especially among the young people.”
“I know. Alphonse Daudet will speak from his heart,
and that will be fine. As to Poincare, I can’t imagine
what he will find to talk about. It is highly improbable
that he has ever read anything of Goncourt’s.”
Carriere laughed, which wrinkled his fine forehead and
the tanned skin of his rustic face. He sought the soul
in everything—that mysterious “something” so difficult
to seize, which transcends even personality. It was this
he desired to fix on his canvas, fugitive and nebulous—
the soul of a mother suckling her child, of a child nursing
its doll, of an artist, a fighter, the soul which incorporates
several beings and, thus, several destinies. Of the last
kind was Clemenceau’s soul. “One of the whitest I have
ever known,” Carriere once said, “of a whiteness which
hurts the eyes.” This had been repeated to Clemenceau,
who had felt secretly flattered by it.
The banquet was held at the Grand Hotel. There was
a great number of guests indeed, and it was all very
cordial, while the menu left nothing to be desired. When
they were at the champagne, Alphonse Daudet stood up
and, in a voice full of emotion, thanked the one “who
had been very good to him during some very bad times.”
Poincare’s speech was pointless and banal, joining the
useless to the disagreeable, in direct opposition to Horace’s
precept. Clemenceau, in his marvellous voice, spoke of
CLEMENCEAU
the function of the writer, as it appeared to him, through¬

out the ages and in the Goncourts. He had swotted up
his speech, spent a long time thinking over what he
was going to say, and earned general applause. Edmond
de Goncourt made a brief speech of thanks. He was
pale and upset by the flood of memories of his brother
Jules who, alas, having shared the labour, was not there
to partake in the honour. This tardy, but affectionate,
homage crowned their literary life. The knowing ones
affirmed that Clemenceau’s speech was a sign that he
had renounced politics, but Geffroy, who knew him
better, laughed at the prophets and their interpretation.
Mme Octave Mirbeau, thinking it would be a nice idea
to give each guest some little token of the occasion, had
had a basket full of little ribbons placed before the hero of
the evening. In his distraction, however, Goncourt forgot
all about them and took basket and ribbons home with
him, where his servant, Pelagie, put them away in a
cupboard. This banquet was to be the last to unite the
literary and journalistic circles of Paris in a common
admiration and friendship. Soon they were to be split
and divided by an affair in which a Jewish officer was
implicated, a case which involved not only France but
the whole of Europe in a veritable moral war.
Clemenceau’s articles and novel did not have the great
success that one would have expected with an author
of his personality. A political reputation, however great,
is no guarantee of literary success. Each is a thing in
itself. The exception to prove the rule is the remarkable
case of Caesar’s Commentaries, which have travelled as
triumphantly through the centuries as their author across
r32
ALONE WITH HIMSELF
Gaul. But who to-day reads Disraeli’s novels, Disraeli

who gave the Indian Empire to his queen, Victoria?
That is only one example among a hundred.
Clemenceau was disappointed. He had expected a very
different reception from the critics and the public. He
had done his best to make his characters live and not to
burden them with the evolutionary theories which came
into his mind as soon as he picked up his pen. He had
spared himself no pains; had crossed out, started over
again, changed the order of the chapters, and put into
his descriptions of scenery all that he felt himself. But
people had expected something more dynamic and forth¬
right. Besides, his style was heavy, submerged under a
flood of abstract genitives and cascades of epithets.
Neither the literary world nor its fashionable train paid
any attention to such an effort. From a material point
of view, the result was poor.
Later on, Clemenceau wrote a fine play inspired by the
memory of his father’s domestic discomfiture. This was
Le Voile du Bonheur (The Veil of Happiness). He
shifted the scene of his blind man’s misadventure to
China, and made him recover his sight only to experience
disillusion and disappointment. But the public found
this swift, cruel and bitterly ironical drama too discon¬
certing. Le Voile du Bonheur deserved a better fate.
About this time the passion of love laid siege to the
indomitable heart of this politician-turned-author, with
greater force than he had ever before experienced.
J33
CHAPTER VI
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
For the first time in his life Clemenceau was really in

love, and mightily astonished he was to find himself so
hopelessly caught in its toils. The girl was Selma
Everdone, an enchanting young American, whose mother,
herself a beauty in her day, was the widow of a Swedish
officer. Selma was tall and delicately fair, with magnifi¬
cent hair and eyes like spring-water in which languor
and irony were blended. She had a wonderful figure,
and the German painter, Siegfried Helmuth, had done
a life-size portrait of her as “goddess and naiad,” in which
she wore a black velvet cloak thrown back to expose
a part of her shoulders, her round breasts, which were
as firm and pointed as those of the Venus of Cyrene, and
the glossy curve of her stomach, over which a delicate
hand had draped, just in time, a fold of the cloak. But
the graceful yet full line of the legs was left in view,
as was a little foot, firmly poised, with long toes and
nails sparkling like jewels. This disturbing picture hung
in Selma’s room behind a red curtain, which she would
smilingly pull aside for her intimate friends, and let fall
again quickly—too quickly for their liking. She spoke
French and English well, though with the American
accent, to which Clemenceau’s marriage had accustomed
him. Having so far obtained no favours, the author of
T34
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
The Strongest used to say: “I am afraid I am not one

of the strongest.”
Selma was a sculptress and lived with her mother and
her cousin Elsa, who, though in a different style, was as
attractive as herself, in an old house in the Place des
Vosges, where she also had her studio. She was a pupil
of Rodin and was said to have posed in the nude for
that great artist, whose faunesque salacity was well
known. This tormented Clemenceau, who was jealous
of Rodin. One day he teased her about it, but she pre¬
tended not to understand and asked, with the most
innocent of expressions, “What harm is there in
it?”
“None, but why do you grant him what you refuse
me?”
“Because you frighten me.”
“And doesn’t that satyr frighten you?”
“No. It just happens that he doesn’t.”
Clemenceau was over fifty, but he was still exception¬
ally vigorous and enterprising, and quite capable of beat¬
ing a young man on points. All Selma’s movements
were supple and harmonious. She had all the humour
and independence of the American girl, and whenever
Clemenceau became sentimental, made kindly fun of
him. It was the first time that that sort of thing had
happened to him.
“You feel I am too old for you, admit it.”
“On the contrary; I feel you are too young.”
“That’s because I am in love with you.”
“To how many women have you paid that compli¬
ment?”
J35
CLEMENCEAU
“I am not a flatterer. All my friends will tell you

that. Ask Admiral Maxse.”
“Admiral Maxse only says what you allow him to, and
always agrees with you.”
“A true friend is like that. Have you seen the satyr
this week?”
“I had tea in his studio.”
“And what did he get from you?”
“Be quiet, you horrid person.”
“You know why I envy him? . . .”
“It is only natural for me to pose for him—he is my
teacher.”
Clemenceau laughed. “You are adorable, and one
can’t be angry with you. I have a lower box at the
Comedie Franfaise for to-morrow. They are doing some¬
thing of Musset. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly.”
“And supper afterwards?”
“Love to. Where?”
“At Paillard’s on the Grand Boulevards.”
“I have been there with Mother and Elsa. It’s a nice
place.”
All that day Clemenceau thought of nothing but the
evening. He looked at himself in the mirror, at his
moustache and his bald head, and said to himself: “It’s
a bit stupid. . . .” He felt as though he wanted to
assist the clock and, whatever he was doing, there before
his eyes was that beautiful and delicate face, that frank
look, that incomparable figure—Helmuth’s picture.
“It’s enough to make a man turn painter. But it’s a
bit late in the day for me to take up the palette. . . .”
t36
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
Then: If this happened to anyone else, how I would

have pulled his leg.”
He had received an unexpected three thousand francs,
and rushed off to the Rue de la Paix to buy a handsome
ring, which left him with just enough to pay for the
supper. As he sat beside Selma in their box he put the
jewel into her little hand. Selma coloured with pleasure,
took off her glove, and slipped the ring on her dainty
finger.
"This makes me very happy. You are a love.”
“No—a lover.”
After the play they went to Paillard’s where they had
supper in a private room, for Clemenceau had no wish
to be recognized. The removal of Selma’s cloak dis¬
closed one of those decolletee dresses which are the despair
of lyrical poets. So perfectly formed and soft were her
arms that her companion could not refrain from press¬
ing his lips to one. She did not draw it away, but only
said: “Now for the oysters! . . .” and they started on
them in a silence which, had it continued, would have
become dangerous.
Selma had a deep friendship for Clemenceau, whom
she found courageous and witty and different from other
men. But she was secretly in love with a young Bavarian
officer and felt incapable of deceiving him. She discussed
the position with her cousin.
“He has given me a magnificent ring. How could I
refuse it? It would only have hurt him. After the
theatre he took me to supper, and so back home—all
very proper. It makes me seem a coquette, and I’m not.
I know that he is coming to Carlsbad with Admiral Maxse
T37
CLEMENCEAU
while I am there for my cure. But Herbert will be near

there. What a complicated situation!”
Elsa laughed. Courted by all for her charm, her beauty
and her graciousness, she belonged to none and went
through life like a brightly coloured butterfly which takes
good care not to go too close to the flames. She tenderly
loved her cousin whose confidences interested her.
“Perhaps you will marry this attractive Frenchman.
People say that he will one day be at the head of the
government.”
“No; I love Herbert, and would rather sell cheese with
him in Munich, than be a queen with Clemenceau in
Paris.”
“So he will have to suffer, this poor Djorge, as the
Admiral calls him.”
“You shall console him.”
“Oh, no; he has hardly any hair left, and I want
to be able to pull my lover’s hair—when I have
55
one. . . .
Then Siegfried Helmuth, who also had a weakness
for his former model, stopped a few days in Paris on
his way from London to Munich and put up at the
Hotel du Rhin. He was a bearded original, hairy and
going grey, and always wore puffed trousers like an art
student of the 1840’s. Selma ran to him at once and
was given an enthusiastic welcome. Helmuth asked her
to take him to see Rodin, for whom he professed a deep
admiration, and, as luck would have it, Clemenceau had
also chosen that day and time to go and see Rodin’s
famous drawings.
When Selma saw her bashful lover looking at these
138
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
sensual pictures of naked women in every conceivable

position, she could not help laughing.
“Well, well, doctor, have you come here to get your
head turned?”
Rodin was putting away his curious pictures. Ever
since one society lady had asked him whether she “might
not keep one,” he had done this with great care, so as
to show that he attached importance to them. In fact,
this collection was the apple of his eye. No doubt it
held many sweet memories for him.
“Just look at this, M. Helmuth,” said Clemenceau. “It
is worth looking at. No one has ever depicted woman
like this before.”
“Ja, ja, gewiss. It is purely the animal side. . . .”
“It is precisely that which is beautiful. There is not a
crumb of spirituality.”
“You are hard . . .” Selma objected.
“I am truthful. Love is largely, if not principally,
animal. That is what makes its sufferings so acute. If the
spirit only were involved there would be no sufferings.”
Rodin’s eyes were laughing behind his glasses, but he
said nothing. He did not admire Helmuth’s talent, but
the man, with his nonconformist demeanour, interested
him. He also watched Selma, who was very much at
her best that day, looking at her as the wolf looked at
Little Red Riding Hood. Clemenceau got up and said:
“Let us see your studio pieces, Rodin. They are well
worth looking at.”
A little stone peasant girl with a self-willed face
attracted the attention of the Bavarian painter and drew
from him a “Wunderschon. . . . That is beautiful.”
I39
CLEMENCEAU
“One of my pupils.”
Clemenceau knew the story. The young owner of this
charming rustic face had been the sculptor’s mistress,
and, so it was said, had had two children by him. He
had seduced her and then dropped her in rather a black¬
guardly way. She, too, was very talented, and he had
ruined her life. Did Selma know this ? Helmuth looked
at it, nodding his head. He had as thick a beard as
Rodin, but cut in a different fashion.
They arrived in front of a wonderful woman’s torso
which the artist from Munich immediately recognized
as that of his dear model, Selma. Selma remained
unmoved, but jealousy gnawed at Clemenceau’s heart,
for, with a lover’s intuition, he suspected something.
Rodin, more like a faun than ever, placidly continued
swathing and unswathing his plaster children with the
care of an attentive nurse.
“I have seen your friend Monet,” he said.
“He is still working at his ricks in the sunshine?”
“Still at them. But he thinks of his cathedrals. Do
you know his latest pictures, M. Helmuth?”
“Yes, but I don’t like impressionists.”
This declaration cast a chill. Rodin contented himself
with replying: “Yet it is the best thing the nineteenth
century has produced.”
“Certainly . . .” added Clemenceau.
“Everyone to his taste,” said the Bavarian, unceremoni¬
ously taking Selma’s arm. “And you, my pretty one,
what is your opinion?”
“Oh, I am mad about Manet, Monet, Renoir and
Sisley.”
140
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
“Because it is the fashion?”

“Because it is my taste, master.”
“You have developed that in Paris.”
An atmosphere of embarrassment developed, as it will
when a young girl is with several men, each of whom
she attracts in a different way. However, Rodin called
in his assistant and ordered tea and port. He was anxious
to do the honours of his studio, even though he thought
Helmuth commonplace and a fool. The entrance of a
large purring cat created an opportune diversion. Rodin
took off his smock, sat down on a stool and began to
fondle the cat.
When they left the studio, Clemenceau, who did not
want to leave Selma, began explaining to the German:
“That young peasant girl in the headdress was Rodin’s
mistress and he treated her like a cad. He is a great
artist, but not much good as a man.”
Selma interrupted: “That’s horrible of you, doctor. I
know Rodin well. He is my master. He has some very
noble qualities.”
“But he keeps them behind him, mademoiselle, where
they can’t be seen.”
“There’s too much contortion,” said Helmuth, “and
he breaks the heads and arms.”
“That’s because he has a bad packer,” said Clemenceau
and began to laugh.
“Remember, master,” said Selma to Helmuth, “it was
you who asked me to take you to Rodin’s studio.”
“Yes. In our part of the world he is talked about a
lot, and has even been suggested for a bust of the Kaiser.”
“He has a queer mug, that Kaiser of yours,” observed
I4I
CLEMENCEAU
Clemenceau, “and I don’t particularly like it. He has a

crafty and not very intelligent look.”
Helmuth drew himself up. “He has great ideas, and
he is my sovereign.”
“That’s true—I was forgetting. Forgive me.”
When he was with his beloved Selma again, the
“doctor” confided to her. “He is not exactly brilliant,
your Helmuth. What do they think of him at the Hotel
du Rhin?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that he came to see
us and that he wants to touch up my portrait.”
“The devil! Where does it want touching up?”
“He thinks that my left knee is too far forward.”
“And that it has caught cold?”
“No, you naughty man, but he wants perfection.”
“There is no perfection in the world, unless in you.
And so?”
“And so he wants me to sit for him.”
“He is a humbug! He just wants to feast his eyes
on you again, which, mind you, I can quite understand.
What sort of wife has this braggart got?”
“She is very little and very ugly, with a lot of hair.”
“I thought as much! He revels in hair, this
Bavarian.”
The visit to Rodin, the headless torso, Helmuth’s
touching-up of Selma’s portrait—all these things had
brought Clemenceau’s jealousy to boiling point. He went
every day to the Place des Vosges. If Selma were out,
he would wait and look at a copy of VIllustration, or
gossip with the chambermaid, a wide-awake Parisian who
loved and admired her mistress. “You ought to see her
142
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
when she comes out of her bath, sir. I have served

some ladies in my time, but I have never known her
equal.”
“I can well believe you. And is she as kind as she
is fair?”
“There is no one kinder. If I have a cold she brings
me throat lozenges. If I am bored, she lends me books.
But, really, she is exacdy like that portrait of her, you
know—the one behind the red curtain.”
“Has M. Helmuth gone away again?”
“Yes, he has gone home. He certainly is in love with
Miss Selma, isn’t he? . . . He goes down on his knees
to her on the slightest pretext, and when he looks at her
his eyes grow big. And then I’ve heard him through
the door.”
“What did you hear?”
“It was about the new sitting, because of the knee. . . .”
“Well, what did he say?”
“Open out your cloak. Discard it completely. I want
to see you altogether”; and she laughed as she imitated
the Bavarian’s accent.
This disclosure inflamed Clemenceau all the more.
Nevertheless, in spite of all his keenness and assiduity, the
weeks stretched into months without his making the least
progress in his violent courtship. Sometimes he took a
volume of verse—Hugo, Baudelaire, or Villon, and read
to his beloved in his fascinating voice, while his eyes
flamed and she listened from her couch with a lazy look
in her beautiful eyes. Or perhaps it would be an act
from Shakespeare—Antony and Cleopatra or As You Like
—with which he regaled her, pronouncing the English
T43
CLEMENCEAU
with an intonation that was uniquely his. Sometimes

Mrs. Everdone kept him to dinner and he would spend
the evening chatting with the three women, or else he
might take them to the theatre, or, in the afternoon, to
see some good pictures.
In the meanwhile politics had almost ceased to interest
him. It all seemed so very far away and, when he met
one of his former colleagues, he submitted without
pleasure to the information he was given and the remarks
with which it was served up. “When is this chap going
to stop boring me?” he would say to himself. He forsook
even his intimate friends, Paul Menard and Perin. The
calumnies about him had been forgotten, but every now
and again he asked Admiral Maxse, who was also a
frequent visitor at the Place des Vosges: “Is the Foreign
Office still paying me as much as ever?”
“As much as ever,” the Admiral would reply,
laughing.
Every fortnight the Everdones gave a reception to which
they invited a motley throng of society people, famous
actresses, lawyers, financiers and young diplomats, who
paid court to the mistress of the house and to Selma and
Elsa. Clemenceau was a great attraction at these gather¬
ings, with his animation, his jokes and stories which
were always new, for he had seen so much and met so
many people.
“Tell us a good story, M. Clemenceau,” implored Sarah
Bernhardt measuring out her syllables. “We are listen¬
ing. We are all ears.”
“At your service, Madame. But what kind of story
shall it be? Sad, gay, moral, immoral?”
144
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
“Immoral, dear sir, im-mor-al.”

Soon he was surrounded by the whole laughing com¬
pany. Then Paul Marieton appeared, stammeringly
enquiring whether the “P-p-prince of V-v-va-lori were
there.”
Sarah Bernhardt chimed in: “Write a nice play for
me. Yes, yes, a nice play, M. Clemenceau.”
“Madame, I am writing one now.”
“What is its title? Oh, I am eager to know. . . .”
“The Veil of Happiness, Madame, at your ser¬
vice. . . .”
“Oh, the veil of happiness! What a fine title—how
beautiful it must be!
Clemenceau was not deceived by the actress’s ecstasies,
for she was always changing her mind, and often said
about him: “I detest him—yes, I de-test him ! ” He turned
his back on her and caught sight of the two girls hand¬
ing round some biscuits. Selma was dressed all in white,
with stripes of gold embroidery on the bodice and the
sleeves. His desire for her took on a sudden painful
keenness and, breaking away from the others, he swept
her off into the next room, the plate of biscuits shaking
in her hand.
“Selma, I love you. . . .”
“Oh, heavens, what can I do about it, my friend?”
“You know very well.”
“But do you know whether I love you? . . .”
“You will soon. Once say ‘yes’ and you will never
want to let me go. . . .”
“How do you know that I don’t love someone else?”
“Helmuth?”
K T45
CLEMENCEAU
“Certainly not. He is too old. . . .” She broke into

a laugh which showed her marvellous white teeth.
“Rodin?”
“How could you imagine such a thing. He has genius,
but he is so ugly. . . . Let us go back and join the others
. . . people are looking at us. You are compromising
me.
He could willingly have beaten her. But she slipped
away like an eel and the next moment was again listen¬
ing to Marieton’s jokes, to Sarah Bernhardt’s explosions
and the stale stories of Prince de Valori.
That year, as in previous ones, Clemenceau was to go
with his friend Admiral Maxse to Carlsbad, where he
was to meet the Danish critic, George Brandes, author
of an overrated work on the “great literary currents.”
Brandes knew German literature well, and French litera¬
ture extremely badly. He was comically pretentious and
very much of a snob, speaking only of Counts, Dukes
and Marquises, whose intimate friend he made himself
out to be. Physically, he resembled a sort of hairy and
shaggy Beelzebub, and he stumbled his way through
French with an incredible accent.
Selma had given in to the pleading of her old friend,
who was still not her lover, and agreed to join him at
Carlsbad. She refused, however, to stay in the same
hotel. She came alone, without her cousin, and her
dazzling beauty immediately attracted a swarm of
admirers of various nationalities, who all wanted to
accompany her to the springs. Clemenceau, who wanted
to be alone with her and the Admiral, employed all his
ingenuity to throw these admirers off. Generally the
146
A LOVELY FOREIGNER
two dined together, but always in the company of their

chaperon, in a nice little inn nearby, where there was
genuine Pilsen beer to be had. There they passed golden
hours, full of talk and laughter, at the end of which
Clemenceau and Maxse would accompany Selma back
to her hotel. The quick “Good night” on the doorstep
was always a bitter disappointment to the author of The
Veil of Happiness, for whom happiness continued to be
veiled. But he never showed his feelings and started all
over again the next day.
One evening they invited Brandes to dinner. He was
tiresome, peremptory and behaved like an old fool. He
contradicted everyone, in order to shine in Selma’s eyes;
but her thoughts were far away with Herbert. He was
only interesting on the subject of Frederick Nietzsche,
whom he knew well and who, now that he had gone
out of his mind, was signing his last letters, “The Cruci¬
fied"—der Ge\reuztigte. But Clemenceau could not
swallow Zarathustra, which he called “a pyramid of
metaphors.” Brandes’ anti-catholicism, idiotic as it was,
amused him, but his Germanomania irritated him.
With a great deal of spadework and a lot of strategy,
in which the good admiral assisted, Clemenceau at last
succeeded in being alone with Selma at the “Crowned
Hare,” an inn a few miles or so from Carlsbad. He
was insistent and coaxing, and took the young girl in
his arms. She made no demur. He kissed her neck with
the ardour of a young man and she submitted to it, but
with an expression of such melancholy and sadness in
her eyes, that he stopped and let her go. The feeling
that she might be in love with someone else pierced him
x47
CLEMENCEAU
like a blade of fire. He felt that he was ridiculous—an

old man persisting in his courtship of a wonderful woman,
who did not want to rebuff him and could not yield to
him. He would remain a friend and resign himself to
not being a lover.
This violent, almost passionate love was the emotional
manifestation of a second youth, of a recrudescence of
his mental and physical vitality. Selma had appeared
just at the right moment to reveal to him what was
happening inside himself, a phenomenon of which he
had not till then had the slightest suspicion. But what
to do with this surge of power? To what ends should
he use this renewal of ardour and combativeness, which
Selma did not want? For a love novel? Or another
intimate drama to continue The Veil of Happiness, or
for that dream of his life, the trip to India, which would
open up new worlds for him? Should he use it on a
philosophical work which, backed up by a host of
examples drawn from every biological science, would
show the emptiness of beliefs and the illusion of their
zealots ?
Or should he return to politics, in a newspaper, the
Chamber or the Senate? Or should he devote himself
to some great cause—but which?
Then came the Dreyfus affair.
148
CHAPTER VII
THE STRUGGLE FOR JUSTICE
It was the evening before Zola’s article on the Dreyfus

affair was to burst upon the public like a bombshell, and
Clemenceau was in the office of I’Aurore, of which he
was chief editor, with its managing director Vaughan
who had come to it from I’Intransigeant.
Zola had already in the autumn of 1897 published a
series of three articles in Le Figaro proclaiming the
innocence of this captain, who had been drummed out of
the army for treason, condemned to transportation and
sent to Devil’s Island. But the conservative and timorous
readers of Le Figaro were not the kind to risk taking up
the cudgels in so burning a matter. Clemenceau did not
command a vast enough public, and that was why he
had handed the pen over to Zola. It was January of 1898,
and the weather was bitterly cold. Some of Zola’s friends
had come to hear him read his article, and besides him
and Clemenceau, there were Scheurer-Kestner, Arthur
Ranc, Bernard Lazare, Octave Mirbeau, Gustave Geffroy
and Albert Clemenceau. The atmosphere was that of
headquarters before a battle, for each one present felt
that this was an important occasion, which would not be
without its consequences. The Jewish world, so Bernard
Lazare assured them—and he was an expert on the subject
—was in an uproar and resolved to place all its social,
T49
CLEMENCEAU
economic and financial resources at the services of so

sacred a cause.
This Lazare was a robust fellow with a round head,
a bearded face and alert eyes, and a passionate champion
of his race, whose faults he recognized. Clemenceau had
at first believed in Dreyfus’s guilt and demanded the
death penalty for him, which had earned him the bitter
reproaches of Lazare. Scheurer-Kestner and Ranc had
joined their pleas to those of Lazare, whose early
pamphlets on the subject Clemenceau had read and he
was now convinced that Dreyfus had been condemned
on evidence which had been kept secret. And that was
illegal. This was the first step towards his recognizing
the innocence of Dreyfus, in which Zola showed such
confidence in proclaiming the infamy of the staff officers
mixed up in the case, particularly that of Lieutenant-
Colonel Paty de Clam, the condemned man’s so-called
torturer.
Zola’s vehement article was addressed to Felix Faure,
the President. It was neither too short, nor too long,
nor over-loaded with names—and it was eloquent. Ranc
pronounced it perfect, and Scheurer-Kestner, whom it
deeply moved, said it was “admirable.” Seeing that
serving officers were concerned, a trial before the Court
of Assizes seemed as inevitable as the condemnation which
would follow it. But if there were a trial, which would
be bound to create a considerable stir, it would bring
unknown facts to light, important evidence would be
produced, and the real traitor, Esterhazy, whom Scheurer-
Kestner asserted was the author of the famous incriminat¬
ing schedule, would be unmasked. Zola, who knew
150
what he was taking on, had himself well in hand and

showed an admirable calm. He rather liked the idea
of appearing before the public as another Voltaire with
another Calas case. He turned from one to another,
repeating: “It’s a quethtion of Juthtice, ithn’t it, my
friend, ithn’t it?” For he lisped, and more so than ever
when he was agitated. He was burning his boats and,
not greatly gifted with critical acumen, was asserting
something of which he personally had no proof whatever
beyond Scheurer-Kestner’s word, Ranc’s conviction—
Ranc had a judicious mind, but he could be wrong—
and the certainty of that champion of his race, Bernard
Lazare. He boldly went further than Clemenceau and
said “injustice,” while Clemenceau confined himself for
the time being to “illegality.”*
Eugen Carriere, who had done the poster for I’Aurore
—a woman, with upraised head, watching the rising sun
—arrived late, but the article was given him to read and
had his full approval.
“How many copies are you going to print?” Zola asked
Vaughan, who was thoughtfully caressing his nutcracker
chin.
“Three hundred thousand!” without hesitation.
“Phew! Do you think you can dispose of them?”
“I’m sure of it. When I was with Rochefort I was
never more than ten thousand out.”
“You’ll give them to paper boys?”
“Of course.”
Zola was always very interested in “editions.”
Clemenceau saw in Zola’s attack a sort of revenge
for the atrocious calumny of which he had recently been
J51
CLEMENCEAU
the victim, and this drove into the background the ques¬
tion of the Revenge, for which the services of the military
staff now being vilified by Zola were indispensable.
He found his moral support in Scheurer-Kestner, whom
he knew for an ardent patriot. “He would never have
anything to do with such a business were he not absolutely
convinced of the man’s innocence.” And was it not
necessary to sort out the scabby sheep from the goats of
a High Command on which the burden of responsibility
would rest in the event of war?
“Who is this General Mercier?” asked Ranc . . . “a
reactionary, no doubt.”
“Hanotaux, who got a close look at him at the time
of the arrest, says he is cold and enigmatic, but that
he knows how to put his case and is convinced of
Dreyfus’s guilt.”
So spoke Bernard Lazare, rubbing his hands the while,
for now the thing was as good as settled and it had only
taken him a few months to get so far. But what tenacity
he had had to have! At this point Mirbeau, who had
so far managed to control himself, boiled over:
“This Mercier is certainly a nationalist, and therefore
an assassin. All nationalists are assassins. That’s well
known.”
Clemenceau smiled indulgently. He liked Mirbeau’s
ways and his pugnacity. He used to come to the offices
of I’Aurore every day and the place would ring with his
curses. Then, turning abruptly towards Zola, he said
with extraordinary frankness: “My dear Zola, I must
confess that I have never greatly admired your work.
But, after what you have just done at your risk and
152
your own responsibility, I am your man, you understand;

whatever happens I will follow you to the end.” And
he embraced him impetuously, while Zola made a shy
little movement with his hands.
“It is some outside force that has set me going, my
friend,” he said.
“Excuse me,” said Vaughan, “may I ask the title of
your article.”
They all racked their brains and suggested titles, for
the author had no idea what to call it. Clemenceau
suddenly said: “I accuse”—a phrase which occurred in
the text. This suggestion was unanimously adopted.
Such a phrase might well become historic, as indeed it
has. The paper sellers shouting at the tops of their voices
made all Paris ring with the sound of it. People stopped
in the icy streets to read the manifesto, which took up
several columns and, it appears, extremely annoyed Felix
Faure to whom it was addressed. “This compromises
me,” he said, but being very much in love with pretty
Mme S-, whom he received at the Elysee, the great
booby paid no more attention to it.
Through his political connexions the chief editor of
I’Aurore soon learned that after two long sessions the
cabinet had decided to proceed against the author. The
excitement in Paris and in the press, and the fact that
the article had been widely reproduced in the foreign
papers, made it impossible for them to ignore it. Zola
was the hero of the hour. His photograph was every¬
where. “What do you think of it, my friend, what do
you think of it? Unbelievable, isn’t it?” People turned
round when they met him in the street, recognizing him
153
CLEMENCEAU
from his top hat and heavy winter overcoat. Many

accused him of selling himself to the Jews, which was
just as ridiculous as saying that Clemenceau had sold
himself to the English; but, since the publication of
L’Assommoir and Nana, Zola was well accustomed to
abuse, and these fairy stories scarcely troubled him at all.
All the same, not being much of a speaker, he dreaded
going into the witness box and was glad to have as his
counsel the trumpeting, likeable Labori and the coldly
precise Albert Clemenceau, “the kid,” as his brother
called him.
Both Zola and Clemenceau were besieged by people
who had advice or false information to give. Zola fumed
impotently, but Clemenceau, being used to that kind of
thing, quickly sent them about their business.
“The judge is against you ... he has a brother who
is a Jesuit. . . .”
“It will be a faked jury. Beware!”
“Esterhazy is desperate. He is quite capable of shoot¬
ing you.”
Though Clemenceau was merely a witness, his evidence
was awaited with curiosity. When the judge spoke to
him of “This case that has been judged,” he pointed to
the crucified Christ hanging behind him, with a “There
is a case that was judged,” which sent a shudder through
the court.
Zola’s departure after the day’s proceedings was the
occasion for disorderly scenes in which exasperated
patriots shouted “Down with Zola! Kill him!” and
there were dangerous little rushes which the police had
difficulty in stopping. Clemenceau, who was accustomed
*54
to hostile crowds, led the way, followed by Zola in the

midst of a little group made up of Mirbeau, Fasquelle,
the etcher Desmoulin, and a few others. The author
of all the fuss braved the popular anger with a shrug of
his shoulders, for, as he thought little if anything of
the army and its chiefs and the word “country” meant
nothing to him, he did not understand it in the least.
He had, indeed, been greatly astonished by the hostile
reception given to La Debacle. Strangest of all was
Clemenceau’s position. Here was he, an out-and-out
Revengist whose obsession was national defence, throw¬
ing in his lot because of this affair with those who were
hostile, or at any rate indifferent to the very ideas which
were dearest to his heart. This contradiction had taken
such a hold of him that it led him to call the generals
“be-plumed octopuses” and grossly insult one or two of
them, thus forswearing, for the sake of a Jew who later
proved to be quite uninteresting, the strongest of his
convictions. The collection of the violent articles he wrote
in l’Aurore made up a set of seven volumes, the very titles
of which have been forgotten these many years.
The most exciting hearing was the one during which
Albert Clemenceau, counsel for I’Aurore, cross-examined
the incontestable scoundrel that Esterhazy was. Esterhazy,
looking like a vulture, would say nothing and this alone
ought to have opened the eyes of those who tried to make
out that he was a martyr of the Jews. A remarkable
thing, and one that Bainvaille has commented on, is that
Esterhazy did not appear at the Rennes trial, and was
not confronted with Dreyfus, although every circumstance
of the case called for it; nor did Maitre Demange,
*55
CLEMENCEAU
Dreyfus’s counsel, demand that he should be. Esterhazy

seems to have been feared by both sides of the bar.
It is probable that Clemenceau’s conviction was
strengthened, if not consolidated, by that of a man for
whom he had a real affection, Lieutenant-Colonel
Picquart, whom he was later to make Minister for War.
Picquart had as his adviser a somewhat obscure and shady
business man of the name of Leblois, who was destined
later to direct an infamous accusation—“yet another”—
against Clemenceau. All the same, this “express letter”
episode created an atmosphere of dark suspicion around
Picquart himself. However, the chief editor of VAurore,
having once made up his mind, was not the man to
let himself be stopped by any consideration whatever.
It was part of his nature that he was quite incapable of
turning back, even if he found he had taken the wrong
road. He had no taste, as he himself said, for any resolu¬
tions but “those that are never broken.”
Thus it would seem that it never occurred to Clemen¬
ceau that Dreyfus might have acted as agent for both
sides—which he probably did. Anyway, he did not dwell
on it. But when after the pardon he met this man for
whom he had fought, he thought him “a nasty piece of
work.” And when Dreyfus came to see him at the
Aurore offices he told them to say that he was out. It
was exactly the same with Picquart. Had the two of
them discovered something?
The Dreyfus affair brought together people who up till
then had been kept apart by their opinions, their con¬
victions, their past, their race. It divided others who
up till then had been closely united. It created between
156
the Frenchmen of the towns a gulf which only the war

was to fill up. The peasants, on the other hand, paid no
attention to it, and that no doubt is why this strange
quarrel did not degenerate into civil war, as in the time
of the Religious Wars.
For the sake of the Affair, Clemenceau and Jaures,
who were opponents in everything else, made peace—a
patched-up sort of peace, as one can see from this extract
from the Collected Wor\s of Jean Jaures (vol. vii, p. 64):
“On nth February, 1909, while Clemenceau was Prime
Minister, Jaures said in the Chamber:
“ ‘There is an English journal—the Fortnightly Review
—which the Prime Minister knows well and on which
he has plenty of friends, or, at any rate, admirers. The
other day this review, examining in an important article
the respective chances of France and Germany in the event
of a conflict, said: “Germany has 60 million inhabitants,
France only 40 million, . . . but she has M. Clemenceau !”
“ ‘And the article went on: “In a possible conflict he
will be one of the greatest war ministers that history has
ever known.” (Laughter.) I draw the attention of the
honourable gentleman on his right, the Minister for War,
to this formidable competition.’ (More laughter.)”
On that day the Chamber laughed. To-day it is History
that laughs . . . after four years of tears.
One morning during the hearing of Zola’s case there
was a violent attack on Clemenceau in La Libre Parole
and, as he was leaving the court, someone said to him:
“So, M. Clemenceau, you no longer fight?”
“Sir,” retorted Clemenceau, “to-day is for discussion.
To-morrow there will be fighting.”
*57
CLEMENCEAU
The subsequent duel with Drumont, the editor of La

Libre Parole, was, like that with Deroulede, indecisive.
Drumont had always detested Clemenceau for his
anti-clericalism, and Clemenceau loathed him for his
clericalism. After the appearance of Drumont’s Fin d’un
Monde, where Clemenceau came in for a page of invec¬
tive, Gustave Geffroy happened to find himself sitting
opposite Drumont at table, when he was staying at
Alphonse Daudet’s place in Champrozay.
“Good-day, Geffroy,” said Drumont, and then, as his
vis-a-vis remained silent, he repeated: “Geffroy, I am say¬
ing good-day to you.”
“And I,” retorted Geffroy, “will not bid you good-day
after what you have said about Clemenceau.”
As they were leaving the table Drumont said to some¬
one, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses: “That was
really fine of Geffroy.” For he loved courage, even in
his adversaries.
As well as Scheurer-Kestner, Ranc and Picquart,
Mathieu Dreyfus, the condemned man’s brother, had
made a strong impression on Clemenceau. Having him¬
self a very strong family spirit and having remained
unswervingly faithful to the ideas inculcated in him by
his father, the polemist of I’Aurort was touched to see
this brother throw himself into the water—and muddy
water at that—to save the honour of his tribe. The Jews
are accused of thinking of nothing but money, of putting
pecuniary considerations before everything, but it was
not so with Mathieu Dreyfus, who, as a matter of course,
sacrificed his peace, his business and his fortune in order
to rescue his young brother from Devil’s Island. That
158
was what moved Clemenceau; it was this that released

his astonishing activity. For three years this activity was
entirely and at all times at the service of his conviction
that an injustice had been done and must be repaired.
Who helps in the task is a good man; who hinders it
is either an imbecile, or voluntarily blind, that is, a
skunk. ’ Such an argument was summary and unsound,
for Dreyfus’s innocence was by no means obvious, far
less proven; but it was one from which Clemenceau
would not depart. As his mental and emotional reaction
was what Herbert Spencer calls “synthetic,” he regarded
the condemnation of Dreyfus as the work of the Jesuits
and particularly that of Drumont’s friend Father Dulac;
saw it as an offence against the “Rights of Man” and
against the principles of the Great Revolution.
When he had said to his father that time when he was
arrested, “I will avenge you,” his father had replied:
“If you want to avenge me, work.” The bitter campaign
he fought for Dreyfus and against the “Jesuit set in the
General Staff,” was part of this work. He thought of
it when he woke up at about 4 o’clock in the morning,
when he sat down to his work, when he took his hasty
meals, and when discussing schemes with his fellow-
conspirators. For the whole thing was a veritable con¬
spiracy and it was just that which had attracted Ranc
from the beginning, he being a specialist in this field.
There is, in fact, something very attractive about such
an unselfish alliance for an ideal in whose cause one
may be called upon to make great sacrifices. The first
republicans had known these secret joys under the Empire
and handed them on to their successors of whom Georges
x59
CLEMENCEAU
Clemenceau was one of the truest, for his heart still beat
in Jacobin rhythm.
The discovery of the “Colonel Henry” forgery in
August, 1898, by Picquart’s opponent, Major Cuignet,
made Clemenceau as happy as on the day when Millevoye
read the Norton papers in the Chamber. His exultation
lasted for several hours, until Maurras’s energetic and
successful defence of the wretched colonel in La Gazette
de France turned it into admiring anger. He declared:
“The best thing is to refrain from arguing with Maurras,”
which, for once, was contrary to his principles. Clemen-
ceau’s irritation reached its height when Dreyfus was
pardoned after his second conviction at Rennes. He
would have liked to have had the thing tested by a
third court-martial, but Waldeck-Rousseau thought that
dangerous. The pardon, indeed, left the problem open
and unsolved before the public, a situation which the
false and prejudiced decision of the Supreme Court of
Appeal did nothing to relieve.
In December, 1899, Clemenceau left VAurore in a fit
of bad temper, and a few months later founded a weekly
paper, Le Bloc, in which he dealt rather heavily with
the political and literary questions of the day. The
polemical article had become a necessity to him. In this
paper he went into the Morocco question, which was
then beginning to become acute. However, Le Bloc did
not take on with the public, and in March, 1902, it
ceased publication.
A candidature for the Senate having been offered him
in the Var, Clemenceau accepted it and was elected on
6th April, 1902. After an interval of nine years he
160
returned to parliamentary politics on 30th October, 1902,

with a speech on the closing of religious schools, in which
he defended the liberty of educational instruction. In
1903 he went back to I’Aurore and resumed his daily
articles.
Finally, on 13th March, 1906, at the age of sixty-six, he
obtained office for the first time as Home Minister in
Sarrien’s cabinet, where his colleagues were Bourgeois,
Poincare, Briand, Etienne, Thomson, Barthou and
Doumergue.
L l6l
CHAPTER VIII
IN POWER
After his excursion into the world of literature, the

demon of politics had once again seized hold of Clemen-
ceau, involving him in all the meannesses and failings
of parliamentary life and in actions inconsistent with the
idea of the Revenge, which had remained alive in him
in spite of all that had happened and the anti-clerical
and anti-militarist feelings which the Dreyfus affair had
aroused in his violent nature. This resulted in an
incoherence of action of which he, a prey to the impulse
of the moment, was not aware. He, the patriot, chose
Colonel Picquart as War Minister for the sole reason
that Picquart had taken Dreyfus’s side; he dreaded, with
good reason, the militant spirit of Germany, yet accepted
the reductions in the army’s budget imposed on him by
party competition, this being a field in which the radicals
were afraid of being outdistanced by the socialists.
Delcasse’s liaison with a beautiful actress who had once
been his mistress turned him against Delcasse, who, like
himself, was in favour of an alliance with England.
Finally, his anti-clericalism which had lain dormant for a
while suddenly flared up again, and for no earthly reason.
Thus he was divided against himself just at the time
when he really needed that inner unity without which
nothing great can be accomplished on this earth. Before
162
IN POWER
one can command others one must first have command

of oneself.
He had been greatly struck by Alphonse Daudet’s pre¬
cept that a leader must always be visible to his men, and
finding himself on assuming office faced with a social
problem (the Lens strikes), he resolved to put it into
practice. He went and lectured the strikers on the spot,
and talked to them as though they were the readers of
La Justice or VAurore, discoursing on his beloved Rights
of Man and progress and human evolution, which the
good fellows did not in the least understand. The
directors and shareholders of the mining companies told
each other that he was half a socialist; the miners thought
he was on the side of the employers, and Clemenceau
was furious at being thus doubly misunderstood. He
strictly forbade the soldiers to make use of their arms, yet
without depriving himself, as a good Jacobin, of the right
to call them in—with the result that an officer of the
dragoons was killed and several soldiers wounded by the
bricks that were thrown at them.
This was a bad beginning and one which made his
old adversaries say to each other, “Ha, the old chap’s
not so shrewd after all!”
These remarks which were faithfully reported to him
made him beside himself with rage; for he aimed,
mutatis mutandis, at succeeding where Gambetta had
failed and forming the “Great Ministry.” His sober and
ready eloquence had to contend with that of Jaures’,
which was a thing of brilliant bubbles and many meta¬
phors, and in the cafes of Var and Gaillacois the one style
was compared with the other.
163
CLEMENCEAU
Then Clemenceau, who was also keen to get the support

of his country bumpkins in the Vendee, resolved to go
and show himself to them in all his glory as Home Secre¬
tary. He arrived heralded by a fanfare from Le Matin
and harangued an imaginary personage whom he called
the “last Chouan” at the banquet given to 3000 people at
Roche-sur-Yon. Le Matin published a pompous account
of the ceremony, Clemenceau’s speech and the deferen¬
tial attitude of the great-grandsons of the “war of die
giants.” The substance of Clemenceau’s speech was that
the battle had been a fine one, but that the Revolution
had triumphed everywhere—that it was going to pacify
the universe through democracy; that God did not exist,
since he was nowhere to be seen; and that the true deity
was science. Words and definitions shot out like bullets.
That good fellow, the “last Chouan,” appears to have
been struck dumb with surprise and instantly convinced.
All the same, twenty years later—and what is that com¬
pared with the centuries that have rolled by?—seventy
thousand Chouans wearing on their breasts the sign of
the Sacred Heart assembled in answer to the summons of
L’Action Frangaise at the Mont des Alouettes in the very
heart of this same Vendee, and only a step from Clemen¬
ceau’s village of Les Herbiers. To them, the entire male
population of the district, the writer of this book explained
that the Revolution was a foul thing—a base indeed, but
a base of mud and blood—and that their fathers had been
a hundred times right to defend the throne and the altar
against the abominable scoundrels of Paris and Nantes.
It would seem that the “last Chouan” had had some
children.
164
IN POWER
Clemenceau made further speeches in the Var, where

there were now no shouts of “Aoh yes!” to greet him.
He spoke at Draguignan and at Cogolin, explaining to
his audience the significance of the law of Separation,*
the masterpiece of that friend of the people, Aristide
Briand, and his crony and good Frenchman, Griinbaum
Ballin, who came from Frankfurt. However, he forgot
to mention that friend Aristide was also fond of young
women and that he had cheated a little tobacconist of
Saint-Nazaire of her savings with a promise of marriage.
Having gone through the 75,000 francs, he had dashed
off to Jersey where he went through a form of marriage
with the poor little thing, and had then abandoned her
and her baby.
Clemenceau was made Prime Minister when Sarrien
retired, and promptly pushed his factotum Pichon into
the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and Joseph Caillaux,
who was to introduce the great bill instituting income
tax, into the Exchequer. Like a good cook, he wanted
to have all his dishes in the oven at the same time, but
his natural optimism had prevented him from taking
close stock of those whom he chose to work with him
and from making sure of their ability. He gave his
trust at random, until some authentic information or
irrefutable evidence came along to make him change his
opinion. Then he would fly into a rage and chase the
defaulter out like an importunate fly.
He conferred on Viviani, a grandiloquent imbecile
who was always reaching for the moon, a new creation
—the Ministry for “Work and Social Providence.” This
*Separating the church from the state.
165
CLEMENCEAU
was not a happy choice. Viviani was a fine speaker but

virtually a lunatic, who on the declaration of war in
1914 broke down so badly that Philippe Berthelot had
to make up a bed for him in the Chamber itself.
The Nuncio in Paris at that time was a certain
Monsignor Montagnini, who, with a view to the elections,
“good elections”—that everlasting mirage—had joined
forces with M. Piou, the president of the parliamentary
group of the Action Liber ale.
Piou himself had close connexions with Etienne Lamy,
the editor of the catholic review, Le Correspondant, which
was a rival paper to La Revue des Deux Mondes. He was
a charming man, but politically an imbecile. Reports
from the police satisfied Clemenceau of Montagnini’s
political activity, and he gave orders for the palace
to be searched and his papers examined, after which
Montagnini was bundled back to Italy. Brunetiere had
flattered himself that he had won Clemenceau over by
opening the columns of his Revue des Deux Mondes to
him. In his capacity of “green cardinal” he never stopped
lecturing his Holiness Pius X in an endeavour to get
him to obey the Prime Minister and to accept his scheme
of having committees to administer church property—a
scheme which would have completely upset the catholic
hierarchy. Then there was a certain Monsignor Duchesne,
the darling of the Parisian drawing-rooms, in which he
ridiculed the great Pius and his encyclicals, calling them
digitus in oculo.* He and Monsignor Geay and a friend
of Francois Coppee, Monsignor le Nordez, conducted a
campaign for the republican plan. The result of all this
*Fingcr in the eye, meaning a great mistake.
l66
IN POWER
was inexpressible confusion. In the end the Pope and

his remarkable Secretary of State, Cardinal Merry del
Val, got the best of it.
As for that ignoramus Briand, he was completely taken
up by an affaire with a beautiful actress of the Comedie
Fran$aise and spoke of the Council of Trent as though
it were a conspirators’ meeting of thirty, declaring that
what he wanted was “ Appeesement, gentlemen, appeese-
ment!” before everything else. “In that case,” said
Clemenceau, “buzz off.” But that was not what Briand
wanted. “Why should I go?” he cried, “since I am the
only one who can make them all agree.” A certain
Henry des Houx, a journalist without a job who was
mad on the “new ideas,” started in Le Matin a column
for theological advice entitled “The Schism Bureau.” He
did not get any clients. “He’s an ass,” declared Clemen¬
ceau, wTho was the first to be amused by this untimely
zeal.
Suddenly, like the advance of the simoom across the
desert, the peasants of Midi broke out in revolt against
the competition of the Algerian wines which forced them
to sell theirs at a loss. Let by a fiery and bearded indivi¬
dual called the “Redeemer,” one Marcellin Albert, the
movement gained weight and spread over the whole of
Languedoc and Herault. Something had to be done
about it.
Power, first as Minister for Home Affairs and then as
Prime Minister, had allowed Clemenceau to develop a
further talent, that of abuse, in which he found a safety-
valve for his need of action. Thanks to his position he
had an almost daily opportunity of blowing someone up.
167
CLEMENCEAU
He began with the officials who were late in arriving

at their offices, went on to those who arrived punctually
but frittered their time away, and ended with their
superiors who allowed them to do so. Having got into
practice, he turned his attention to his ministers, remind¬
ing Pichon of the funk he had been in when he took
to the cellars in Pekin during the Boxer rising; curing
Caillaux’s infatuation with a dry remark; cutting short
Viviani’s imbecile tirades; putting first one and then the
other in his place with vicious thrusts, like a wild boar.
After his physical jerks and the massage his old Leroy
gave him, this was his favourite exercise, and it never
failed to restore his good temper or his appetite, when
he lost them. But it was the prefets who provided him
with his best sport. He would summon them to him
in turn or all together, provoke them into answering back
and then curse them with equal ardour for that; make
them give written or oral reports and then play one off
against the other. Some of these scenes were veritable
comedies and a source of great delight to the ushers who
listened to them from outside. One day one of his butts,
whom he was threatening to have removed from his post,
fell at his feet weeping, talked of his young family, and
so moved his tormentor that, after a flood of the most
insulting abuse, he was finally promoted to a better post!
Clemenceau was particularly pitiless towards those who
abused their position to have affaires with the wives of
their subordinates or the women in their district. These
received the full blast of his invective: “Do you think,
you dirty swine, that the state gives you your salary so
that you pay maintenance and give horns to your
168
IN POWER
inferiors! Go and hand in your resignation, and the

quicker the better.” After the prejets it was the diplomats
and the “Quai d’Orsay set” who caught it from him
most frequently. In this circle of “women, truffles and
champagne,” as Bismarck described it, the Old Man was
particularly dreaded, and his telephone calls to Pichon
(the Foreign Minister) were the nightmare of the place.
It was the great hope of the departments that this old
devil with his time-sheets would not last long, that he
would be overthrown as he had overthrown others. But
the months passed and the “Old Man” was still there.
It even seemed as though all this cursing rejuvenated
him. It always left him fresh and fit and quite ready
to begin again. Picquart’s natural slackness also gave
Clemenceau the chance to exercise his talent for invective
in the various departments of the Rue Saint-Dominique
(the War Office), where he was quite sure of being in
command should the tension between France and “those
blackguardly Germans” ever come to a head.
When the unrest in the Midi began to flare up in good
earnest with barricades at Narbonne and fires in the Law
Courts and subprefecture there; when the peasants began
dynamiting bridges, attacked the Law Courts and prison
at Montpellier and, as their piece de resistance set fire
to the prefecture at Perpignan, the “Old Man” began to
be seriously disturbed. The soldiers of the 17th Infantry
Regiment refused to fire on the rioters and these began
to sing—a bad sign.
“It’s becoming more and more serious,” was the refrain
of the telephone as the calls came pouring in. Clemen¬
ceau, gathering in the news, demanded to be left alone
169
CLEMENCEAU
and dismissed the members of his Cabinet with a gruff:

“Clear out of my way.” Then he had the idea of sending
for Marcellin Albert and giving him a first-class ticking-
off, one of his really special ones. Some emissaries under¬
took to fetch the “Redeemer,” who was himself
considerably alarmed by the turn events had taken and
the speed at which they were developing, and realized
his responsibility only too well. When Clemenceau saw
his pale face and dismayed expression, he immediately
recognized what he termed “his lack of spirit,” and went
for him properly.
“Have you thoroughly considered the results of all this
devilry, and your own personal responsibility? Blood
has already flowed. More will flow yet. Do you imagine
I am going to let you set three counties on fire, wound
and kill policemen, officers and soldiers, and occupy the
Cathedral at Montpellier? I am not Monsignor de
Cabrieres. I am a man of the Revolution, and those
who annoy me and incite the soldiers to mutiny I have
court-martialled and shot. Do you understand?”
The poor “Redeemer” understood. He sweated blood
and water in his armchair where, in his black clothes,
he looked like an undertaker’s man caught misbehaving
himself.
Then the “Old Man” relented and, putting his hand
on the other man’s shoulder, explained to him the
meaning of France’s great motto: “Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity,” and made him give a general idea of the
needs and wants of his peasants. Then promising, as he
had to the miners, all “possible and reasonable” reforms,
he took out his pocket-book and slipped two one-hundred-
170
IN POWER
franc notes into the hesitating hand of the repentant

“Redeemer.” “That’s for your return journey,” he said.
“Tell your friends to go back to their homes.” What
could this one poor peasant do when faced with the real
master of the country? For Marcellin Albert was well
aware that the President of the Republic was nothing but
a poor nonentity—“a milksop in a palace.” He turned
back feeling vaguely ashamed, gave up his apostleship,
sent away his adherents, and went to bed, as Clemen-
ceau had advised him, with a hot water bottle at his
feet.
Then came the Casablanca affair, the massacre of the
Europeans and the proclamation of the Holy War. The
Moroccan question loomed large. Then in June, 1908,
in what had become almost a rhythmical sequence, a
sudden and violent strike broke out at Draveil and Ville-
neuve-Saint-Georges, almost at the gates of Paris. General
Virvaire, seeing his men overpowered and some of them
seriously wounded, had to give the order to fire. Some
people were killed. At the labour exchange workmen
hanged the bust of the Republic. Gustave Herve’s Guerre
Sociale denounced Clemenceau as the murderer of the
people and called them to arms. They, however, showed
not the slightest desire to throw themselves into the fray.
Decidedly, abuse had been more successful than the
mailed fist.
Shortly after the meeting at Marienbad between
Edward VII, the Russian Minister Isvolsky and Clemen¬
ceau, at which there had been much talk about “my
courageous coward of a nephew,” Wilhelm II, came the
affair of the German deserters from the Foreign Legion
171
CLEMENCEAU
at Casablanca. Germany maintained that they should

not be subject to French jurisdiction. Clemenceau
opposed this. The German ambassador in Paris
threatened to ask for his passport and the story goes that
Clemenceau, taking out his watch, remarked that “there
was only just time enough for him to pack his bags and
jump into the train for Berlin.” This time there was no
abuse, but banter; which is often just as useful. As
Clemenceau did not give in, it was the courageous coward
of a nephew who gave way.
At the elections for the Senate of 1909, Clemenceau
was re-elected for the Var.
The future lies in the lap of the gods. Clemenceau,
having a friendly feeling for Thomson because of his
faithfulness to his old adversary, Gambetta, had made
him First Lord of the Admiralty. The experiment was
unlucky, because of the terrible accidents which occurred
in the navy. A clash with Delcasse in the Chamber and
the hard words Clemenceau addressed to him brought
about the fall of the Ministry. Clemenceau left for
Carlsbad and then withdrew to a little house at Bernou-
ville, near Gisors, which he had bought after having at
last paid up his printing debts, which had been hanging
round his neck for so long. From there he was able to
go and visit his dear Claude Monet at Giverny. Three
years of power had tempered his sense, and with it his
energy. He felt more fit and equal to the occasion than
ever before, after the change from the peace of the
countryside to the alarms and excursions of politics.
Nevertheless, one thing vexed him; he had not solved
the social question and could see no way of doing so by
IJ2
IN POWER
the natural play of evolution. This stuck in his throat

like a bone.
Clemenceau had not feathered his nest while he was
at the Ministry and his coffers were in urgent need of
refilling, so he accepted a pressing offer for a series of
lectures in South America and embarked for the
Argentine and Brazil in June, 1910. On the boat he
shunned the others and kept the company of his own
thoughts. He overhauled his ideas and found them sound
and fundamentally unshaken. Universal suffrage, parlia¬
ment and, particularly, the Senate to which he now
belonged and where there was more good sense to be
found than in the Chamber, the whole contrivance, the
idol of his youth, appeared to him sensible enough. The
party system was in itself a good thing, since it allowed
the free ventilation and comparison of contrary opinion.
What he did miss was the daily paper in which he
could express his opinions on everything and everybody.
He had his title, L’Homme Libre (The Free Man), but
had not yet found the capital, and he did not want
to have a Cornelius Herz’s halter round his neck again.
That kind of puppet could become dangerous.
Reviewing in his mind the public men with whom his
three years as Prime Minister had brought him in close
contact and whom he had had an opportunity of study¬
ing closely, he was struck by the insipidity and ignorance
of Briand, by Poincare’s meanness, and the overweening
conceit of the petulant Caillaux on whom, in his opinion,
one ought “to keep an eye.” This generation did not
come up to the preceding one, with its Schoelcher, its
Blanqui, even its Jules Simon. What they lacked most
T73
CLEMENCEAU
of all was character. Plunged in these thoughts, there

would steal over him the secret conviction that he had
a great task to accomplish—and yet old age was coming
on so quickly. At such times he was no longer aware
of outside things, nor of the gentle movement of the sea.
The captain had very discreetly asked his officers and
passengers not to bother Clemenceau, and he took his
meals at a little table in the saloon. The one person
with whom he liked to talk was the ship’s doctor with
whom he discussed the origin and treatment of diseases.
But he had noticed that the doctor, who was a son of
Brittany, was also a believer and this in his eyes was a
blemish. How could one reconcile biology, anatomy and
physiology with the mystery of the incarnation? Very
mild and unassuming in all that concerned everyday life,
the good doctor was as hard as a rock when it came to
questions of faith, which made it impossible for there to
be any real intimacy between the two men. To go to
the Sunday mass was more than Clemenceau could do,
and he shut himself up in his cabin to swot up his
democracy.
For that was the not very promising subject on which
he intended to speak to the people of Argentina and
Brazil. He carefully planned his six lectures which were
to be: “The Advent and Establishment of Democracy”;
“Democracy and Parliament”; “Democracy and Govern¬
ment”; Democracy and Socialism”; “Democracy and
Religion”; and “Democracy and War.”
In the Argentine, as in Brazil, these lectures did not
have much success, because they were too exclusively
doctrinal and because the orator did not allow himself
T74
IN POWER
to indulge in those personalities of which he was such

a master. People went to hear him because of his name
and reputation, not for the subject he had chosen. He
received invitations from the notabilities of Buenos Aires
and found these exotic official dinners as tiresome there
as in Paris, while he soon got tired of the French colony
and its diplomatic and commercial representatives.
There is a very different art in lecturing than in making
political speeches. People go to lectures primarily for
amusement, and in the second place for instruction.
Either that, or they come because of the lecturer.
Meanwhile, Clemenceau’s friends in Paris sent him
information that a scandal had just burst out in which
his adversaries were trying to involve him through the
Commissioner of Police, Lepine. He had nothing to do
with it, of course, but Lepine had always irritated him
with his bumptiousness and nasty ways. And then, he
had been on the wrong side in the Dreyfus affair.
Back again in Paris, Clemenceau managed to find the
necessary capital and founded his new daily, L’Homme
Libre. To work with him he chose Chichet, a profes¬
sional journalist and a good friend; Georges Mandel, a
subtle wit possessed of amazing energy who was smitten
with parliamentarism; and Jean Martet, a promising
beginner whose natural irony and independence Clemen¬
ceau liked. The first number of VHomme Libre
appeared on 5th May, 1913.
Earlier, in January, 1912, Clemenceau, who was then a
member of the Commission for Foreign Affairs in the
Senate, had learned from several sources, and particularly
from de Selves at the Quai d’Orsay, that Caillaux had
T75
CLEMENCEAU
gone behind the back of his Foreign Minister and entered

into secret negotiations with Germany. Caillaux, on
being taxed with it, swore that this was not so. Later,
however, irrefutable evidence was obtained from the
famous “green papers,” documents which had been inter¬
cepted by officials of the Code Office, that he had been
lying. Clemenceau’s rage was all the more violent
because he was aware that his former Finance Minister’s
secret attempt at a rapprochement with Germany coin¬
cided with that country’s acceleration of her preparations
for war. From that moment he looked upon Caillaux
as a traitor. He advised de Selves to resign, as this would
involve the resignation of Caillaux, who was Prime
Minister. De Selves did so, and Poincare, who also had
a profound horror of Caillaux and his intrigues, took his
place. On ioth February, 1912, the Franco-German
treaty, which had been passed by the Chamber, was intro¬
duced into the Senate by Poincare. According to its
terms, France was to cede part of the Congo to Germany
in exchange for her complete liberty of action in Morocco.
This was the occasion of the famous “ thin edge of the
wedge” debate.*
Clemenceau was astounding, sparkling—talked of the
wooden horse of Troy, of the formidable and ever-grow¬
ing German armament, of the insatiable Germanic
appetite! He assured them that the wedge would get
thicker and thicker. To which Poincare merely replied,
in his disagreeable voice: “You and I will both be there
to ward it off.” As though anyone in a republic can
ever be sure of still being there to ward off whatever
*The author was present at the debate.
176
IN POWER
it may be! The Senate followed Poincare and voted for

the treaty, but two years later events were to prove
Clemenceau right. Geffroy tells in his book on “the boss”
that Clemenceau was suffering that day from intolerable
pelvic pains and could hardly stand upright in the
rostrum. He went into a nursing home immediately
afterwards and underwent an operation on the prostate
gland. This gave him a third youth, and to the end of
his life he remained profoundly grateful to the saintly
woman, Sister Theoneste who had nursed him so
admirably. This alarm took him back to his medical
student days, and also directed his thoughts towards the
idea of death and the impossibility that there could be
anything of us left after the grave. All the same, there
were—as the sister proved—reasonable beings, people of
exceptional goodness, who believed in such illusions as the
immortality of the soul, eternal life, paradise to reward
virtue, and hell for the punishment of vice. He could
not resist the temptation of putting some posers about
this to his pious nurse, who, though she refused to argue
with him so as not to send his temperature up, never
ceased to pray and to hope for him.
During his illness he re-read the whole of the Lundis
et Nouveaux Lundis of Sainte-Beuve, whose character he
did not like, but whose intelligence and penetration he
admired. He also read the newspapers and kept a con¬
tinual eye on the political situation. Those of his
colleagues who came to see him told him that Caillaux’s
schemes were gaining ground, as he now had the support
of that plotter and artful business-man, Alphonse Lenoir.
Clemenceau knew Lenoir of old: he had played at
m 177
CLEMENCEAU
patriots in the days of Mme Adam’s Nouvelle Revue,

and had carried through the Russian loan. It seemed
certain to Clemenceau that Lenoir had been bought by
Germany in order to facilitate the introduction of German
state securities among those quoted on the Paris Stock
Exchange. In this way we were with our own hands
supplying the money to provide those who were to be
our enemies with their guns and ammunition.
“Don’t think about these things, Monsieur le President.
You will send your temperature up.”
When he had recovered, Clemenceau was in better form
than ever, and successfully opposed a Bill for proportional
representation which Briand introduced into the Senate.
On 17th January, 1913, Poincare was elected President
of the Republic, defeating the amiable Pams who was
the candidate put forward by L’Homme Libre, that is, by
Clemenceau. On that day the enmity between Poincare
and Clemenceau, which had been smouldering for a
long time, broke out into open hostility, and Poincare
vowed that never, under any circumstances whatever,
would he make Clemenceau Prime Minister. But the
best-laid schemes of men—and mice—usually go astray.
In June, 1914, the thunder-cloud burst at Sarajevo.
Clemenceau, who was following events closely and with
growing anxiety, at once realized the full significance of
the murder of the Archduke Ferdinand. He was well
aware of the arrant weakness of Viviani and every one of
his colleagues, and trembled for his country. He was
then seventy-four years old.
178
CHAPTER IX
CHAINED AND UNCHAINED
The War was no surprise to Clemenceau. He had felt

it coming for many years, being one of the few to recog¬
nize the insatiable appetite of German ambitions.
Caillaux’s secret and even shady dealings had revolted
him. But what he had shut his eyes to and now suddenly
realized was the extraordinary mediocrity of the republi¬
can parliamentarians, the excesses of some, the laziness
of others, the crass ignorance in which this one wallowed,
the absurdity which characterized the other. He had
thought that Poincare had a “bit of character,” but the
poor wretch had not the shadow of one, and viewed
everything from a legal standpoint. “Is one entitled
to . . .? I ask. Is one entitled to . . .?” Military science,
on which everything now depended, seemed to this
puppet with the civil code under his arm to be a private
province in which the civil authorities must not interfere
even in times of war. Poincare was mortally afraid of
Caillaux. Since the recent tour of the English royal
couple in France his astonishing matrimonial misadven¬
tures, which an obliging prelate had done his poor best
to cover up, had become known and widely discussed,
causing him bitter worry and domestic scenes. Malvy
also put him in an intense funk, which was quite equal
to his fear of Clemenceau, and he told his intimates that
t-79
CLEMENCEAU
he wished he could have got rid of them both, as they

were birds of the same feather. With all his visitors
Poincare entrenched himself behind the constitution,
which forbade him to take the slightest responsibility.
“What a rag of a man!” stormed Clemenceau in his
office. He would dearly have liked to have seen him
and try to put some backbone into him, but Poincare
always had a good excuse and got out of it, putting him
off with his usual evasive letters running into four or
six pages. This President, who presided over nothing,
knew better than anyone that his Prime Minister, Viviani,
with whom he had been on his way back from Russia
when the storm broke, was a poor idiot, incapable of
making any decision except a wrong one. Nevertheless,
he kept him on for fear of attacks and harsh comments.
The institution of the censorship was a tremendous
relief to Poincare. At first supposed to be limited to
diplomatic and military affairs, where, indeed, it was
indispensable, this censorship became a universal screen
behind which incapacity, confusion and heedlessness could
proceed at their ease. Every day a fresh scandal was
reported to Clemencecau who was the President of the
Army Commission, and, if he mentioned or even hinted
at it in his paper, L’Homme Libre was immediately
mercilessly censored and suppressed. The result was that
the “Old Man” had a fit of rage every day, and did not
recover himself till he had been to his little flat in the
Rue Franklin and had something to eat.
As he had been a doctor, he was told of all the extra¬
ordinary imperfections and stupefying acts of carelessness
of the medical corps, in which house-surgeons were to
180
be found employed on trivial jobs while mere dentists

performed operations without even a knowledge of the
elements of surgery. There were, for example, cases of
certain amputations being made without flaps, so that
the bones stuck out through the flesh. There was no
anti-tetanus serum. The wounded were transported in
trucks, on soiled straw. It has been calculated that
thousands of slight wounds—in the calf of the leg, for
example, or in the buttocks—resulted in death for lack
of proper precautions and care. Clemenceau’s paper, in
which these monstrous facts were reported, was suspended
for a week, while that strange War Minister, Messimy,
who was the lover of the dancer, Gertrude Zell, other¬
wise Mata-Hari, allowed Le Matin to print an article by
Gervais, a member of the Senate, falsely accusing the
Provencal contingent of running away in a frontier battle!
It was then that Clemenceau changed the title of
L’Homme Libre to L’Homme Enchaine. Having made
this bitter little joke, he made up his mind to see Poincare
alone for a few minutes “on official business.” Poincare
had to grant the interview.
This most uncordial interview was the occasion of one
of the “Old Man’s” most famous tirades, of which the
Elysee ushers got the cream. Poincare has given his own
version of this interview in his Memoires, in which,
incidentally, he reveals that he had far and away more
love for his little dogs than for the French troops. He
speaks of the “cross old man” who, for an hour, loaded
him with the worst abuse, and whom he did not like to
throw out “ because of his great age.” To which Clemen-
ceau retorted : “He was afraid that the ‘cross old man’
181
CLEMENCEAU
would give him a kick in the pants if he got up; that’s

why he stayed glued to his chair.” One can easily picture
the scene and the roars of “the tiger” resounding through
the terrified Elysee. During this time, their so-called
friends were highly amused, and said to Clemenceau:
“Go for him! Go for him! Bite his eye!” and to
Poincare: “You must shut that old fossil up, by suppres¬
sing his paper once and for all.”
At one cabinet meeting Messimy (always Messimy)
almost throtded Gautier, the First Lord of the Admiralty,
when he asked him if he had thought about mobilizing
the fleet and was given a negative reply. On another
occasion Viviani tried to smack Messimy’s face because
of some unpleasant remark he had made. The blow
missed its aim and caught Briand on the head, but merely
elicited from him a murmured: “Very nice!” “At the
meetings of the cabinet,” I was told by a witness, who
later on was my colleague in the Chamber, “it was like
being in the courtyard of a madhouse.”
Soon Clemenceau was to learn through General
Clergerie, Gallieni’s Chief of Staff, that the Chief Com¬
missioner of Police, Celestin Hennion, had been convicted
of having posters and armlets prepared for the entry of
the Prussians into Paris, and immediately sacked.
“He ought to have been shot . . .” said Clemenceau.
But it was he who, for the part he had played in the
Dreyfus affair, had made Hennion successor to that
mummer Lepine in the Academy of Moral Sciences.
The only one to keep calm in the midst of this minis¬
terial saraband was the Generalissimo, Joffre. When the
question of moving the seat of parliament came up, at a
182
time when its members were already fleeing from Paris,

Clemenceau said: “Indeed, we are too far from the
front.” He had been greatly moved by the spirit of
enthusiasm shown by all these brave men of France, who
having been told over and over again that there would
never be another war had yet rushed to arms without
a moment’s hesitation. His anger turned against the
shirkers, but here too the censorship defeated him, for
many of the censors were men of military age who had
taken refuge there. Caillaux, who kept as quiet as a
mouse, was in charge of the army accounts. It was not
mentioned that his wife had joined the Red Cross. As
for Malvy, it was soon discovered that he had rented
a sumptuous villa at Arcachon for his mistress, a prosti¬
tute whom he had picked up in a brothel in the Rue des
Bons-Enfants, and whose money he later inherited!
After the panic-stricken flight to Bordeaux, about
which there are many amusing stories, Gabriel Hanotaux
of the Academie Francaise, in a fit of enthusiastic
delirium, wrote in La Petite Gironde: “Bordeaux will
be our citadel.” A week before the flight this same brave
runaway stated in the Revue hebdomadaire that Francis
Joseph, Emperor of Austria, would be the rampart of
peace, and solemnly wrote: “Perhaps this oldest of the
monarchs has been allowed to live to his great age only
for that purpose.” Like his friend Poincare, Hanotaux
was always dominated by fear. They ought to have
collaborated in writing a book and called it Our Fears.
However “chained” the “Old grouser’s” paper was, it
had influence and reached a circulation of a hundred
thousand copies. But Clemenceau was not content with
183
CLEMENCEAU
criticizing the weakness of the war policy and the short¬

comings of the administration. He frequently went to the
front itself to get, as President of the Army Commission,
first-hand information as to the state, physical as well as
moral, of the troops. He listened to their complaints and
gave them fresh courage: in short, he devoted himself
to them. It was this that earned him the popularity
which was in due course to carry him into power despite
the hostility of the Elysee and the opposition of society,
where his chief opponents were a certain Count Greffulhe,
an admirer of the Kaiser, and his Countess who was an
admirer of Briand. Some of these society people, and
not the least important of them, were related to enemy
officers on active service, others to important members of
German financial and government circles. Clemenceau
was aware of this but did not attach the importance to it
that he should have, nor was he told all that he ought
to have known about that illuminating affair of the
fraudulent Reforms (The Lombard affair), with which
Le Bonnet Rouge was mixed up. Though well edited, his
L’Homme Enchaine was not as informative as it might
have been had its resources been greater.
It was about the time of the battle of Verdun that
Clemenceau fell into a kind of trance, a state bordering
on ecstasy, in which he was to remain with ups and
downs until the war was nearing its end. The contrast
between the pettiness and ignominy behind the lines,
which he witnessed from his position in the Senate, and
the grim pictures of frankness and heroism he saw at the
front, produced in him a change of heart comparable to
that of St. Paul on the road to Damascus. The soul of
184
France was revealed to him in the revelation of his own

soul. Looking passively on while the youngest, the most
devoted and the best laid down their lives, such men as
Caillaux, Briand, Poincare, Hanotaux and Barthou, all
prominent political men, remained, now that the initial
alarm was over and the first victory of the Marne had
reassured them as to their own persons, entrenched in
their natural mediocrity and vile everyday preoccupations
behind the professional shell they had created around
themselves. The game of party recommendations, cushy
jobs, social and international relations, considerations,
irresponsibilities, bartering, peculation, was continued on
a different plane. In all the fury of the storm they
remained as they had been—the academics still academics,
the grumblers still grumbled, but surprised, even stupe¬
fied—that the Germans were not immediately victorious,
and that without striking a blow, when everything had
pointed that way.
Gheusi, Gallieni’s secretary, tells in a note to the famous
Carnets how he telephoned to Bordeaux on 12th Septem¬
ber, 1914, to report the victory, and how he heard
exclamations of stupefaction at the other end of the wire:
“What’s that . . . impossible! ... is it really true? . . .
But it’s unbelievable! It’s crazy! . . .” Such was the
reaction of these vermin; but not that of Clemenceau,
who was overjoyed at the news. In a moment he became
again the man he used to be, the man of 1870 with his
anguish and despair; the man of the Revenge, Boulanger’s
man, the out-and-out patriot; then the slandered, the
vilified, the moral exile; then the champion of the other
side, Dreyfus’s supporter, the friend and protector of
i85
1
CLEMENCEAU
Picquart. All that he had ever been, the many person¬

alities which had gone to make up the man—jostled
about, angered, disappointed, involved in an intricacy
of private and public happenings and dramas, but all the
same never altering the main course of his life—now
came to life again. His remarkable, inexhaustible,
vitality, his abstract and concrete love of his country,
of his little Vendee, of his parents, of his old friends,
his sense of the greatness and real nature of the
little man—all those who were giving their lives for
an ideal which had its roots deep within them, but which
had given them nothing but their labour on the land,
their language and a few noisy days of holiday—all this
merged into a state of ecstasy.
He went on living among the country’s wretched
rulers, getting up at dawn to write his daily article,
chatting with this one and that, but his real life was
in the trenches among those they called the poilus, every
one of whom he would have liked to have taken to
his heart. Food no longer meant anything to him; not
even the cabbage he liked so much, nor bread or wine.
He told himself that his articles were not sufficient to
show these fine fellows to the world and he sought a
way of imbuing the holy spirit which animated those
who were sacrificing everything—their wives, families,
their very lives—on the smoking altar of their crucified
country, in those who still only thought of saving their
goods, their quiet life, and what remained of their well¬
being.
Meanwhile, rumours came to him from every quarter
—for the public mind was quietly turning towards him,
186
from his little quarters in the Rue Franklin right to the

frontiers. At night, before going to bed after his dinner,
which he ate hastily and heedlessly (he was deserving of
merit in this, being by nature a gourmand)—he would
consider ways and means of making use of all his powers
and devoting everything that was in him to his country.
One day the woman who did his cleaning and dusted
what remained of his knick-knacks, in constant fear of
breaking them, said to him: “You ought to tell them
what’s in your mind now, sir. This is the moment
for it.”
It was about the 20th June, 1917, that he received
Petain’s report on the attempts which were being made
from the rear to demoralize the troops at the front by
circulating defeatist tracts and distributing among them
Le Bonnet Rouge and kindred publications. Suddenly
he learned that Duval, the director of Almereyda’s news¬
paper and at one time Dausset’s secretary, had been
arrested on the frontier at Bellegarde, with a large cheque
signed by the German banker, Marc of Mannheim, on
his person.
Clemenceau sent for the man responsible for the seizure
of the cheque, which as President of the Army Commis¬
sion in the Senate he had the right to do, and, having
made certain of his facts, hurried off to the Prime
Minister, Ribot.
“Is it true,” he asked, “that the director of Le Bonnet
Rouge, Duval, has been caught on the frontier at Belle-
garde in possession of a German cheque for more than
a million francs?”
“That is so.”
187
CLEMENCEAU
“And what do you mean to do then . . .? Nothing

at all seemingly.”
“We are going to investigate . . said the lanky Ribot,
bending himself double in his embarrassment.
“Your investigation is already complete! You already
have all the material evidence. Suppress Le Bonnet
Rouge and arrest Aimereyda, and, if necessary, Malvy.”
“Almereyda was M. f'dalvy’s best helper at the begin¬
ning of the war.”
“That’s because he had not yet sold himself to
Germany. But now you have proof of that, and some¬
thing must be done. So act!”
Ribot looked at Clemenceau. To act, except in words,
was the last thing he thought of. As the lanky fellow
did not reply, the President of the Army Commission
added:
“I am going to interpellate on it in the Senate.”
On 22nd July, 1917, after Painleve had delivered him¬
self of some generalities, Clemenceau climbed to the
rostrum in the Senate and plunged into the heart of as
dramatic a subject as well could be: the contradiction
between the critical situation of a nation besieged by
defeatism and the flabbiness, not to say complete indiffer¬
ence, of its government. It was the Minister for Home
Affairs, Malvy, who had been incomprehensibly retained
at the Home Office since the beginning of the war,
whose behaviour was now going to be enquired into, and
thoroughly too!
The old demagogue, carried out of himself into a
higher sphere of national responsibility, was at his very
best. Solid, both hands braced on the rail as though he
188
were ready to spring, his eyes sparkling beneath his thick

eyebrows, he spoke in a voice that was almost unnaturally
deep.
He began by telling them how he had recently received
a visit from a soldier, a real poor devil from the front
line still covered with the mud of the trenches, who had
complained of the politicians for allowing and even
authorizing treachery. And that was not just his
opinion, but that of his comrades too; yes, of the whole
front line, where one and all were afraid of being stabbed
in the back. This introduction itself sent a shiver through
his audience. Then with biting, inexorable eloquence
he attacked defeatism and the campaigns of a loathsome
press. He named Almereyda and Le Bonnet Rouge,
spoke of the residential permits and protection given to
suspects, and so came to the Home Office and Malvy.
Malvy was far from comfortable and turned his hyena-
like face, frozen in a half-grin, towards the speaker, but
kept his eyes averted. And the tiger played with the
hyena. He hurled facts at him, which, without narrow¬
ing down the debate, gave it more pungency. Clemen-
ceau, the better to hold his public, gave the Senate only
half the information that he had had from Geffroy and,
as at the time of the Zola affair, but the opposite of
what Zola had done, he reproached instead of accused.
In moments of stress he evinced a certain moderation
which tempered the passion of his outbursts. The calcu¬
lating, matter-of-fact person in him was at such times
able to bridle the impulsiveness of the fighter.
He was quite aware that Malvy had been kept on at
the Home Office after mobilization merely because
189
CLEMENCEAU
Poincare was afraid of the dossiers and records of the

Surete-Generale. Hence the saying which had gone the
round of the lobbies: “There is Memorandum B (the
suspects’ memorandum); but there is also Memorandum
P (Poincare’s memorandum).” He also knew, through
Capus who was there, that a journalist friend of Caillaux
had, on ist August, 1914, introduced “M. Almereyda,
editor of Le Bonnet Rouge” to Poincare in the Elysee.
Whereupon, a cordial shaking of hands. He had also
heard bad reports about Malvy’s evil genius, Leymarie,
who was head of the Paris Surete-Generale, and to whom
he referred in L’Homme Enchaine as “ the tame
Rasputin.” But he preferred, knowing the pusillanimity
of the senators, to restrict his accusations to the matter
in hand. Such was the dulling influence of parlia¬
mentarism.
The effect of his speech was none the less immense.
It startled the whole nation. It was the holiday season
and people read the speech—it had been reprinted as a
pamphlet—and commented on it in the trains. The
whole nation, both at the front and behind the lines,
was unanimous that “Clemenceau must be put into
power!” The nation rallied round his name so suddenly
and so strongly that even Poincare felt it was useless to
resist. And, despite his dislike of his old colleague, he
promised that when Painleve went he would invite the
“Old Man” to be Prime Minister.
Painleve’s fall was brought about by a letter denouncing
the co-director of L’Action Eranâise, dated 30th Septem¬
ber, 1917, and addressed to the President of the Republic,
which he thought it was his duty to read to the Chamber.
190
This letter also accused the Minister for Home Affairs,

only more crudely and more explicitly than the “Old
Man” had done in the Senate. It turned out that it was
impossible to take proceedings against the author of this
private letter as the offence was Painleve’s in making it
public in the Chamber. To make matters worse, Painleve
took it into his head to act on Caillaux’s suggestion and
try to implicate the directors of L’Action Franâise in
an imaginary conspiracy, of which the only evidence was
a panoply composed of an old rifle, a sword of the “Z”
series and some useless old pistols which had been dis¬
covered in the offices of Marius Plateau—a war hero, and
the general secretary of L’Action Franfaise and of the
Camelots du Roi. All Paris laughed. The piteous,
stammering Painleve had to hand in his resignation after
a vote which put him to ridicule. The Greffulhe salon
and the defeatists thus lost their principal supporter.
Clemenceau, who had broken with Painleve, in spite of
his being a friend of his brother Paul, now came on to
the scene.
Beaten, Poincare sent for Clemenceau and asked him,
in the most formal manner, to form a cabinet.
Clemenceau accepted in a few words. He had had his
cabinet ready in his head for several weeks, but he was
really the only one in it. The names of the others were:
Pichon, Pams, Klotz (Minister of Finance), Loucheur,
Boret, Claveilles, Leygues, Lafferre, Clementel, Colliard
and Jonnart. Who they were did not matter much. The
public, “the good rabble of France,” as Barres put it,
having at long last become supporters of Clemenceau,
did not even look at these names blazoned on the front
CLEMENCEAU
page of the papers. All that mattered to them was

Clemenceau’s name, in which they now put their enthusi¬
astic trust. A strange sympathy had been established
between the “Old Man” and thirty-four million French¬
men. He represented not only confidence in, but the
certitude of victory. This feeling swept over the trenches
and penetrated into Germany. Later, the Crown Prince
was to admit that the German High Command saw in
Clemenceau’s return to power their rapid and certain
defeat. We know that from the Memoires of this
impetuous young man, who put all his trust in that
fantastic Falkenhayn and made such a mess of the attack
on Verdun. Through him over three hundred thousand
Germans were killed—for nothing, as, thanks to Mangin’s
initiative, the fort of Douaumont which had cost so many
sacrifices was retaken in October, 1916. As Mangin said :
“What a nice chap!”
Paris rubbed its hands, for “Clemenceau is on the job;
it’s all right now!” They asked no more. If at that
time anyone had been rash enough to say anything
against Clemenceau in the streets of Paris, or had even
voiced the mildest criticism of him, he would have been
torn to pieces. It was the same in the army.
For the old warrior that lowering and sombre
November day on which he was summoned to the Elysee
was to remain the most wonderful one of his life. He
had his plan all worked out and his immediate colleagues
chosen. There was Mandel, subtle and well informed,
whom he had known for many years; Tardieu, the
scholar; and Ignace the enthusiastic barrister, who was
said to be Lockroy’s illegitimate son. He was certain
192
of winning, absolutely sure inside himself that France

would be victorious, although, however you looked at it,
the situation could not well have been worse. It was
bad enough at the front where, despite Petain’s efforts,
the defeatist pamphlets from the rear were having their
effect, where Mangin’s dismissal—which had been engin¬
eered by the pro-German Greffiilhe set in Paris—had
aroused violent anger and where indecision and political
vacillation had infected the High Command. But it was
worse at home, where Painleve’s incapacity, his submis¬
sion to Caillaux, the Malvy affair, the Almereyda affair,
twenty cases of spying and treachery, had aroused every¬
body’s disgust. The general impression was that each
ally rowed his own boat, without any co-ordination of
their efforts or a common plan. Of course, people talked
of the exhaustion and famine in Germany, but with us
too, after three years of war, there was relaxation of effort
and wide-spread discontent. Groups of poilus on their
way back to the front from leave sang their lamb’s
chorus: “Where are you going to, soldier? ... To the
slaughter-house. . . . When will you come back, soldier?
. . . Never . . . Baa . . .” The calculated enthusiasm
of the articles appearing in I’Echo de Paris and similar
papers only made the public laugh, and the misuse of
“inspired” news greatly contributed to the general
scepticism. The last Prime Minister who, like the good
mathematician he was, spent his time trying to solve
the unsolvable, was rightly regarded as a puppet. It
was the same with the President, Poincare, and his trench
hat, which was universally known as “the hat for his
private trenches.” When he went off to the “occipital”
N *93
CLEMENCEAU
front, this lawyer looked like a bailiff setting off to take

possession. He pretended to take notes and his icy voice,
instead of raising, lowered the morale of the troops. They
said: “He could freeze a dozen eggs.” He was the
subject of some very ribald songs, and men who had
distinguished themselves asked not to be presented to him.
But the moment the “Old Man” appeared on the scene
all these signs of disquiet vanished as though by magic.
His first speech sent hearts beating, revived flagging
energies, jerked the whole nation, combatants and non-
combatants alike, out of its torpor.
“We stand here before you with but one thought: to
pursue the war relentlessly ... no more pacifist cam¬
paigns, no more German conspiracies, no treachery, no
semi-treachery: only war, nothing but war. Our armies
are not going to be caught between two fires. Justice
shall be established. The country shall know that it is
being defended.”
And Clemenceau concluded with this cry of faith in
victory:
“One day the whole country from Paris to the humblest
village will acclaim our conquering standards, drenched
with blood and tears, torn by shells, a magnificent resur¬
rection of our great dead. That day, the most glorious
our race will have known after so many others, it is in
our power to bring about. For this our unshakable
resolution, we ask of you, sirs, the seal of your approba¬
tion.”
This last phrase makes us smile to-day, for the man
who pronounced it knew to what long-ears he was speak¬
ing, knew that he was roaring for those accustomed only
x94
to bray. But he made use of what he had, and made

magnificent use of it. A tremor went through the heart
of France. Some of the shirkers felt ashamed and asked
to be sent to the front. That was, perhaps, with the first
battle of the Marne, one of the most striking moments
of the war; it was due to the fascination of one person,
an impetus fundamentally monarchial.
When he handed over to Clemenceau, Painleve
stammered a few words in recommendation of those
members of his cabinet who wished to serve under the
new master. But Clemenceau cut him short with
a peremptory: “I am burning the furniture.” He was
resolved to exact the maximum of zeal and devotion
from every department. At last, at last, he could give
himself up entirely to his country in danger. The minute
for which he had waited so long, hoped so hard, had
arrived. For the first night or two he slept not at all,
true to the system which he was to adopt from now on
according to the rhythm of the war. Methodically he
set aside regular hours for his office, for cabinet meet¬
ings, for visits to the front. What was essential was calm,
the mastery of oneself.
Like the Germans, who were impatient to finish the
thing off, he was expecting fierce attacks. Ludendorff
had not lost all hope of taking up the march on Paris
again. There was talk of cannon which had a very long
range. Thus his favourite phrase for stirring up people’s
imagination: “The Germans are in Noyon,” took on a
new reality. He wanted to speed up the production of
armaments, if necessary, to increase it tenfold. That fellow
Loucheur, in spite of his lordly airs, seemed to realize
*95
CLEMENCEAU
that. Tardieu would see to American co-operation. All

that would then remain would be to have these hardy
lads from across the sea trained as soon as they dis¬
embarked. Mordacq was the person for that. He was
a scholar of war, this Mordacq, and in the methods of
winning it, a real strategist, with a clear mind and a
direct will.
There were two things to be done, if one were to get
anywhere. The first was to arrest Caillaux and make an
example of him. All France would approve this act of
justice. The second, to unify the command of the allied
forces, which could only be done under Petain or Foch.
To get the British to swallow that pill would not be
easy. He knew better than anyone the one-eyed stubborn¬
ness of the Britisher. It was no use treating them to one
of his tirades. Persuasion was the only thing.
The tall, dark and bony Ignace was obsessed by one
idea, to get Caillaux executed. He considered him the
arch-defeatist and, with his immeasurable pride, capable
of harbouring the darkest designs.
“Nothing could be easier; the whole of France retches
at the name Caillaux. Served up on a gallows he will
have the best possible effect on the troops.” The same
could have been said about Malvy.
“Why go so far? . . .” retorted Clemenceau “. . . they
must both be made incapable of doing further harm;
that’s all.”
“They will start all over again to-morrow.”
“That is not as certain. But, if they should . . .
perseverare diabolicum—\t will be time enough to shoot
them then.”
196
One of the first military acts of the new master was to

get rid of a general who was the pet of the salons, lorded
it over his staff and in the arms of a Cleopatra tried to
imitate Antony, whose talents he certainly did not possess.
At the same time, he sent for Mangin and restored his
command to him. The interview was short and friendly.
Mangin’s jaw was set, his eyes sparkling and his voice
quiet:
"I thank you, sir.”
“It was due to you. Those blackguards will pull a
long face, and I am glad of it. But no tricks, eh?
Supremacy of civil power.” This meant: “When you
have an army corps or an army in your hands, don’t go
and try a coup d’etat.”
“The coup d’etat is a crime,” said Mangin, quoting
Victor Hugo. But there was irony in his voice.
Each of these men had too strong, too definite a person¬
ality for any lasting agreement between them to be
possible, but their paths were to run side by side for a
while in magnanimous endeavour to save their country
in its hour of need.
197
CHAPTER X
WAR, NOTHING BUT WAR!
During his numerous visits to the front since the com¬

mencement of hostilities, Clemenceau as President of the
Army Commission in the Senate had visited not only
the poilus but their various chiefs, for he realized perfectly
well that the courage of the opposing troops being equal,
it was on their leaders that victory depended. Joffre,
with his green eyes and his reticence, astonished him.
His leit motiv, “Ah, let me sleep!” amused him and he
said of him, parodying Pascal: “He is a paving stone,
but a thinking one.”* He had a great admiration for
Petain and Foch, “the defensive and the offensive.” As
for Castelnau—hmm, hmm, he was a bigot! He thought
these men exceptional; they knew their duty, but were
too deferential to the politicians, such as Poincare, Briand
and Co., and to himself, yet at the same time it made
him angry if they showed their independence. In short,
he would have liked them to have been disobedient to
all his colleagues and obedient only to him. Now that he
was master of all and everything, now that he could have
closed down parliament without a single protest being
made, he did not hesitate to say exactly what he thought
about the members of both Senate and Chamber, and of
*Pascal said: “ L’Homme est un roseau (reed), le plus faible de la nature,
mais c’est un roseau pensant (thinking reed).”
I98
his ministers. His opinion could have been summed up in

Huysmans Ah, he is a pretty disconcerting sort of
scoundrel!” or in one word, more energetic, and even
filthy.
His heart was with the privates, his mind with their
chiefs. He was very well read, and knew Hermant’s
Cavalier Miserey, Descaves’ So us-off, and Darien’s Biribi.
But he now began to feel that these books, and friend
Zola’s Debacle, had not done good. Nothing can be
done without discipline. War, which modifies all views,
proved once again the importance of an iron discipline,
which, according to Colonel Ardant du Picq’s astonish¬
ing statement in his Etudes sur le Combat, must inspire
in the soldiers “a fear which is superior to that of death.”
He noticed also that great generals, like great doctors,
have each a different opinion as to how an operation
should be carried out. There are the strategists and there
are the tacticians, and they hardly ever agree. Brought
up on biology and medicine, but fascinated by military
matters and eager to learn, he found in these daily talks
that here common sense really was supreme. It some¬
times happened that he noticed something which had
escaped the professionals, but, being afraid of making
a fool of himself, he kept quiet about it. His knowledge
of the English and their strange psychology enabled him
to avoid running foul of them at the front. Some of
them had understood him properly and admired him,
particularly the “shrewd Welshman,” Lloyd George.
Clemenceau, for his part, appreciated Lloyd George’s
flexibility, although many of his points of view irritated
and perturbed him. Then there was an American,
T99
CLEMENCEAU
Colonel House, the right-hand man of the whimsical and

insupportable President Wilson, for whom he always had
a great liking.
His notorious anti-clericalism had all his life kept the
religious away from him, particularly the theologians, who
are the only human beings who have ideas at once precise
and profound about life, as such, and death. Like most
biologists, he thought that theology, that queen of
sciences, was only concerned with heaven and the Son
of Man, and was nothing but a mixture of vague pre¬
sumptions and fantastic hypotheses. Thus, in his con¬
tinual visits to the trenches and the battle-zone, which
allowed him to see better than anyone else the immense
sacrifice these hundreds of thousands of brave men were
making, he deprived himself of that wonderful intellec¬
tual and supernatural refuge which a less intelligent
leader of Foch’s stamp did not lack. I have often thought
that a great preacher and believer, like Pere Janvier,
would have been an immense moral comfort for the
“Old Man” in his tragic hours, and might also have
shown him the way to some of the depths of his spirit
and soul. That was the only aspect of greatness he
lacked. I do not reproach him for not being a believer—
that would be stupid, but I deplore that he should never
have known the intimate splendour of Christ. At the
funeral of Geffroy whom he had loved so well, Clemen-
ceau and I were only a step or two away from each other
beside the coffin of our mutual friend. An armchair
had been put for Clemenceau and he sat sunk in medita¬
tion—nor was it difficult to guess the trend of his
thoughts. At such moments the man who does not pray
200
has only bitter memories and the thought: “Soon it will

be my turn.”
Being the real head of the state and the man whom
everybody trusted (Poincare had completely faded out of
the picture, though he continued to make a nuisance of
himself in letters which a madman might have written),
the Prime Minister found that he had two kinds of people
to deal with: “combatants and cowards.” To the latter
he gave only half an ear, or else passed them on to
Mandel, who was clever at separating the interesting from
the uninteresting and the important from the unessential.
He saw to it that he had frequent though short meetings
with Ignace, a man who knew his own mind and wasted
no words.
I used to know Ignace when he was Lockroy’s secre¬
tary, and when later we were colleagues in the Chamber
I had many a long conversation with him, during one
of which I expressed my surprise that the German
elements in the French political police did not try to
assassinate Clemenceau then, as they did later in 1919.
“That,” replied Ignace, “is because we had a remark¬
able Commissioner of Police, M. Raux, whom Mandel,
General Mordacq and I had warned against such an
eventuality. For there was no doubt that the assassina¬
tion of our ‘Bismarck’ just when the war was taking a
turn for the better would have been an irreparable misfor¬
tune for France and, for Germany, a veritable windfall.”
The “Old Man” swiftly turned the tide of war and
in the following way, as General Mordacq describes it
in his great work in four volumes, The Clemenceau
Ministry, the Chronicle of a Witness:
201
CLEMENCEAU
“He recognized the necessity (i) of restoring ministerial

authority to the Rue Saint-Dominique (the War Office),
where power was divided between departmental heads
and staff officers; (2) of reducing to the minimum the
number of Under-Secretaries of State. But here the ques¬
tion of retaining a majority (in the Chamber) had to be
taken into account, since parliament was still sitting; (3)
working methods, which had deteriorated owing to the
length of the war, had to be improved; (4) production,
especially of tanks, aeroplanes, heavy artillery, lorries and
munitions, had to be pushed to the maximum; (5) younger
men must be promoted to the staffs and changes made
similar to those Joffre had successfully undertaken in the
very midst of the retreat and again during the battle
of the Marne, whatever the protests, wranglings or wire¬
pulling; (6) discpline, which latterly had been relaxed
to such a point that the soldiers no longer saluted their
officers, must be tightened up.”
Lieutenant-Colonels de Battisti, Gabeaud and Alerme
assisted the new Prime Minister in his great task. A
circular, called the “Three Days Circular,” ordered that
all business not requiring special investigations had to be
dealt with within three days. Clemenceau himself never
put off anything till the next day, not even till the next
hour. He seized on difficulties immediately they arose,
and solved them. His day, when he did not go to the
front, was as regular as clockwork. Getting up early,
often very early (five or six o’clock), he would work in
his room or in his office in the Rue Franklin. At half
past seven he would do his physical exercises, to which
he attached great importance and never omitted. By
202
eight-thirty he was at the War Office, at which hour

the heads of departments were already there. He would
then sign his correspondence and examine the dispatches
received since the previous evening. At about half past
nine he would see his Minister Pichon, or, failing him,
Phillipe Berthelot, whose mind interested him as did his
literary taste, but whom he secretly distrusted. Immedi¬
ately they had gone Mandel came to tell him all the
domestic news and happenings. Then he would repair
to some Commission, to the War Committee, or to a
cabinet meeting. At one o’clock he would return home
for lunch. Back at the office at two o’clock, he received
visitors for an hour, then started out again for the
Chamber or the Senate. Every letter submitted for his
signature had to wait twenty-four hours—except in cases
of extreme urgency—for he knew his own impulsiveness.
At six o’clock he started signing them, and the size of
that task can well be imagined. At nine o’clock he went
home, dined sparingly, and so to bed.
It has been said, and I share this opinion, that this
unparalleled and partly double activity is reminiscent of
that of Caesar during the war in Gaul in the number
and diversity of the military and civil councils he directed.
Those who think the comparison exaggerated do not take
into consideration the immensity of the task on hand
and the amount of comprehension and the tremendous
faculty for decision it required. Many sided, as were
Caesar and most great war lords, he created the inter¬
allied Conference of Petrol Supply, which pooled all the
resources of the precious liquid and regulated its distri¬
bution. Here again that state of trance in which he was
203
CLEMENCEAU
helped him, allowing him to pass from one important

matter to another without slackening his attention.
Proudhon has said that “genius is attentiveness.”
At the end of the day, when we left the offices of
L’Action Franâise which were then in the Rue de Rome,
Jules Delahaye would often visit his old adversary in the
Rue Saint-Dominique for ten minutes whilst I waited
for him in the carriage. He always came back marvelling
at the amount of constructive and positive work which
this old giant of contradiction and destruction undertook.
With all this, Clemenceau kept his good humour, his
sense of fun and even his teasing spirit. Never for a
moment did he allow the terrible demands made on him
to get the better of his spirit. Though he cursed the
delays, the incomprehension and the incompetence of the
parliamentary system, he stuck to it as one does to an
old servant one has not the courage to turn away. But
he did not hesitate to give things and people the names
they deserved. Two men in particular earned his special
notice—Poincare and Briand. The former he called the
“Graphomaniac” and the latter the “Migratory Tough.”
“What a nice position to be in,” he would say, “between
Briand, who thinks himself Jesus Christ, and Poincare,
who thinks he is Napoleon!”
Later on, when he heard through old Ribot—“the
weeping willow”—of the secret transactions of Briand,
Lancken, Mme de Merode and Baron Coppee, he flew
into a violent rage and talked of sending “the blasted
pimp” before the High Court of Justice. “What’s the
good of getting angry and saying that,” exclaimed Ignace,
stretching his long legs, “you won’t do it.” This was
204
repeated to the impressionable Briand, who was not

entirely easy in his mind and mumbled: “It’s a joke.
I would never have given up Alsace-Lorraine”; actually
did not care twopence about it, did not even know
whether Strasburg lay north, south, east or west of
Mulhouse and Colmar, nor “whether it really was the
Rhine that ran along there.” Capus used to say of
Briand’s abode in the Avenue Kleber: “It is a lumber
room of dirty socks and cigarette ends.” What is certain
is that the “migratory tough” had taken it upon himself
to get in touch with Lancken, the cleverest and most
dangerous of the Kaiser’s emissaries, and after Lancken
left Belgium papers were found (see Ribot’s Memoires)
lying about openly on his desk, which showed that only
one French politician had been considered capable at that
time of such a shady transaction, and that was the man
of the Zappeion and of the Greek Princess—Briand.
The fear which Briand, like some others, had of the
Tiger, who, nevertheless, was too indulgent towards
them, prevented him from conspiring openly against him.
He contented himself with drivelling in corners, rolling
his eternal cigarette and questioning Loucheur about the
real state of affairs. He lived in hopes of some huge
blunder which would bring about the fall of the cabinet
in which he had no part.
In December, 1917, all lieutenant-generals, brigadiers
and colonels who had passed, respectively, the ages of
sixty, fifty-eight and fifty-six, and who, in the opinion
of their superiors, did not show the intellectual and
physical vigour that the circumstances demanded, were
withdrawn from the front and employed elsewhere. This
205
CLEMENCEAU
measure had, towards the end of the war, the most

fortunate effects.
There was also serious need of weeding-out among the
prefets and sous-prefets, and this was mercilessly carried
out by Mandel for whom administration had no more
secrets than parliamentarism. He was a man who took his
work seriously.
There was much recrimination when Sarrail was
removed from the command of the army in the Near
East and replaced by Guillaumat, as all the freemasons
were behind him. I saw him at the Law Courts during
the trial of Paix-Seailles, who has since disappeared,
where, in his mufti, he looked like a great china doll.
He was lolling on a bench, and earned a severe reprimand
from the valiant General Cordonnier, who was in uniform
and seemed as though he had much more to say. Our
Sarrail did not cut a very fine figure. “Defend yourself,
General, for goodness’ sake, defend yourself!” groaned
one of Le Bonnet Rouge sub-editors. It was both tragic
and comic. It was on ioth December, 1917, that Sarrail
received from his new minister the following telegram:
“I have the honour to inform you that the Govern¬
ment, actuated by considerations of a general nature, has
decided to recall you to France.”
Certain other generals, friends of the executed Bolo,
were also relieved of their duties.
The Press Department, which was quite useless and
merely a centre for gossip was closed down altogether.
Order was re-established in railway stations and train
services. In fact the whole house was thoroughly and
rapidly spring-cleaned from top to bottom, including the
206
Surete-Generale, which was put under a very honest man,

a M. Winter—but that changed later.
The War Committee, of which Almereyda’s Malvy was
a most unnecessary member—which really was the limit!
—was reorganized, and the number of its members
reduced to six instead of the ten there had been under
the incapable and grotesque Painleve. The said com¬
mittee was warned by the great “boss” in person that it
was not to meddle with the conduct of military operations.
The first meeting of the Inter-Allied Supreme War
Council took place on ist December, 1917, at the Trianon
Palace in Versailles. Clemenceau presided. Mr. Lloyd
George represented Britain, Colonel House, America,
and Signor Orlando, Italy. The military representatives
were Generals Foch and Weygand, General Wilson,
General Blies and General Cadorna. A plan for mutual
co-operation and for pooling information was worked out.
Russia had been since 1917 in a state of complete
Bolshevist disruption. Italy was still feeling the effects
of her defeat of Caporetto, but she was to recover swiftly
from it and received reinforcements of eleven Anglo-
French divisions.
The inferiority of our numbers condemned us to remain
on the defensive and throughout those winter months
Clemenceau devoted himself to examining conditions on
the spot and reorganizing our defence system. He
wavered between Mordacq’s theory (the organization of
the defensive at the rear of the front line), and that of
Foch (“never to yield an inch of ground to the enemy”).
Thanks to his clear-sightedness and his innate military
sense—I insist on that—the work Clemenceau did at the
207
CLEMENCEAU
front was as valuable as that which he had just accom¬

plished in his offices. During the course of January,
1918, President Wilson gave out his fourteen points.
They were childish and, in parts, even comic in con¬
ception, but, nevertheless, were destined to play their
part at the time of the armistice. Great as were the
advantages of his “being actually on the spot,” the “Old
Man’s” masterpiece was the creation of a unified com¬
mand, which secured what Maurras called the “monarchy
of war” as opposed to the democratic doctrine. Colonel
House was always of the opinion that a unified command
was imperative, but Britain opposed it, remembering the
17th April when she had placed her troops under the
command of General Nivelle—an experiment which had
not been a success.
Caillaux’s arrest on 14th January, 1918, had an immense
moral effect both in France and in other countries, and
Ignace was right in saying that the immediate trial and
execution of Caillaux would have hastened victory and
increased the efficiency of the new cabinet.
During this period of being on the defensive, Clemen-
ceau learned to recognize the eminent qualities of General
Petain, and the clever way in which he held his reserves.
This, later, was to enable him to resist Ludendorff’s
onslaught. Without in any way belittling the achieve¬
ments of the impetuous Foch during the last months of
the war, one has to recognize that, after Clemenceau the
incomparable, it was Petain on the one hand, and Mangin
on the other, who were the architects of victory—Mangin
our Scipio Africanus.
On 30th January, 1918, my wife and I had some friends
208
to dinner. That was the night of the famous air raid

on Paris and our guests went home as the bombs were
falling, but by a miracle none was hurt. From that
tragic night it was evident to us that the main objective
of the enemy aircraft, the Gothas as they were called, was
the War Office and Clemenceau’s life. They evidently
did not know that he slept every night at his place
in the Rue Franklin, which was more difficult to locate.
In February the press announced simultaneously the
arrest of a member of the Senate, Charles Flumbert, and
the opening of the Bonnet Rouge trial. I had known
this big trembling jelly, Charles Humbert, in the days
when he was manager of Le Journal and used to ring up
generals in the presence of his visitors and give them the
“tu” of intimacy. He had told me that he was continu¬
ally being threatened with death, and asked me how,
despite my “terrible press attacks,” I managed to escape
my enemies. I answered, “by having them imprisoned
or shot.” I have always thought that with his immeas¬
urable vanity he might be led to commit an indiscretion,
but I never thought he was capable of deliberate treachery.
From the beginning of March—the month that was
almost fatal to us, and which if the incapable Painleve
had been in power would certainly have been so—the
rumour spread of an approaching German offensive
against the British front to be made by Ludendorff, the
real chief of the invading armies at that time.
It all began on 8th March, with the following speech
of Clemenceau’s in the Chamber, to which added
emphasis was given the same day by a fresh German
air raid on Paris:
o 209
CLEMENCEAU
“M. Renaudel is well aware that I cannot answer for

facts for which I am not responsible. But he accuses
me of a definite political crime, against which I am
anxious to defend myself. I am accused of permitting
newspaper attacks to go on. I am sorry. M. Renaudel
and his friends are all for doing exacdy as they please.
They have become accustomed to it through the protec¬
tion of the censorship. There was a time when that
same Leon Daudet, with tolerating whom they now
reproach me, branded me every day with infamy, and
my reply was suppressed by the censor. (Laughter.)
“Now you are being attacked. Does that astonish you?
People have been attacking me for fifty years. When
have I been heard to complain? Sometimes I have
replied; sometimes answered them with disdain or just
did not read them—and that is the best remedy. You
want me to stop all attacks on you? And yet, when I
started, you cheered the announcement that I had
removed the political censorship. I will not stop the
attacks, and, if you want a government that will, choose
another than mine.
“Republicans ought not to be frightened of the liberty
of the press. (Prolonged cheers.)
“The question will be put with you, against you, or
without you, as it suits you. The liberty of the press
must be respected by all and for all. You have the news¬
papers at your disposal, and the tribune, which M. Pain-
leve has just vacated. What are you complaining of?
You cannot defend liberty by mere gesticulation and
shouting.
“The first doctrine is liberty; the second is the war.
210
and that is why we must sacrifice everything to the war

in order to ensure victory for France. A great misfortune
befell me the day this ministry was born; I was banned
by M. Renaudel and his friends. They decreed that I was
a danger to the working classes and to national defence.
“The working class is not your property, gentlemen.
The hands of Messrs. Renaudel and Thomas are no more
horny than mine. I am sorry for them, but they are as
bourgeois as I! (Cheers.)
“No, I am not a danger to the working classes. I only
have the ardent wish to help to save my country from
the frightful danger it is in.”
A voice: “It’s the way of doing it!”
“My way is not your way. I am just an old man
whom experience has made wise. You reproach me with
all sorts of crimes! Who wants to kill his dog, says
that it is mad. Well, I am not mad!
“The longer the war goes on, the clearer you can see
the moral crisis developing, which comes at the end of
all wars. Brutality and violence, that is the moral crisis
in which one side or the other ends, and the one who
can hold out the longer is the victor. That great nation
of the east, which has undergone the trial of centuries
of war, has found this formula: ‘The victor is the one
who can believe in victory for a quarter of an hour longer
than his adversary.’ That is my maxim.
“My whole policy is directed towards one end: to
maintain the French morale through a crisis such as our
country has never before known.
“Our men have fallen in millions; the sacrifices of
the wealthy classes have been frightful, such that, when
211
CLEMENCEAU
one speaks of the rich, one is obliged to add the epithet

‘new’ and call them the ‘new’ rich.
“Fathers have given their sons; the unhappy inhabit¬
ants of the invaded regions have undergone tortures for
which there is no parallel in history. The aviator Garros
said to me the day before yesterday, when he came to
see me at my office, that if any of our men who were
prisoners in Germany did not receive parcels from home,
they would starve to death. That is the situation of those
we love, of those to whom our thoughts go out, to whom
we hold out our arms. It is worse than anything! And
you come to me with personal questions! I do not know
of them. I will not know them. (Lively interruptions
from the extreme left wing.)
“I have done nothing against you. I will do nothing
against you! Then why, every time I pass an Act, do
you accuse me of going against the working classes ? The
truth is that you cannot find anything to say against this
government, but you keep on opening and shutting your
mouths all the same.
“We are not in power to ensure the triumph of a party;
our ambitions are higher; they aim at safeguarding the
heroic morale of the French people. Each of us to-day
is entitled to say, ‘I am the child of a people with an old
and fine history; I am the child of a people which has
thought, read and acted, and our grandchildren will
think, read and act in the same way.’ That is why I
am in the government.
“You want peace? So do I. It would be criminal
to have any other thought. But it is not by bleating for
peace that we will put a stop to Prussian militarism.
212
“My formula is the same for everything. Home

politics? I wage war. Foreign politics? I wage war.
I always wage war.
“I am trying to preserve our Allies’ trust in me. Russia
betrays us? I go on with the war. Unhappy Roumania
is obliged to capitulate? I still carry on with the war.
And I shall continue to do so right up to the last quarter
of an hour, for it is we who will have the last quarter
of an hour.”
M. Andre Lebey: “Everyone thinks the same!”
“I beg your pardon! I read a dialogue in which
M. Renaudel and M. Longuet were not in agreement
about peace. What was it you discussed at the National
Congress? It was to decide whether, to-morrow, you
would vote for war credits.
“Do you think that by spreading your ideas you will
bring the war to an end? Yesterday’s example ought to
undeceive you.
“You want a democratic peace? So do we. You ask
what our war aims are. We have told you. Now ask
the Germans what theirs are.
“I have told you that justice would do its work. The
government will do its duty. It will pursue the war until
it achieves a victorious peace. If there are any here who
are prepared to refuse the war credits, let them say so!”
(Prolonged applause.)
On nth March, 1918, the Germans changed their secret
code, from which Colonel Cartier of the Secret Service
concluded that, as usual, they would attack ten
days later. Punctually on the 21st the British
front was attacked. On the 23rd the long-range gun,
213
CLEMENCEAU
“Big Bertha,” sister to the Gothas, thundered against

Paris.
On 21st March the British 5th Army under General
Gough was hemmed in in the region of Montdidier, and
Ludendorff’s intention became clear. He was obviously
trying to drive a wedge between the British and the French
and throw the former back to the coast. The 22nd was
a black day indeed, so black that the evacuation from
Paris of the public services, ministries, press, &c., was
considered, and editors were asked to designate the towns
to which they wished to transfer their lares and penates.
Clemenceau did not lose his head for all that. He was
besieged with questions in the Chamber, to which his
only reply was: “Well, what about it? We have had
a king of Bourges.* Why shouldn’t there be a President
of the Republic of Bourges? That would be just as good
as a President of the Republic of Bordeaux.” And then
he laughed. But beneath his laughter he hid the gravest
concern. He also said to Ignace: “Old boy, we will be
the last to leave Paris, you and I. But the last word has
not been spoken yet.”f
This fresh bombardment of Paris was at first attributed
to German aeroplanes flying at a height of 13,000 feet, a
considerable altitude in those days. But after examina¬
tion and the discovery of grooved shells it had to be
admitted that this was the work of a long-range gun,
which was soon discovered to be at Fere-en-Tardenois,
the birthplace of the diplomat and poet Paul Claudel.
translator’s note: During the Hundred Years War the English

occupied Paris and the French king transferred his court to Bourges.
+1 have this from Ignace himself.
214
During those days, Paris lived in a state of mingled

apprehension and defiance. As the bad luck of the
Germans would have it, on Good Friday a shell from
the new “Bertha” struck the cupola of Saint-Gervais
Church at just about the historically accepted hour of the
death of Our Lord Jesus Christ, killing eighty innocent
people and wounding many others.
From 23rd March till 8th April, 1918, the “Berthas”—
there were three of them—fired, General Mordacq tells
us, 183 projectiles on Paris and 120 on the suburbs. They
killed 129 men, 132 women and 14 children, and wounded
121 people.
On 24th March at a grave meeting of the cabinet the
necessary arrangements were made for transferring to a
place of safety the Register of the National Debt, the
cash balance of the Bank of France, the securities and
coin deposits in the principal banks and “all valuables
contained in the capital.” The same thing was done
with all the principal state archives, and those of notaries
and solicitors. It was understood then what military pro¬
tection of a country meant: exactly everything. “As for
the factories,” said General Mordacq, “everything was
arranged for the rapid removal of their machinery, or its
destruction if that were not possible.”
Yet the people of Paris—of whom I was one—felt that
a strong hand was in charge and suppressed their fears, so
that there was no disorder—which was remarkable. In
public places, in the underground and the buses there was
one password: “The ‘Old Man’ is there . . . We shall
beat them.”
On 24th March the news from Compiegne was once
2I5
CLEMENCEAU
again bad. The Germans were convinced that the road

to Paris was open.
Then Petain stopped the gap in the front and the force
of Ludendorff’s two attacking armies was broken. Petain
had also formed a reserve from divisions drawn from the
5th and 10th Armies which was ready to be sent in
wherever wanted.
“The 25th March,” says Mordacq, “was a great day
and, in a way, a preface to the one following, on which
the Doullens meeting took place. Doullens was the
greatest historical moment of the war.” Clemenceau was
determined to insist on the Allied forces being put
under one command. Circumstances supported his
demand.
There are numerous accounts of the historic Doullens
meeting. At about three o’clock in the afternoon,
Poincare, Lord Milner, Clemenceau, Loucheur, Generals
Foch and Mordacq started off for Compiegne by car.
They arrived there at about half past four. The con¬
ference started immediately, though Field-Marshal Haig
and General Wilson were not there. Petain opened the
proceedings with a complete exposition of the situation,
adding that the 5th British Army no longer counted.
He himself had fifteen divisions ready to fill the gap.
After Petain, Foch insisted on the necessity for swift and
concentrated action in the region of Amiens. Lord
Milner asked for a postponement of the discussion and
suggested that it be continued the next day at Doullens
in the presence of Field-Marshal Haig and General
Wilson. Clemenceau agreed. Lord Milner thought
that the general conduct of the war should be placed in
216
Clemenceau’s hands with Foch as his technical adviser,

but Foch pointed out the disadvantages of this.
Doullens lay midway between the British and French
General Headquarters. On 26th March Clemenceau and
Mordacq reached the square in front of the town hall
at eleven o’clock, followed shortly after by Poincare and
General Duparge. Clemenceau, who was confident of
success, seemed to be in a good mood. Poincare had
unbent a little; Foch was calm and optimistic, and Petain
anxious. They walked about in groups. Foch made the
famous declaration: “My plan is not complicated. I
shall attack everywhere and shall certainly end by shaking
the Boche; he is no cleverer or stronger than we are.”
“Isn’t he grand,” murmured Clemenceau, seized with
a sudden brotherly tenderness for this “Jesuits’ pupil.”
A little after midday Lord Milner arrived with Haig
and Wilson, and the conference proper began at twenty
past twelve.
In answer to a question, Field-Marshal Haig stated
that he was not dreaming of evacuating Amiens. Then
Petain gave a rather gloomy account of the situation.
Lord Milner drew Clemenceau aside and proposed to
him that the general conduct of the war should be given
to Foch. Clemenceau consulted Petain who, with his
natural magnanimity, agreed, and at the same time Field-
Marshal Haig was expressing to Lord Milner his con¬
fidence in such a solution. The following agreement was
signed:
“General Foch is entrusted by the British and French
Governments with co-ordinating the action of the Allied
Armies on the western front. To this end, he is to act
217
CLEMENCEAU
in concert with the Generals-in-Chief, who are requested

to furnish him with all the necessary information.”
This was not yet absolute unity of command in the
full meaning of the term; but it was the beginning of it.
The British left immediately. The Frenchmen dined
together and got back to Paris at about eight o’clock that
evening. Shortly afterwards General Pershing came to
tell Clemenceau and Foch:
“The situation is grave. I am placing all my troops
at your disposal.”
On i st April Clemenceau went to the front at Rouvrel,
where he escaped death only by a miracle. Generals
Boichut and Mordacq had all the trouble in the world
to prevent the “Old Man” from uselessly exposing him¬
self to the heavy bombardment. They succeeded in the
end, though it was hard work. Clemenceau’s view,
which was shared by Mangin and Marchand, was that
a leader ought to expose himself to danger—contrary to
the German idea, which in my opinion is more rational.
The great advantage of it, of course, is the enthusiasm
such self-detachment inspires in the troops. Caesar—
whose tenacity and democratic tendencies give him so
much in common with Clemenceau—would risk his life
on occasion, but only when he judged this to be absolutely
necessary. Like Clemenceau, he kept in constant touch
with his military leaders and, during the war in Gaul,
and in Africa, entrusted them with missions of the
highest importance. Again, both were capable of taking
matters into their own hands and of carrying the whole
thing through themselves without allowing anyone or
anything to divert them from their purpose.
218
The situation on the Somme improved once the initial

surprise had worn off and the German offensive was
halted. Foch complained that though he gave his advice
as to the operations, he was not actually allowed to direct
them. In the end Mordacq suggested to Clemenceau a
happy and decisive formula that spared everyone’s feel¬
ings, by which Foch was entrusted with “the strategical
direction of military operations.” In Paris, where mean¬
while the shells of “Big Bertha” were falling at regular
intervals, the news of Foch being placed in sole command
was received with extraordinary enthusiasm by the public,
who fully realized its significance. It was marvellous to
hear—in the trams, the underground, in the trains—their
enthusiastic remarks, which always ended with the
refrain: “It is one of the ‘Old Man’s’ ideas. Ah, where
should we be without him!”
On 3rd April Foch gave out to the Commanders-in-
Chief of the Allied Armies his celebrated general direc¬
tions, which he had previously submitted to his War
Minister:
“The enemy is checked from Arras to the Oise. He
can easily resume the offensive north of the Somme, and
particularly in the region of Arras, thanks to the numer¬
ous railway lines at his command.
“With more difficulty in the south, where the railways
he has taken are less numerous, in bad condition, and
partly within range of our guns.
“For the time being we must stay on the defensive and
retain our positions along the Albert-Arras front, which
must be rapidly organized; a French reserve must be
kept north of Beauvais so as to be in a position to ward
219
CLEMENCEAU
off an enemy attack north of the Somme, however

powerful.
“The Franco-British Armies, taking advantage of the
rectangular shape of their front, will try and free the
Saint-Just-Amiens railway; firstly, by a double French
offensive in the region of Montdidier with the object of
driving the enemy east away from the Avre, on the one
hand, and, on the other, of making a push towards the
north in the direction of Roye; secondly, by a British
offensive towards the east along both sides of the Somme
from the Luce to the Ancre, aimed at freeing Amiens.
“Without aiming at any decisive success, it is to be
hoped that these operations will inflict a serious reverse
on the enemy. It is, moreover, the best way of parrying
a possible German attack north of the river.”
At the beginning of the German offensive known as
the Battle of Flanders (8th April, 1918), General Foch
at last received the title of Commander-in-Chief of the
Allied Armies in France. Clemenceau, who had
expended unheard-of efforts and done everything possible
to bring this about, was to be repaid, as will be seen,
with nothing but the blackest ingratitude. The question
of reserves had now become one of extreme urgency.
In the middle of May of that eventful year the court-
martial pronounced its verdict on the Bonnet Rouge case,
an affair which was intimately connected with the
Caillaux, Malvy and Pierre Lenoir cases. Its hard
sentences were vigorously applauded in the trenches and
still further increased Clemenceau’s terrific popularity.
One day, during one of his visits to the front, he con¬
gratulated some of the poilus on not being afraid. “Well,
220
sir,” one of them said, “you were not frightened of

Caillaux.’ "Of him, no. But if I had to deal with his
wife, I should be very frightened of her.”
There was, however, one thing which the experts
agreed our armies lacked, and that was a good intelli¬
gence service. There is no doubt that such a service is
one of the most difficult to run, particularly when spies
work for both sides, but it is indispensable in modern
warfare. This was clearly seen on 27th May, 1918, at
Chemin-des-Dames, where a formidable German offensive
took us by surprise at a moment when the High Com¬
mand was least expecting an attack! Our first positions
were carried, then the second. The enemy swept like
a whirlwind over the Aisne and pressed home his advan¬
tage to the south, collecting much booty as he went. At
the same time “Big Bertha” started bombarding Paris
again, after having been silent from 2nd till 27th May.
This was a terrible blow for Foch, coming as it did
the day after he had become, thanks to Clemenceau, the
Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Armies. He realized
it, and from that day dates his grudge against the “Old
Man,” who, for his part, pushed generosity so far as
to defend the unlucky soldier against the furious attacks
made on him in parliament. The future was to show
how great was this fresh service the seventy-eight year-old
War Minister did the nation in refusing to abandon his
principal collaborator.
It was no better for General Duchesne, who had been
left in his corner and rightly complained about it. The
“Old Man” had to comfort him. After leaving General
Duchesne, Clemenceau went on to Provins, to General
221
CLEMENCEAU
Petain’s quarters, where the enemy’s continued progress

towards the Marne was giving rise to considerable
anxiety. As for General Maudhuy, the commander of
the Army Corps at the Chemin-des-Dames, he still did
not realize how the disaster had happened. The Prime
Minister and General Mordacq got back to Paris at about
eight o’clock that evening and left the next morning for
Trilport with Rene Renoult, one of the most mediocre
of men, as events showed, but one in whom Clemenceau
had confidence, though it is not easy to know why.
The anger of parliamentary circles against Foch
mounted higher and higher and he was openly called
incapable and a fool, this by those who were themselves
incapables and fools and in whom fear took the form
of anger. Then the Tiger reappeared. A socialist delega¬
tion went to see Clemenceau during the morning of
31st May and started threatening him. That was enough
for him and he cursed them up hill and down dale
with the greatest of violence. It was a long time since
he had indulged in such a tirade and it did him good,
soothing his nerves which had been stretched almost
beyond endurance.
The lack of troops was becoming more and more
critical. A long telegram, signed by Clemenceau, Lloyd
George and Orlando, was sent to President Wilson
informing him that 162 Allied divisions were opposed to
200 German divisions and asking him to expedite the
transport of American troops. Which was done.
The 4th June saw a very lively sitting in the Chamber,
where Briand was plotting as hard as he could. Clemen¬
ceau fought the lobby tactics and burst the Aristide
222
abscess. He was irresistible in those days, completely

influenced by his state of trance. He said, hammering
out his syllables:
“These soldiers, these great soldiers, have leaders, good
leaders, great leaders, leaders who are worthy of them
in every respect. ... I will go on repeating this as long
as is necessary to make people listen to me, because it
is my duty, because I have seen these leaders at
work.
“These men are, at this moment, engaged in the
hardest struggle of the whole war, and are fighting with
a heroism for which I can find no words worthy to
describe it.
“And are we now, because of a mistake which may
have been made here or there, or which may even not
have been made at all; are we, before knowing the
circumstances, to ask for explanations, to demand, in the
middle of a battle, from a man who is exhausted with
fatigue, whose head is nodding on his shoulders from
sheer weariness, as I have seen it in terrible times; are
we to go and ask such a man for explanations, so as to
find out whether, on such and such a day, he has done
such or such a thing?
“Drive me from the rostrum, if that is what you are
asking, for I will not do it.
“We shall achieve victory if the state is equal to its
task. I am fighting before Paris; I am fighting in Paris;
I am fighting behind Paris!”
This attitude saved the situation, for there was already
talk in the lobbies of a Briand cabinet with Sarrail in
the place of Foch! At the end of this fine project,
223
CLEMENCEAU
naturally, was a Lancken-Merode-Coppee peace. Once

again parliamentarism, in the face of danger, showed its
real face.
Treason was already lifting up its head again, and
Caillaux, in La Sante, insisted on the warders calling him
Monsieur le President. But these fine projects would
have met in Paris with a resistance which the conspirators
never imagined. In spite of the deplorable alarm of
27th May the great city had remained passionately on the
side of Clemenceau, as was plain to see. My opinion
is that, in the circumstances, Briand would have been
risking his life. He knew this, as whatever else he lacked
it was not “feelers,” as he put it, particularly as regards
his own precious person.
The question of replacing worn-out generals—war
quickly wears down even the strongest nerves—and of
sending them to the rear was decided at first between
Foch, Weygand, Mordacq and Clemenceau and then
between Petain, Mordacq and Clemenceau, in the way
that would best serve the national interests. It had taken
ten months to get even so far! As for Clemenceau
himself, his resistance to fatigue and every kind of worry
amazed his staff. With never a cold, never depressed,
he was always on duty, always fresh and rosy, always
ready with a retort, and his immediate grasp on things
anticipated objections and silenced contradiction. He
declared later that those few months of conducting a war
had taught him more than all the rest of his life, more
than all the books he had ever read. He looked forward
to the moment when he could “arrange it all” and
“revise his knowledge and his certitudes.” These, how-
224
ever, he never did revise, except his views on democracy,

that idol of his youth and maturity.
Capus, who saw him frequently, who admired and
loved him and in whom Clemenceau liked to confide,
saw his grudge against Poincare growing, saw his rising
scorn and disgust of Briand, whose intrigues at the time
of the Chemin-des-Dames scare had sickened him. He
would have liked to have knocked him down. “As I
wear gloves, there is no risk of my dirtying my hands.”
Capus amused himself by lazily defending both these
“Aunt Sallies,” the one a little provincial bourgeois,
shrunken, mean, a craven and a harbourer of resentment;
the other an unbelievable cad, who had been washed into
high places by the tide of universal suffrage. For a long
time now, ever since the Panama scandal, this question
of that great fetish, universal suffrage, had preoccupied
the person of many transformations that Clemenceau was.
His opinion of the military had been profoundly modi¬
fied, as also his views about the clergy, whom he had seen
at work during his innumerable visits to the front. These
visits, he said, had cured him of his pessimistic opinion
of human nature by showing him that humanity is
capable of such great devotion and sacrifice. His emotions
got the better of cold reason. He was a passionate
believer in taking risks, and felt a passionate, watchful
sympathy for those who took them. These visits to the
trenches and his contact with his poilus left him with his
heart beating higher and the spirit of the Vendee stronger
within him.
In Gustave Geffroy’s wonderful book, Georges Clemen¬
ceau, to which I have frequently had recourse, there
p 225
CLEMENCEAU
is a most impressive photograph of the “Old Man” sitting

on some planks lunching, anyhow, with three soldiers.
His white hair shows under his soft hat and there is
about him an inexpressible air of contentment, resolution
and kindliness. Sitting solidly there, he seems the very
embodiment of unshakable belief in approaching victory.
The great feature of this period of the war as far as
we were concerned was the conviction, both at the front
and behind the lines, that we would win. At that time
my ways took me all over Paris and its suburbs, and,
despite the events of 21st March and 27th May, the
Chamber was the only place where this conviction was
not absolute. It was the same certitude of victory that
we had during the struggle for Verdun and the battle
of the Marne. The more I think about it, the more I
feel that what von Moltke, a nephew of the great general
of the 1870 war, said when he went into the Kaiser’s
room on 15th September and spoke the words which
brought him into disfavour: “Your Majesty, the battle
is lost,” was a true statement of the position.
After the tragic events of 27th May, which are to-day
still not very clear, there was now staged another, more
dramatic attack—this time from our side. This was
Mangin’s successful resumption of action at Mery
Courcelles on nth June.
For an account of this great exploit, whose importance
L’Action Frangaise was the only paper to recognize, one
has to go to Major, now General, Laure’s book An
bureau du G.Q.C. (Plon, 1921), which is one of the
masterpieces of the literature on the war. The chapter
in question is called: “The Counter-Attack of nth June
226
on the Heights between Matz and Aronde.” The

assailant was one of the best of the German generals,
von Hutier. General Fayolle, also a great leader, was
planning a counter-offensive from west to east, against
von Hutier’s flank, who was continuing his push towards
the south.
“To carry out this daring plan,” writes Laure, “it was
necessary to have a commander who possessed, above all,
audacity and confidence in success, one who could dis¬
pense with the slow development and fixed procedure
of the classic attack.” The choice fell on Mangin, who
commanded the 9th Corps of the 1st Army. A solemn
conference was held at Prouleroy in the library of the
old castle there, to which Mangin came alone, without
his staff. “General Jacquot placed himself under his
orders and offered him the assistance of his staff, his
artillery, his aeroplanes and his plan of battle. There
was a squared map of the proposed battlefield spread
out on a large billiard-table.”
In the “ever-affable and yet authoritative tone which
characterized his speech,” Mangin read out the order
which General Fayolle had just given him in Noailles:
“General Mangin’s mission is to counter-attack on the
flank of the enemy, who is moving on towards Gournay-
sur-Aronde. The counter-attack is to be made as soon
as possible, during the day of nth June. The point of
attack will be determined by the position of the enemy.”
“When does the attack start?”
“At this question,” so writes Laure, “which, if I
remember rightly, was put by General de Corn, General
Mangin seemed to hesitate for a moment. His gaze
227
CLEMENCEAU
travelled from one to another of his listeners, rested for

a moment on the map, then, looking straight in front
of him, he said in a gentle voice, as though it were the
most natural thing in the world: ‘Ten o’clock.’ If his
voice had not been, as I have said, one that brooked no
contradiction, there would have been an outcry. ‘What,
we are going to bring out five divisions and four detach¬
ments of tanks from the protection of the woods, in broad
daylight? We are to expose our flank to the full view
of the nest of artillery on the Boulogne-la-Grosse
heights? . . These questions were never asked, for
one look at Mangin was reply enough: ‘Yes, that is
what we are going to do.’ ”
It was a complete success, and Major Laure adds: “The
spirit of offensive had reawakened. The French armies
were proud to learn of the success of Mangin’s army.
. . . The battle of Matz and the counter-attack of nth
June were the rehearsals for the subsequent battle of
Champagne and the counter-offensive of 18th July.
Therefore, because this aspect of them has perhaps so
far escaped the public, I felt I must give them an import¬
ant place in this account.”
A month passed. The 15th July, 1918, brought what
General Mordacq has called the “German attack of
despair,” but at the time it by no means looked like one.
This attack extended to the trenches of Champagne (the
French 4th Army).
The atmosphere in Paris and the suburbs was as I
have already described it. Then, a few weeks later, first
of all the poilus, whom Clemenceau had so often visited,
and then the civilians behind the lines, started calling
228
him “Old Father Victory.” The name came from an

old song of the Boulanger days:
Vous qui passez par la,
Sous cette tonnelle entrez boire,
Buvez, buvez, jeunes soldats
Le vin du Pere la Victoire.*
But it was no less inspired by Clemenceau’s faith in
victory.
Astonishingly enough the lesson of 27th May had had
its effect. The French Command wanted to find out
what the enemy had up his sleeve, and an intelligent and
courageous sergeant, Darnand by name, penetrated the
enemy lines with some men and took a certain number
of German soldiers prisoners. Clever questioning
extracted from them the arrangements and zero hour of
the next artillery attack. This knowledge allowed
General Gouraud to withdraw his troops from the front
line and leave the enemy artillery to expend their fire
on empty positions. The Crown Prince writing of this
in his Souvenirs says: “The chief of the staff, with his
map in his hand, confirmed what I already knew, namely,
that the French had systematically withdrawn before
our attack and that, consequently, our initial barrage
had hammered away at positions that were practically
empty. The enemy, having got information from
prisoners, had been expecting our attack for several days.
The surprise missed fire.”
It was while visiting the Monts de Champagne a week
* All you soldiers passing by,

Come and drink, for you are dry.
Drink, drink, drink young soldiery,
The wine of Father Victory.
229
CLEMENCEAU
before this that Clemenceau was given a bouquet by his

poilus, a gesture which touched him most deeply. He
told the story of it in his speech at the unveiling of the
Monument to the Fallen at Sainte-Hermine on ist
October, 1921.
“We were at the Monts de Champagne, which Gouraud
and Petain were defending. This sector was to be the
scene of a decisive act in the drama. Extensive prepara¬
tions were being made in the greatest secrecy. Nothing
leaked out. If everything was to go according to plan
the great wall of chalk had to be held at all costs.
“The path which wound its way right up to the pass,
across which the shells were flying, betrayed no sign of
the feverish activity going on. There was not a sign
of life. But although you saw nothing, you were seen
yourself and your approach quickly reported. On the
slope, hidden by folds in the ground, shaggy heads which
the dust of Champagne had powdered white emerged
fantastically from invisible machine-gun nests.
“Inscrutable faces, some impassive, others with a grave
smile, but all stamped with that strange air which is the
hallmark of the soldier.
“Sometimes salutes, sometimes nothing but a flash from
eyes aflame with invincible resolution. Heroes in aban¬
doned posts with orders to go on firing till the last man
was killed. Through death, to victory; that each one of
them understood. How terrible is the calm of those who
have renounced all hope of seeing the victory for which
they are sacrificing their lives! What words could come
to their lips, when their looks already say all that swells
their hearts?
230
“And slowly the road leads down again. From every

side come these tragic figures in their blue helmets,
emerging from their mountain to take a look at their
unexpected visitors, then returning, like automatons, back
into the bowels of the earth, divided between hopes of
life and a readiness to sacrifice their all.
“Meanwhile, those down below had had time to con¬
sult together: ‘When one receives a friend and cannot
even offer him a chair, should one not at least give him
a special welcome?’
“No sooner said than done. And the next moment
they were running to meet their visitor—strange figures,
their faces blanched with dust, who proceeded to fall
into line and came to attention as their officer stepped
forward and rapped out: ‘No. i Company, 2nd Battalion,
3rd Regiment. There you are! ’
“And a rough hand tendered a little bunch of wild
flowers, grey with dust, magnificent in their poverty and
resplendent with the spirit that inspired the gift.
“Ah! those slender, withered stems! The Vendee will
see them, for I have promised that they shall be laid
to rest with me. Can you not feel that they are already
part of our ceremony to-day?
“And that ‘There you are,’ quivering with all the
tragedy of war. Never again will I experience anything
like it. A cry to grip the hearts of mankind and weld
them into one; the cry of a man who sacrifices himself
with his companions in tragic glory, for the apotheosis
of an idea which carries him beyond himself to the
highest expression of the martial spirit, that single-minded
devotion which alone determines the issue. And that
23!
CLEMENCEAU
gesture! As much as to say: ‘We answer for every¬

thing.’
“Then the old man choked by an emotion he could
not control, wrung that strong hand with all his might,
and could only stammer out incoherent words and swear
that that little bunch of flowers, colourless and withered,
pledge of the most sublime devotion to an ideal, would
never leave him.”
Clemenceau stated in his will that the bouquet was to
be placed with him in his coffin.
Paris soon learned that these hours of the 14th and
15th July had been favourable ones for us. The deep
red pall which hung above the city did in fact fade
and disappear,, and the distant roar of the guns fell silent.
No one was astonished at this: “Of course ! Clemenceau
is there!” It was not known for certain till the 19th
that there had been this great success which enabled us
to resume the offensive. The news first reached the
High Court of Justice where Malvy was being tried, so
that the judge and witnesses were the first to hear of it.
I was in the lofty, spacious witnesses’ room when
suddenly a sort of happy murmur spread through the
great courtyard of the Palais-Medicis, through which I
had passed so often during the sittings of the Commission
of Enquiry, mounted the steps, joined in the hum of the
corridor, and sent a patriotic usher to whisper to me
a few seconds before I was to give the second part of
my evidence: “Mangin, great victory.” This was the
Chateau-Thierry offensive, which was launched by
Mangin on 18th July and reported to the staff of la
Morlaye in a telegram from Petain. “It was the first
232
time,” said Mordacq, “for a whole year that we did not

submit to the enemy’s will, but, rather, tried to impose
ours on him.”
During those months from July till October Clemen-
ceau never relaxed his activity, and his numerous visits
to Headquarters and among the troops inspired the staffs
with a spirit of conciliation and co-operation and com¬
forted the men with the knowledge of his own strength
and daring.
He visited one part or another of the line nearly every
day and was never happier or more jolly than when he
was with the men and sharing their dangers. His rela¬
tions with Foch were at that time still very friendly.
They were not so with the people’s representatives,
particularly the members of the Chamber, who kept on
harassing him and involved him in much useless dis¬
cussion and unnecessary work, while Poincare, who was
secretly envious of his popularity with the army and the
people, bombarded him with a constant stream of plain¬
tive, peevish letters.
Knowing the police of the Surete-Generale as I did, and
knowing as I had for a long time that it was crammed
with German agents, I was astonished that no attempt
had been made on Clemenceau’s life, for since the end
of July, 1918, it had been obvious to those who knew
that he was going to beat the enemy. Someone who
ought to have known expressed the opinion that Old
Father Victory’s happy immunity was due partly to the
Malvy trial and partly to the fear of terrible reprisals.
But, that later on . . . things would happen. And,
indeed, they did.
233
CLEMENCEAU
Ludendorff writes in his Memoirs: “The 8th August,

1918, was a day of mourning for the German Army. In
the history of this war these were the most painful hours
I lived through. . . .” And in L’Action Franqaise we
received news from reliable correspondents in Switzer¬
land that three of the best Prussian divisions had
surrendered without fighting. The news seemed so
improbable that we hesitated to publish it. Later on it
was confirmed. Ludendorff was very depressed by this,
as he says, and, from September on, it was his opinion
that peace should be made at any price. Later he
recovered a little, but his bolt was shot. He still dragged
things on for a time, in the hope of a recovery which
was no longer possible.
What followed is well known—how the military genius
of the new marshal hammered without respite at the
enemy positions and broke them one by one. And so it
went on up to the moment when the German retreat,
which was being covered by machine-gun nests under
N.C.O.s, threatened to degenerate into a rout.
It was about this time that the following conversation
is supposed to have taken place between Clemenceau,
Petain and a few others:
“It is not my custom,” said Clemenceau, “to give
advice on matters concerned with military operations;
but, as head of the government, I am allowing myself one
simple suggestion. The country feels victory in the air;
I ask you now to advance only when you are certain that
you will not afterwards be obliged to retreat. Public
opinion would be infinitely grateful to you for this. How¬
ever,” he added, with a sly look around him, “we no
234
longer have to fear such an eventuality after Gouraud’s

success.”
He was alluding here to the manoeuvre of the 4th
Army which, during the morning of 15th July, abandoned
its advanced positions to fall back on its main position,
tactics which favoured the formidable counter-attack
made by Mangin’s Army on the 18th of that month.
For several long seconds no one spoke; then Clemenceau
raised his head and looking Petain, who had never moved,
straight in the eyes, added:
“In fact, General Petain, General Gouraud is pleased
to say that the plan was yours.”
And Petain, who had kept silent, even when it looked
as though the credit for what he had done was being
given to another, replied:
“That is so, but Gouraud carried it out magnificently.”
On that occasion Petain received a well-earned military
medal.
On 16th September the Germans raided Paris for the
last time and two of their aeroplanes were brought down.
The imminence of defeat made the enemy chary of
inflicting further damage whether at the front or in
Paris, where their long-range guns had claimed nearly a
thousand victims of whom 250 had been killed.
But the best reply to these desperate attempts of an
enemy at bay was the “Old Man’s” speech in the Senate
on 17th September in which he answered the peace pro¬
posals put forward by Austria, and which the brutal
telegram to Czernin, known as the “corrupt conscience”
telegram, had already rejected. The publication of this
now famous speech was authorized.
235
CLEMENCEAU
Recent events have shown that the Austrian question

was quite different from what Clemenceau represented it
to be, due to his not having as complete a knowledge of
German as he had of English, but the speech is, never¬
theless, very fine.
I must draw attention to the appearance, at this turning
point, of what I have called the “euphory of victory,”
which made Clemenceau, after superhuman efforts and
an astonishing, dramatic martialling of his mental powers
and with all the trumps in his hand, inclined to play
them over again with his Anglo-Saxon Allies. I deny
that his glory is tarnished or lessened by this. As in
Mistral’s song of Les A'ieux (The Ancestors), “He has
lived, he has held on as long as he could.”
Here is the speech. It has character!
“Gentlemen, following the speakers of the two houses
of parliament, the Government claims, in its turn, the
honour of expressing, as far as words can do so, the
immense gratitude which all peoples worthy of the name
feel towards the magnificent soldiers of the Entente,
thanks to whom the nations of the earth will now
be freed from the terrors of the onslaught of
barbarism.
“For half a century now, not a day has passed without
France, peaceful in her high endeavour, having to sub¬
mit to some infamous injury from an enemy who could
not forgive her for saving from the wreck of her
temporary defeat her knowledge of the right, her
imprescriptible claim to independence and liberty.
“Vanquished we were, but our spirit the power of arms
could not touch. And the terror of the German, in the
236
midst of the clamorous ostentation of his false victories,

was the reparation history owed us.
“Never a day passed without the threat of war: never
a day without some cunning tyrannical brutality. ‘The
iron glove,’ ‘the dry powder,’ ‘the sharpened sword’—
these were the themes of the German peace, which by
their perpetual menace of catastrophe were to establish
the implacable German hegemony. Patiently we lived
through these atrociously laggard hours, suffered the
worst outrages and the great humiliation of the advances
of a base hypocrisy which proposed our acceptance of a
voluntary bondage that alone should save us from the
universal cataclysm.
“We submitted to everything, silently awaiting the
inevitable day which was our due.
“And the moment came when, having failed to reduce
us by terror, the would-be master of the world in his
belief that the hour of collapse was at hand, resolved
to put an end to the tranquil pride of the nations who
dared refuse his yoke. It was the enormous contempt of
a tyrant too ready to infer from the traditional degrada¬
tion of his subjects the impotence of those nations who
had so far preserved their right to independent life.
“And, without any avowable cause, without the sem¬
blance of a pretext, without even stooping to the improba¬
bility of lies, the traditional aggressor launched his hordes,
as of old, against our territory, to lay it waste with the
fire and the sword they had already brought to others.
Without wasting a word our soldiers set off to make the
supreme sacrifice, which the safety of their homes
demanded. What they were, what they are, and what
237
CLEMENCEAU
they have done, history will tell. We know it, we knew

it beforehand; but it is only since yesterday that the
terrified German has begun to understand what kind of
men confront him, and to what strokes of fate he is
condemned by his madness of murder and devasta¬
tion.
“Idiotically, he believed that victory would pardon all
in hosannas of fire and blood. Our countryside devas¬
tated, our towns, our villages wrecked by mines and
razed by fire, our land methodically pillaged and even
its meanest peasant subjected to the refinement of cruelty;
every outrage the past has known revived for the hideous
joy of drunken brutes; men, women and children carried
off into slavery—that is what the world has seen; that
is what it will never forget.
“No, indeed, no victory could ever pardon so many
crimes or bring oblivion to a tale of horrors greater than
that the primitive peoples had ever been able to accumu¬
late. And then their victory never came, but in its stead
the most terrible reckoning of nation with nation. This
reckoning shall be paid.
“Now, after four years of thankless glory, a change of
fortune, unexpected—but not by us—has made the armies
of that Kaiser who repudiated the civilization of the world
retreat before the nations with a free conscience. Yes,
the day heralded in our national anthem for more than
a century now has actually arrived; the children are
about to finish the immense task their fathers started.
France is no longer alone in justifying the use of arms,
as our great thinker did. It is the whole brotherhood
of nations, joined in such a fellowship of the rights of
238
man as has never before been seen, which is about to

achieve the victory of the highest humanity.
“Who could ever have dreamed of a finer sacrifice
for a finer destiny?
“Civilians and soldiers, the governments of the Entente,
all were at their posts. They will remain there till their
task is done. All are worthy of their victory, because
they will know how to honour it.
“And yet, we within these walls would be unfaithful
to ourselves could we forget that the supreme homage
and the greatest glory must go to our soldiers, to those
magnificent poilus whom history will confirm in the
laurels they have earned themselves. Smiling, stoical
heroes who, even now, ask nothing of us but the right
to finish the great task which will bring them immortality.
“What do they want? What do we ourselves want?
To fight, to fight victoriously, on and on until such time
as the enemy understands that there can no longer be
any compromise possible between crime and right. We
should be unworthy of the great destiny which has
befallen us if we could allow ourselves to sacrifice any
nation, small or great, to the appetites, to the mania
for implacable domination, which still hide beneath the
latest lies of barbarsim.
“I have heard it said that peace cannot be won by a
military decision. That was not what the German said
when he loosed the horrors of war on the peace of
Europe. That was not what he proclaimed even a short
time ago, when his leaders divided up the nations among
themselves like so many cattle, announcing here, and
accomplishing in Russia, the dismemberment which was
239
CLEMENCEAU
to make the whole world powerless beneath his iron

rule.
“It was Germany who wanted the military decision and
forced us to strive for it. Our dead have given their
blood to bear witness to their acceptance of the greatest
challenge ever made to the rights of civilized mankind.
Let it be then as the German wished, as he has done.
We will seek nothing but peace, and we will see that it
is just and solid, so that those to come may be saved from
the abomination of the past. Forward then, children
of the country, forward to the liberation of the nations
from the last fury of foul force. Go forth to spotless
victory! All France, all thinking humanity is with
I
you!
Since July, 1917, Clemenceau was, without knowing it,
a hero—one of the greatest and most important that the
world has ever known. When he went off to the front
to say good-day to Our Lady of Death in a state of, as
he considered, complete unbelief, his faith in his country
took the place of faith in Our Lord Jesus Christ. His
“fairy tale” was the Revenge. But the extraordinary,
one could say sublime, strength given him by providence
made it possible for him to make his fairy tale reality.
240
CHAPTER XI
OLD FATHER VICTORY
Military events are like political happenings or geological

changes; after a long period of stagnation they will
sometimes come tumbling over one another at an ever-
quickening speed. The return to mobile warfare after
four years of stagnation in the trenches was hustling the
German and Austrian armies towards the abyss. Luden-
dorff, Commander-in-Chief of all the enemy’s operations,
was well aware of this. On ist October, 1918, the new
Chancellor of Prussia, Max von Baden, telegraphed to
the President of the United States asking for his media¬
tion. The same day von Lersner, the liaison officer
between the Wilhelmstrasse and German Headquarters,
sent the following telegram to the Foreign Minister*:
“General Ludendorff has just asked me to transmit to
Your Excellency his urgent request that the peace offer be
despatched immediately, without waiting for the forma¬
tion of the new government which may take some time.
“He says that to-day the troops are still holding out,
but that a break-through may occur any minute, and
then our offer would arrive at the most unfavourable
moment. He says that he feels like a gambler, and that
any time now some division somewhere may fail in its
duty.”
*This was actually sent by von Griinau, not von Lersner.—Publisher's
note.
Q 24I
CLEMENCEAU
On 3rd October Field-Marshal Hindenburg laid the

following memorandum before the cabinet in Berlin:
“The High Command abides by its demand made on
29th September that an offer of peace be sent immedi¬
ately to our enemies.
“As a result of the collapse of the Macedonian front
and the consequent necessary weakening of our reserves
on the western front, and in view of the impossibility
of making good the very considerable losses sustained in
the battles of the last few days, there is no hope at all,
as far as man can judge, of imposing peace on the enemy.
“Our adversaries, for their part, are constantly bring¬
ing new reserves of fresh troops into the battle.
“The German army still stands firm and is victoriously
repulsing all attacks. But the situation is becoming more
critical every day and may force the High Command
into grave decisions.
“In these circumstances it is desirable to put an end to
the struggle, so as to spare the German people and its
allies futile sacrifices. Every day lost costs thousands of
brave soldiers their lives.”
At this same cabinet meeting the Kaiser stated: “The
High Command thinks an armistice is necessary”; and
added, turning to Prince Max von Baden: “You are not
here to make difficulties for it.” A strange fate that of
Prince Max von Baden, who was made Chancellor at
what was perhaps the most difficult time in Germany’s
history since the Thirty Years War and now had to suffer
for the political and military consequences of the braggart
imbecilities of the Kaiser and his diplomacy.
It was at this time that Clemenceau, still in his second
242
OLD FATHER VICTORY
phase, entered into an euphoristic period, which was to

remain with him up to the signature of the Peace Treaty
at Versailles and which only left him, and then for good,
at the time of Cottin’s attentat. It is that strange state
which comes to the great leader at the height of his
success, the great lover in full possession of the object
of his love, to the great scholar when he reaches the goal
of his research and the poet when he achieves his master¬
piece. This state lays the man of action open to every
kind of trial and attack and—in the real sense of the
word—disarms him. It is then that he becomes recon¬
ciled—in thought or in deed—with his former enemies, as
Clemenceau did with the memory of Gambetta and
Deroulede, in remembrance of this or that concedes what
he ought never to have conceded, forgives what he never
could forgive, and prefers confusion to clarity. This will
be understood by reading the ecstatic speech Clemenceau
made in the Chamber on 18th October, six days before
the papers flooded Paris with special editions announcing
that Germany was frankly begging for peace. He said:
“In my heart is only one feeling—that of immense
joy that the whole country is once more free, and of
gratitude to our soldiers, their great commanders and our
noble Allies. (Enthusiastic applause.)
“The battle continues. The President has told you;
Ostend, Douai, Lille, Brussels. Just as I arrived here I
received a telegram telling me that Tourcoing and
Roubaix are freed. (Here the members rose. There was
unanimous and prolonged applause.)
“With victory, hope, the greatest hope, spreads its
wings. The duty of us here is to see that this hope,
243
CLEMENCEAU
for which the best blood of France has been spilled,

becomes, through our government, through our parlia¬
ment, through the French people, a reality. (Applause.)
“We have fought and we will go on fighting for our
rights; we intend to have our entire rights, with the
necessary guarantees against a renewed onslaught of
barbarism. (Loud applause).
“We have no intention of using these rights to attack
in our turn and exact revenge for the attacks
which have drenched the world in blood. (Prolonged
applause.)
“Liberty itself, the rights of modern man, have—
embodied in our soldiers—defeated all the powers of the
tyranny of the past. (Enthusiastic applause.)
“What we shall make of the abundance of our
recovered rights can be very simply said: first, the con¬
tinuation of our great history along the line of complete
emancipation, filled with the humanitarian spirit; the
complete restoration of our national strength in every
domain of French life. And then continued, generous
efforts to make the liberation of France, with the help
of our sister nations, the instrument of the liberation of
mankind.” (Unanimous and prolonged applause.)
As can be seen from these phrases, which are certainly
well turned, but no longer have the full rino- of battle
Clemenceau had partly gone back to the romantic vision
of “beautiful liberty” mastering “evil servitude” and of
Humanity marching on to boundless progress, thanks to
the sacrifice of two generations.
At that moment, still under the influence of all the
frightful scenes in which, risking his life a thousand times,
244
he had taken active part, Clemenceau, with a supreme

and touching effort, went back to the faith of his youth
and the triple revolutionary device of his fathers:
“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” He half sees with a
sort of bitter satisfaction these visions encountering reality
here, and the goddess with delicate bare feet, the
Republican Victory, marching at the head of seventeen
hundred ffiousand dead, the tri-colour in her hand. The
euphory works on him, bringing to him each night in
the dreams of his broken sleep his father and his mother
to tell of their pride in him and bless him. From all
parts came the congratulations of the universe, delirious
acclamations and assurances of eternal gratitude. Even
Lloyd George was no longer ironical. Colonel House
assured him of Wilson’s brotherly affection. The edge
seemed to have gone off the sourness of that rabbit
Poincare, and it was a very moved Old Father Victory
that looked each night at the little bunch of withered
flowers given him by “those about to die.” But how
were all these sacrifices of “those who have a claim on
us” to be recompensed?
Then the bugle-call of the armistice sounded. Germany
really is at the end of her tether. She sways on her feet,
like the sword-stricken bull in the arena; her eyes turn
dim, the blood flows in streams from her gaping throat,
in a few moments she will fall. The thoughts of Old
Father Victory go back a year, to the time when that
little dwarf at the Elysee had been impelled by the will
of the people to ask him to form a cabinet. How had
he, at his age, had the courage to accept and take up
that woeful cause which seemed already lost?
245
CLEMENCEAU
1870! 1870! Awakened with a start by his memory,

he remembered where he was; in his little flat in the
Rue Franklin. The last time they rang up, they had told
him that he might expect the great news of the signing
of the armistice in the morning. That Foch, even though
he had been brought up by the Jesuits, was a marvellous
fellow with his confidence and his stubbornness. Clemen-
ceau saw him again as he had been at Doullens, pacing
up and down, flourishing his arms, affirming his faith in
attack, his belief that they could turn the tables and win
final success. What eyes! What a concentration of will!
What assurance! And like Petain, he too had been great
in his abnegation! Decidedly, a soldier needs the light
of war to show him in his true colours.
1870! 1870! At that time there was every reason to
think that all was lost and that France would never rise
again. Ah! Scheurer-Kestner’s despair !
1870! 1870! Those clamorous, blood-thirsty crowds!
Like savage beasts that had smelt blood, tasted it and
wanted more and more of it. The Tuileries was ablaze.
Proximus ardet Ucalegon. The Louvre with all its
masterpieces narrowly escaped going up in flames too.
Then—nearly as atrocious—the suppression of it by
Thiers and Gallifet. Yet in certain terrible circumstances
—and that surely was one, with the enemy at the gates
of Paris—was it not one’s duty to suppress rebellion?
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, Draveil . . . and Clemenceau
could still hear them telling him that, acting on his
express order, General Virvaire had fired on the crowd.
If he had not fired, there would have been an insurrection
six hours later. That would have required to be dealt
246
OLD FATHER VICTORY
with a hundred times more rigorously, and would have

cost thousands of lives.
Stimulated by the latest news from Rethondes, his
imagination conjured up more and more memories from
the past. How the victors had humiliated France after
1870, while slowly, each step carefully watched over by
the German Embassy in Paris, her army was built up
again. Then there had been the political struggles, but
of what feeble interest compared with the German ques¬
tion, which had existed since the days of Charlemagne—
even further back than that, since the days of Caesar!
Was this, at last, the solution? That would depend on
what sort of peace was made. But what kind of a peace
would it be, with the tangle of allies, with Britain, with
America, with the jealousies and internal strife? Clemen-
ceau preferred not to think of it. “Sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof,” and the day that was then break¬
ing was to be one of the most joyous, one of the most
beautiful in all France’s history.
“And it is I who direct this! To what do I owe such
honour and such luck? In what way have I deserved
this good fortune, after which one may well be content
to die . . .?” There was no lust for power nor inacces¬
sible pride in this mighty old man’s make-up. Nor any
spirit of humility. He thought of writing a book in
which he would confess all that was in his mind at this
supreme moment of his life and in which he would put
down things just as they are, not with the sanctimonious
purring of a Bossuet, nor in the ornamental style of
Chateaubriand, but “straight out, as they speak with us.”
But . . . “it’s always a bore, having to talk about one-
247
CLEMENCEAU
self. It’s the others who are interesting, and particularly

those, the incomparables, who waged war for four long
years. . . .” Rough, confident soldiers’ faces passed before
his eyes, faces that had exorcized fear and all evil, in
which there remained only virtue . . . the virtus of the
Romans.
What must Scipio’s feelings have been when, far from
the land of the she-wolf and home, he had defeated
Hannibal and freed his country from the misery and
shame of bondage?
As he lay there dozing, waiting for another grey
November day at dawn, he heard five o’clock strike, then
half past. At five-forty-six, after much hoping and doubt¬
ing, General Mordacq received the good news that the
Armistice had been signed, and hurried off immediately
to the Rue Franklin where a deeply moved Clemenceau
hugged him vigorously.
The early postman with his newspapers plays a great
part in the life of the people of Paris and it was through
him that they first heard the news and learned that the
cease-fire would be sounded all along the front at eleven
o’clock that morning. After four years, fathers, mothers,
wives, sisters, little brothers, could breathe once more,
freed from the weight of fear and broken the band of
iron round their hearts. The great city went mad, and
stayed mad all that day and the following night. In
the squares, at cross-roads, in the avenues lined with
guns taken from the enemy, song followed song, fire¬
works spluttered and young women and girls danced
untiringly—round dances and wild farandoles in which
they scarcely seemed to feel the ground beneath their
248
OLD FATHER VICTORY
feet. At last it had come! What one had begun to

believe would never happen, had happened! Clemen-
ceau had beaten them! No doubt Joffre, Foch, Mangin
and the others had been wonderful, but it was the Old
Man who had beaten them! From the days when,
walking-stick in hand, his felt hat crammed down over
his grey eyebrows beneath which his eyes flamed with
anger and kindliness, he had set out in all weathers to
visit the poilus in their holes of mud and death and put
fresh courage into them with that voice of his, which
went straight to your heart and electrified your whole
being, from that time things had begun to look different,
tie had, indeed, been the Old Father Victory whom no
obstacle had ever stopped, whom no ill-luck had ever
been able to dishearten.
The scene that afternoon was astounding; one could
imagine nothing more imposing. The Chamber was
filled to overflowing and brimming with enthusiasm as
Clemenceau read out the terms of the Armistice. I can
still see him, standing where he had stood when, many
years before, he had “overthrown Ferry.” I can see
him holding his papers in a hand that trembled, curbing
his great emotion (he could not even polish his spectacles),
and biting on his words with a voice in which there
was no sign of age. “Isn’t he fine!” said Philippe
Berthelot to me. We were watching from the press
gallery, while the cannons’ voice thundered over the
Seine and a crowd that was delirious with joy thronged
round the Palais-Bourbon. Clemenceau was dressed all
in black except for his eternal grey gloves. When he
had finished reading he went back and sat down on the
249
CLEMENCEAU
ministers’ bench, that is, in the first row, while the

deputies, some sitting, some standing, only interrupted
their applause to sing the Marseillaise. Then they filed
up to him one after the other in a long row. I watched
Aristide Briand: he looked like a peevish spider, and
Clemenceau also kept his eye on that insect crawling
towards him. When Briand held out his hand he looked
past it and, to make his meaning quite clear, the grey
glove went back into his jacket pocket. Some of the
deputies tried to embrace him, but he kept them politely
at a distance, not being anxious to “contract mange or
the itch.” That day this extraordinary man was wedded
to immortality. Standing on the rostrum steps, old
Eugene Pierre, the general secretary of the Chamber,
tenderly watched this contemporary of heroic days . . .
and across the Seine the guns still thundered.
“The same ones who are acclaiming him to-day,” said
Philippe Berthelot in his sharp, scornful voice, “wanted
to overthrow him last May.”
Then came the so-called Armistice Procession, in which
all the patriotic societies marched from the Arc de
Triomphe down the Avenue des Champs-Elysses.
Numbers of aeroplanes circled about in the sky and came
swooping down just over the heads of the crowd. It was
a miracle that there was no accident. Military bands
played the Marseillaise, the Madelon, the Lorraine March
and “Vous n’aurez pas l’Alsace et Lorraine” until their
breath gave out. All along the avenue hurriedly con¬
structed little stalls were set up, like on New Year’s
Day, bearing the names of the cities of Alsace. Numbers
of women in mourning passed by holding their little
250
OLD FATHER VICTORY
open-mouthed, black-dressed children by the hand: “You

see, darling, your daddy died for this.” The children
looked around them gravely, not understanding. When¬
ever an Alsatian woman passed in traditional dress, she
was given a tremendous ovation. People pointed out to
each other a big hotel near the Arc de Triomphe, its
coping still ornamented with eagles. Here, it was said,
the Kaiser had intended to dine the day he entered “his
good city of Paris.” One must admit, that poor man
had a very bad press. People in the crowds were swear¬
ing that he would be hanged, and that Lloyd George
had promised it. But, as Capus said: “Lloyd George has
announced so many things!” The rows of guns taken
from the enemy were all marked as having been captured
by the 5th Army (General Mangin’s). After Clemenceau
and Foch, it was Mangin whom the public crowned with
its laurels. He was no longer the “butcher” but the
“saviour,” and his Chateau-Thierry offensive had become
an epic.
Old Father Victory stood on a little wooden platform
;at the lower end of the avenue, near the Rue Saint-
Florentin. For hours on end the crowds surged round
him, filled with an enthusiasm of which one can form
no idea. We were afraid at one time that the platform
would be carried away and asked the Camelots du Roi,
who also were anxious, to form a protective ring round
the conqueror. I have seen many demonstrations at this
very spot, both before and after the war ... but none
to equal that. On 6th February, 1934, when a furious
crowd on both sides of the Seine was hammering at
the walls of the Palais-Bourbon, before being machine-
251
CLEMENCEAU
gunned, I remembered the immense fervour of 1918 and

Clemenceau’s remark: “So long as there were no bodies
lying in the Place de la Concorde. . . Now, there
were; and yet, through the weakness of good old
Doumergue who had been especially recalled from
Tournefeuille, nothing was changed, absolutely nothing.
The “parliamentary” profession,” as Tardieu called it,
went on.
Ludendorff wrote in his Memoirs:
“In November, 1917, Clemenceau became Prime
Minister. He was the strongest man in France. He had
been through 1870-71, and since then was always one
of the most ardent protagonists of the idea of Revenge.
Clemenceau knew exactly what he wanted. He had no
policy but that of war; he repressed all pacifist agitation
and consolidated the morale of his country. The pro¬
ceedings he took against Caillaux showed clearly what
we had to expect from him. He, too, thought of nothing
but victory, and, like Lloyd George, he had the entire
country behind him. The enemy’s conduct of the war
gained enormously in energy.”
Foch’s Order of the Day with its Michelet-like inver¬
sion: “Of an immortal glory,” has been quoted every¬
where. Petain’s is not so well known but, in my opinion,
more to the point:
“For many long months you have fought. History
will celebrate the tenacity and proud energy displayed
during these four years by our country, which had to
conquer so as not to die.
“To enable us the better to dictate peace, we are,
to-morrow, going to take our armies right up to the
252
OLD FATHER VICTORY
Rhine. On the soil of that Alsace-Lorraine which is so

dear to us you will tread as liberators. You will go still
further, on to German soil, to occupy territories which
are the necessary guarantee of rightful reparations.
“France has suffered much; her land has been ravaged,
her cities ruined and many are the cruel losses she has
to mourn. The provinces now freed have had to bear
intolerable oppression and hateful shame.
“But you are not to answer these crimes with the
violence which might seem legitimate in the excess of
your resentment. You will remain disciplined, respecting
persons and property: after beating your adversary with
your arms you will now shame him by the dignity of
your conduct, and the world will not know which to
admire most, your bearing in success or your heroism in
fighting.
“My thoughts turn, with yours, to the memory of our
dead, whose sacrifice has given us victory. I send a
greeting of sorrowful affection to the fathers and mothers,
to the wives and orphans of France, who in these days
of national rejoicing have ceased to weep, so as to applaud
the triumph of our arms.
“I salute your magnificent banners.
“Long live France! . “Petain.”
The finest thing about Old Father Victory during this
period was his heroic simplicity. He had never indulged
in bragging in the difficult moments of his life. Having,
since 16th November, 1917, done day by day all that
was necessary to raise a morale that had sunk so low,
he was no prouder of it than the peasant who has
obtained a fine harvest by dint of care and labour. He
253
CLEMENCEAU
was so little conceited that he even forgot the stoicism

to which he inclined in secret.
But the strain put on his intellectual and moral forces
by the ceaseless labours of the past year, during which
he had scarcely allowed himself one minute’s respite day
or night, had naturally made him less fitted for the
difficult struggles and controversies of the peace treaty.
The battlefield had cured him of his revolutionary-
humanitarian ideology and he was now brought face to
face with a man like Wilson, who was blissfully sailing
with every stitch of canvas set into the illusion of an
eternal peace in the shape of the League of Nations, for
which Leon Bourgeois had already paved the way in
France. Without the tact of the good Colonel House
a violent rupture would have been unavoidable, for
Clemenceau’s causticity acted on the American, with his
head in the clouds, like so many wasp stings—I say wasps,
because bees might have mitigated the stings with their
honey. At one time Wilson even ordered a ship to be
got ready for his immediate departure. French political
circles, which were ill-informed, believed that the
American President was omnipotent in his own country,
but this omnipotence either did not exist, or else no
longer existed. The indignation aroused by the torpedo¬
ing of the Lusitania had died down again. North
America is a country of moods as variable as those of
France, and their ups and downs are things of mystery
to us. It is even fonder than France is of changing its
scenery and its scene-shifters.
Lloyd George, who seems, from what he says, to have
known Clemenceau well, replied to one of the Tiger’s
254
OLD FATHER VICTORY
reproaches about the pro-German attitude of himself and

his country by saying: “Isn’t that England’s traditional
policy?” The “subtle Welshman” was soon to find a
more accommodating partner in Briand.
It would be unnecessary repetition to go here into the
differences of opinion revealed at the Peace Conference.
The main concession Clemenceau obtained was that the
sessions took place in Versailles Palace, in the same rooms
as had witnessed the foundation of the German Empire
after France’s defeat in 1870. One could not help
noticing his savagely resolute air at his first encounter
with the German plenipotentiaries and at the signing of
the treaty; it was as much as to say: “There’s more
to it than this. We shall have to keep our eyes skinned.”
It is astonishing that the Allies should have accepted the
signatures of two practically unknown men, as Muller
and Bell were, on a diplomatic, political, military and
economic document of this importance. The Treaty of
Versailles should have been signed by all the heads of
the German Army, seeing that the Kaiser and his son
had abdicated. That would have made their subsequent
breaches of it more difficult for the Germans. But
neither Clemenceau nor Tardieu seems to have had that
knowledge of the German character, which Jacques
Bainville possessed in the highest degree. Had the
author of L’Histoire de Deux Peuples been consulted,
he could have rendered them the greatest service. Finally,
the dismemberment of Austria, while Germany remained
unified and Prussified, was an atrocious error, only
explainable by the anti-clerical and masonic prejudices
of democracy. But this has become blatantly obvious
255
CLEMENCEAU
since the Anschluss. Clemenceau’s education had been

medical and biological, but had not included history.
One could have said to him, as was said to Hannibal:
“Vincere sets, Clemenceau, victoria uti nescis”
Barres and Mangin thought they had found a solution
acceptable to the Anglo-Saxons in their proposed Rhenish
State. They had a capable and reliable man at hand
in Dr. Dorten, but Poincare refused either to see or
receive him, and in February, 1919, ordered the Speyer
administrative centre not to interfere, but to let the
Rhenish separatists be massacred. Clemenceau has given
an expressively short account of this in his Grandeurs et
Miseres d’une Victoire, a fine book which, despite a
certain awkwardness in style, clearly shows up the loyalty
and spontaneity of his nature.
One can well imagine that, during these negotiations,
Briand was mad with rage at not having been consulted,
and he and his factotum, Philippe Berthelot, the real
“Major-domo of the Palace,” put as many spokes in the
wheels as they could. Both of them chose the weapons
of insinuation and undermining. Clemenceau, who was
still under the influence of the euphory of victory,
neglected to give Briand the magisterial dressing-down
that would have flattened him out for ever, so Briand
went on patiently pouring his poison into Poincare’s ready
ear. The wretched story of this period has not yet
emerged from the secret archives nor seen the light of
day in personal narratives, but the subsequent behaviour
of Briand and Berthelot gives an idea of what must have
been going on during the difficult transactions at Ver¬
sailles. The “Old Man’s” popularity was still too strong
256
OLD FATHER VICTORY
for them to attack him openly, so they undermined him

unwearyingly. In this they had on their side the minor
officials of the Quai d’Orsay and of the police, who said,
as did all the parliamentary magma, that Clemenceau’s
redoubtable popularity was nothing but a swamp that
had to be crossed, and that done, there would not be
much difficulty in finding ways and means of quickly
putting an end to it for ever.
This suburban and sordid crew spun a net of intrigue
which was to result in that unexpected attempt on the
life and person of the saviour of France. A long-delayed
attempt for all that, and one which found a secret sequel
in the disappearance of Mangin and the assassination
some years later of Paul Doumer at a book exhibition.
To make up for the difficulties of every kind which he
encountered in his new task, Clemenceau experienced
some unforgettable hours in the entry into Metz and
Strasburg—which even the company of Poincare, whom
he found more unbearable than ever, could not spoil.
With his euphory, he found this antipathy painful and he
nearly had a fit when his “daily mud-thrower” suddenly
threw himself on his neck when they were in Strasburg,
as the news reel has recorded. “Effusiveness,” said
Clemenceau, “really does not suit him.” Yet when he
saw the beauties of regained Alsace, which looked as
though it had just emerged from a nightmare, when he
saw its charming old towns, its beautiful countryside,
its friendly, resolute population, its girls with their fine
features and fresh cheeks, in whose eyes he was the
miracle worker—he felt his old heart swell with tender¬
ness. Here was what he had imagined from La Derniere
r 257
CLEMENCEAU
Classe and the fuge de Colmar, and Alphonse Daudet’s

Contes du Lundi. With this difference, that the
Alsatians clung to their Muttersprache, an almost
untouched Germanic dialect, and retained their religious
beliefs with which their daily life was interwoven.
To smooth out the rising difficulties—the Alsatian is
proud and “touchy”—they were given a commissioner,
a sickly but worthy fellow by the name of Alapetite. He
was not particularly jolly and his face was enough to con¬
jure up the devil. “It’s a pity he has the colic, an illness
the Alsatians don’t know.” Later, they sent the obtuse
and surly Millerand; all that the people of Strasburg
knew about him was that he had, as Combes put it, “got
rich on the spoils of dissolved religious orders.” Added
to which, he was not in the least amiable, nor, at times,
even polite. Dr. Bucher was the only one who could have
fulfilled that delicate task.
Twenty-six different commissions, each comprising
from two to four members, were set up to work out
the details of the Peace Treaty. They had to deal with
the following problems:
Military clauses; aviation; shipping; constitutions of
new states; war guilt; reparations and financial clauses;
economic and transport clauses; labour; prisoners of war;
colonies; guarantees of fulfilment; League of Nations;
Alsace-Lorraine; the Saar; the left bank of the Rhine;
Belgium and Luxemburg; Denmark; Austria; Czecho¬
slovakia; Poland; Greece; Roumania; Yugoslavia; Russia;
revision of territorial clauses; replies to German counter¬
proposals.
The question of “guarantees of fulfilment” and that
258
OLD FATHER VICTORY
of the League of Nations were to give rise to the most

astonishing childishness and the absurdest illusions.
Clemenceau was well aware of it, but he was over-ruled
and pulled this way and that by the different points of
view. These daily disputes seemed infinitely harder work
to him than his superhuman efforts to win the war.
Then, on 19th February, 1919, there occurred what was
to have a considerable intellectual and moral effect on
him in the evening of his crowded life.
As he was leaving home that morning in an
unarmoured car—he never would consent, while in Paris,
to this elementary precaution—an individual, who had
been shadowing him for several days, jumped out from
behind a public urinal at the corner of the Rue Franklin
and the Boulevard Delessert and fired several shots at
him. Luckily only one found its target. This struck
him in the back and lodged near the lung without
injuring any important organ. But, so General Mordacq
tells us, three bullet holes were found in his overcoat,
the two other bullets being buried in his clothes. The
author of this attempt, a man named Cottin, was
undoubtedly one of those killers and informers with
which the dusky world of the political police swarms.
It was by a miracle that, shadowed as he was, Clemenceau
escaped death. There again providence manifested
herself.
It so happened that on the day of the attentat the
Commissioner of Police, Raux—very patriotic, very
straight, very intelligent, and very devoted to Clemenceau
—lay seriously ill, a circumstance which was all in favour
of the crime. There is no doubt that Germany was
259
CLEMENCEAU
behind it all. It was very much to the interest of the

conquered to get their conqueror out of the way, and
they had, and certainly still have, accomplices in France.
The moment I heard that there had been an attempt
on his life I hurried in considerable anxiety to the Rue
Franklin, but the officials on duty in the little ante-room
reassured me—and I could see by their faces how much
they loved Clemenceau. As one who had once studied
medicine, I was afraid that the surgeons might try to
extract the bullet, which, in a man of Clemenceau’s age,
would have been fatal. However, they did not. For
several days my household thought of nothing else, and
it was the same in all Paris, indeed, all over France,
so deep and sincere was the love for Pere la Victoire.
As I was leaving, Millerand came in, scowling like a
hungry dog watching another with a bone. The bone,
of course, was the position of Prime Minister, for one
day Clemenceau had suddenly said to him, God knows
why: “You will be my successor,” and our Alexander
was now waiting for his turn to come. Later on I was
told a more severe opinion, expressed by the “Old Man”
on the animal to whom, when relinquishing power, he
did indeed pass on his portfolio.
Condemned to inactivity and solitude for several days
—for visitors had wisely been forbidden—Clemenceau, as
I learned from other sources, utilized this “holiday” to
think things over. His intellectual powers took a new
lease of life, and he promised himself if he recovered to
devote his last years to a great philosophical work which
would bring him peace after the tumult of the human
fray. He redeemed his promise and this was his Au Soir
260
OLD FATHER VICTORY
de la Pensee (In the Evening of My Thought). His days

of action were ended now that he had realized the dream
of his life: the recovery of Alsace-Lorraine. In this
sphere of life he could accomplish nothing better. Now
he wanted to show mankind that it is not necessary to
believe in the existence of God or the immortality of
the soul to do your duty on this earth, and that to satisfy
one’s own conscience is a joy in itself worth all the
promises of heaven. All this to be supported by numbers
of scientific proofs. And, besides, was it not in itself
a good deed to destroy the illusion which had already
given birth to so many religions all of which are founded
on the same deception?
Clemenceau had already toyed with the idea when he
was convalescing after his prostatectomy before the war,
then circumstances diverted his energies elsewhere and
the bloody tragedy of the war began. This tragedy had
brought him in contact with a crowd of men, whom
patriotism had enabled to look death squarely in the face.
There was that little bunch of withered flowers they gave
him in the trenches of Champagne, the little bouquet
which would go with him to his grave.
The title had already been found: Au Soir de la Pensee.
The sight of his poor little garden, where a February north
wind was blowing, the bare trees and the grey sky—so
different from that of the Vendee—brought thoughts to
his mind which he imagined were free of all supersti¬
tion. And his head rang with those lines of Lucrece
about the evils wrought by religion, and that other beauti¬
ful bit about the cry of the new-born child: ut aequum
est cui tantum in vita restat transire malorum. (If
261
CLEMENCEAU
new-born child cries, it is because he can see the

multitude of evils and miseries that he will have to
overcome.)
Such a task, naturally, required a tremendous amount
of reading. If the book was to be of value, he could
not evade any problem, but would have, as Darwin had
done, to follow up each thought to the very end. He
would re-read Darwin’s correspondence, certain of
Spencer’s works, something of Max Muller on the
problem of language, then books on archeology, zoology,
paleontology and botany. As for physiology and
histology, his wonderful memory had retained the funda¬
mentals of these, and he only had to brush up his early
studies and run through the recent literature. Man’s
intellect was, in his opinion, such that it could, and must,
penetrate step by step into all the secrets of nature, as
into those of his consciousness.
So the old conqueror meditated. It seemed certain by
now that the bullet he had received in his back was going
to stay nice and quiet and not play him the dirty trick
of wandering about. “Ah, well, a queer reward and civic
crown this getting shot in the back by that fellow. The
court-martial will certainly condemn him to death, and
I will pardon him.”
But reading itself would not be enough. The great
idea of man’s descent had come to Darwin during his
voyage on board the Beagle. “I have not seen enough
countries. Before writing this sum of my reflections, I
shall have to take a long voyage. Where to? Why, to
India, or else a voyage round the world.” The war had
taught him that strict discipline was necessary if one were
262
OLD FATHER VICTORY
to conquer. In his large, zigzag writing, he made out

a strict programme for himself from which, he said, he
would not deviate, whatever the reason. He would get
up at five, work until midday, with an interval for
massage by Leroy; a frugal luncheon, then reading, and
when in La Vendee, a brisk walk of 20 miles or so in
all weathers.
But he was reckoning without the calls the world would
make on him. And the remains of the euphory of
victory, the intoxication of a well-earned glory and his
natural curiosity as a man made it difficult for him to
escape them. And women? In spite of the passionate
letters he received, he thought it a bit ridiculous that
an old fellow of his age should give his love to one
of those beautiful, sweet and supple creatures. He made
Lemaitre’s motto his own: lnveni portum, spes et fortuna,
valetel Sat me ludistis. Ludite nunc alios. (I have
got into port. Hope and fortune, farewell! You have
played with me enough. Go now and play with
others!)
It was at that time that Capus began to try and get
him to stand for the Academie Frangaise. Their first
conversations were not enthusiastic, for Clemenceau had
always rebelled against its farcical formality, which
Richelieu had introduced, and particularly the obligatory
calls and the reception speech.
“I can assure you,” said Capus, who had already con¬
sulted his colleagues, “that you will have no need what¬
ever to put yourself forward, to be elected unanimously,
and that you will not have to make or to endure any kind
of reception speech.”
263
CLEMENCEAU
“But,” objected Clemenceau, “what’s the point of being

received into it if there are no formalities?”
“You love France, and have proved it. The Academie,
whether one likes it or not, is the most respected repre¬
sentative of the prestige of France. If you will consent
to become a member, you will enhance this prestige.”
“You promise me that I will have nothing whatever
to do?”
“Nothing. I will do it all for you.”
“And if I’m not elected? I’m sure some of your sancti¬
monious members can’t stand me at any price.”
“They will all call on you, if you want them to, and
tell you that you will be elected unanimously.”
“That would be very funny. But I do not ask so
much. They would put my bell out of order.”
“There is this about it, too. Old Emile Ollivier could
not give his reception speech at the Academie because
he had given up Alsace-Lorraine ‘with a light heart,’ so
you, who have recovered it, will not make yours either.”
This point of view amused and fascinated the “Old
Man.”
Every time he met Capus he said to him:
“What does Barres think about it?”
“He is one of the most eager for your candidature.”
“So I am no longer a traitor bought by England?”
“You are the saviour of the country.”
“I find it difficult to get used to it. But perhaps I
shall manage, when I wear that sword at my side. Are
they expensive, those things?”
“Very expensive. I haven’t finished paying for my
green suit yet.”
264
OLD FATHER VICTORY
“ôu must tell me how you manage that.”

Capus was clever and enterprising in this kind of work.
He was so charming that no one could refuse him any¬
thing. But Clemenceau wanted to indulge his natural
love of teasing, this “wickedness of kind people” as Hugo
has called it.
“Do you think diat if Lemaitre were alive he would
have voted for me?”
“With both hands.”
“And if I had had to compete with Deroulede?”
“He would still have voted for you.”
“In spite of Cornelius Herz?”
“In spite of Cornelius Herz.”
“In short, if Cornelius Herz, my corrupter, were to
appear with a recommendation from me and apply for
election, he would be admitted without further ado?”
“I don’t say that.”
“No, but you think so. What a queer thing humanity
is, especially academic humanity, don’t you think so?”
Capus gave his dry little philosophical laugh and let
fall his monocle, which was his way of getting out of
an embarrassment. Clemenceau was touched by this
persistence. They talked about evolution and Darwin,
subjects about which Capus was very knowledgable, and
so this matter of the Academie was settled to everybody’s
satisfaction, the Old Man taking his seat without even
having to get out of his chair in the Rue Franklin.
From the Goncourt Academy, the president of which
was Clemenceau’s life-long friend, Gustave GefTroy, we
sent Old Father Victory the following letter immediately
after the Armistice:
265
CLEMENCEAU
“Greeting to you in the names of the founders of our

Academy, Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, sons of
Lorraine. Above their grave you have announced the
tremendous news that the country of their fathers had
finally been wrested from the enemy and would know
no more dismemberment and bondage.
“With their drama, La Patrie en Danger, Edmond and
Jules de Goncourt hoped to revive the energies of our
people for the battles of reparation. Recently, when the
country was in danger, you, as they had dreamed and
desired, inspired our armies with the spirit of just
vengeance. Thus you have superbly realized the ideal
of those whom, in your unforgettable speech, you were
good enough to call your friends and your masters.
“Greetings to you in the name of Alphonse Daudet,
executor of the two brothers, the first Academician of
our company, the unforgettable author of La Demi ere
Classe, to which the old Alsatian schoolmaster returns
to-day to teach for ever that French language you write,
you speak, with so much authority and so human an
eloquence.”
Clemenceau replied:
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the con¬
gratulations and good wishes you have been so kind as
to send me. No testimony could be more precious to
me, for I know that you unite, in one and the same
fervour, love of French literature and love of your
country.
“The soldiers who have fought for victory, the com¬
manders who led them, the citizens who backed them
up by their unanimous effort, have not only liberated
266
OLD FATHER VICTORY
national territory, they have also safeguarded the centuries-

old traditions of the sacred heritage of French thought
and culture. All I had to do was to understand them
and help them; it is to them especially that your admira¬
tion and gratitude should go.”
In the same way as Clemenceau had allowed himself
to be made a member of the Academie in which he
never set foot, without actually standing as a candidate,
he now let himself be persuaded to accept the Presidency
of the Republic, on condition that he should not have
to seek election. At this distance of time, all that is
hardly understandable. Every powerful nature has its
oddities. He thoroughly intended that if he were elected
—and how could he fail to be!—he would never entrust
“that ignoble Briand” with the formation of a cabinet.
That was what induced him to give way to his friends’
entreaties.
267
CHAPTER XII
INGRATITUDE AND DESERTION
I had just been elected a member for Paris when the

question of Clemenceau’s standing for the Presidency of
the Republic came up, and I gave the plan my immediate
support. The first meetmg of the Chamber, on 7th
December, 1919, when Old Father Victory welcomed the
members of the restored provinces, had been very moving.
Clemenceau had found just the right words and there
was a lump in all our throats. In the circumstances it
looked as though the great old warrior would be elected
unanimously, even without any canvassing or election
campaign. But nothing came of it.
Two days later Clemenceau said to General Mordacq:
“Yesterday evening I made a serious decision. You
are the first one I am telling about it. After yesterday’s
sitting in the Chamber, I decided to allow myself to be
proposed for the Presidency.”
The news leaked out at once and was soon known to
the majority of the 450 members of the Chamber, of
whom by far the greater number were reactionary and
owed their election to Clemenceau. Then Poincare and
Field-Marshal Foch, who both, for different reasons,
detested the “Old Man,” though chiefly for his frank
speaking and the violent tirades in which he could indulge
when he thought it necessary, began a relentless campaign
268
against his silent candidature. They were joined by

Deschanel, who was already well on the road to lunacy,
and Cardinal Amette, that master in knavery, and his
instigator, the sinister Cardinal Gasparri, who was a rabid
Germanophil. One of the main points in their campaign
was the question of an embassy to the Vatican and a
nuncio in Paris.
The culminating point of the affair was a visit which
old Grousseau, a mediocre and well-intentioned being,
and his catholic colleagues from the North paid the Prime
Minister at the beginning of January, 1920, to ask him
if he would oppose the re-establishment of the embassy
and the installation of a nuncio in Paris. Clemenceau
answered straight out that it was his intention to do so
and gave his reasons. He pointed out that, in the nature
of things, a nuncio would always be inclined to interfere
in the domestic affairs of France and that this had always
seemed intolerable to him and would always be so to any
true patriot. Moreover, he had not so long ago been
obliged to give the Nuncio Montagnini twenty-four hours’
notice to leave France for conspiring with M. Jacques
Piou, the head of L’Action Liberate, to falsify the returns
at an election.
This reply and the fact that some strange streak of
stubbornness made Clemenceau refuse to stand openly,
doomed the famous candidature to failure. His best
friends and those who were most devoted to him tried
in vain to make him understand how damaging his
incomprehensible silence and his inactivity were. Nothing
else was talked of in the lobbies of the Chamber, and
we could not for the life of us see what were the motives
269
CLEMENCEAU
for his decision. Personally—being inexperienced—I was

in favour of re-establishing relations with the Vatican,
but this consideration was outweighed in my eyes by my
desire to see Clemenceau President of the Republic. This
was a point on which my friend Maurras and I agreed
to differ, and we decided that each should defend the
stand he took in his paper. Personally, I liked old
Grousseau, my colleague, very much, but his political
sense seemed mediocre to me, and that was also my
opinion of General de Castlenau, an admirable officer
and a very pleasant person to work with, but one who
was put off by Clemenceau’s manners and his devilish
evolutionary philosophy.
Paul Deschanel, in my opinion, did not even exist
politically. Once, when I wrote a pleasant article in
the Nouvelle Revue about the Reminiscences of his father,
Emile Deschanel, one of the old guard, I received a
visit from Paul Deschanel in the Avenue d’Alma, where
I was then living, and found him very agreeable, lively
and silly. As regards the question of the nuncio, I am
to-day of Clemenceau’s opinion and, having learned my
lesson, consider that the residence of such a person in
Paris and his introduction into our circles only leads to
the worst complications and involves the opposition in
the greatest unpleasantness.
Experience has taught me to be sorry that I voted and
induced others to vote for the re-establishment of a
function which is prejudical to my country and, by reper¬
cussion, to the papacy itself. Poor papacy, the mother
of civilization! Her ill-informedness and her hare-brained
or inattentive nuncios lost her in a few years Germany,
270
through Hitlerism, and Austria through the Anschluss.

Her democratic zeal made her encourage the origins of
the Spanish Revolution. She let herself be duped with
regard to the affairs of France by the traitor Aristide
and that sharper, Philippe. But we believers, of course,
continue to respect and venerate our Mother Church.
But what a lot of blunders she has made since the war,
blunders that she could so easily have avoided!
Another argument used by those who were opposed to
Clemenceau’s election was that if he died while he was
President, he would, with his materialist convictions, have
to be buried without any religious service, which would
be an intolerable scandal. To this Clemenceau quietly
replied that he did not wish to die.
On 16th January the preliminary meeting held before
the election of a President took place, as usual, in the
Senate. The streets were full of people impatiently
awaiting the result, all unconscious of the intrigues being
spun in the old palace. Ignace, myself and a few others
were most active on Clemenceau’s behalf. We felt
people’s resistance and received many evasive replies and
many were the eyes that refused to meet ours when we
put our questions. In the end Old Father Victory received
389 votes as against 402 for Deschanel. When the result
was announced, Philippe Berthelot, radiant but mocking,
said to me: “They had the chance of electing a man.
They preferred the puppet.” To many people it recalled
Loubet’s election and how Clemenceau had said: “I am
voting for the stupidest.”
Clemenceau received the bad news with his customary
dignity. Ignace told me that he had dressed himself up
271
CLEMENCEAU
for the occasion in a black frock-coat and white waistcoat.

That is not Mordacq’s version. In reality, this defeat
embittered him. Immanent justice was reserving the
same blow for Briand, a few years later. But Briand
had seriously imperilled victory in the war, while Clemen-
ceau had won it. Clemenceau was a hero. Aristide
Briand was a scoundrel.
Clemenceau sent the following letter to Leon Bourgeois,
president of the National Assembly:
“I take the liberty of informing you that I am with¬
drawing from my friends all authority to submit my
candidature for the Presidency of the Republic, and that,
if they disregard this and should obtain a majority for me,
I shall refuse the mandate thus entrusted to me.”
The same day saw the first meeting of that dangerous
farce, the Council of the League of Nations. I heard
with my own ears Clemenceau saying in the Chamber to
a supporter of this chimera: “Do you believe in the
League of Nations?”, which proves that he himself did
not.
When someone in Deschanel’s circle heard of his elec¬
tion to the Presidency, he said simply: “Too late!”
In the very first weeks of this Presidency, which
crowned his wishes, poor Deschanel did, in fact, begin
to show signs of cerebral disorder. When receiving Lloyd
George, whom Briand called “Lerd djorsh,” he
reproached him acrimoniously with Britain’s attitude
during the war and with the fact that the British Empire
had not risked her fleet and had only had 900,000 men
killed. Bewildered and cross, Lloyd George went off and
complained to Clemenceau, who gave him to understand
272
that the occupier of the Elysee was not entirely compus

sui. Some time later, Alfred Capus was walking along
beside the Elysee gardens on his way back from a party
and saw Deschanel, who was in dress clothes, hiding in
some bushes. The poor idiot had a finger to his lips
and whispered across to the dumbfounded Capus: “They
won’t catch me.” Numerous such eccentricities culmin¬
ated in the occasion when he tried to wriggle out of the
window of his special coach while the train was stopped,
and fell. He had been undressing and stood there in his
pants. An inspector came up to him, and Deschanel
said: “I am the President of the Republic,” to which the
inspector, thinking it was a joke, replied: “And 1 am
the Pope.” When Clemenceau heard of this, he merely
said: “The poor devil!”
Once Deschanel had been deposed, I had to go once
more to Versailles for Millerand’s election. I voted, as
on the first occasion, for Foch, who, by the way, was
not a candidate. There is nothing more ridiculous or
gloomy than these futile ceremonies.
Clemenceau had gone into retirement. He made a
trip to India with his faithful and admirable friend Nicolas
Pietri, who was later his executor, and then gave himself
up unremittingly to his great work, Au Soir de la Pensee,
which was to be the sum of his knowledge and his
thought. It comprises two large volumes of some 450-500
pages each and is the scientific credo of an unbeliever,
and attempts a synthesis of evolutionism and positivism
with the result that it is a mixture of both. In 1917
Clemenceau experienced a renewal of his youth. Now
after the war and the euphory of victory, he underwent
s 273
CLEMENCEAU
a mental rejuvenation, what Renan called, in younger

people, “encephalitis.” We have seen how dear to him
were his family traditions. It was the same with his
scientific traditions and the histology of Charles Robin.
He belonged to that generation of students to whom the
microscope seemed to open up an immense field, both
in normal and pathological anatomy. The mental exalta¬
tion of the young scientists of those days was comparable
to that of their predecessors who witnessed the first
autopsies and the discovery of the microscopic anatomy
of the organs, ducts and muscles.
These two huge volumes of Clemenceau’s are a touch¬
ing act of faith and record both the symmetry of his
mind and the beatings of his great heart. His aim in
writing this personal “digest” was to teach young people
to think for themselves, to believe in the evidence of
their senses and not in the invisible; to go forward, always
forward, and leave no stone unturned in adapting to
circumstances the products of genius and talent. It never
occurred to him that other scholars might come along
and upset the conclusions reached by their forerunners.
He did not foresee Guenot, or Quinton—whom he might
have known—or Charles Nicolle. He thought that
scientific genius is always right; whereas, according to
Nicolle, “genius opens more false roads than true ones.”
He believed in the slow penetration of reason, whilst
Nicolle and some others thought that man’s intelligence
cannot probe the ways of nature. Evolution seemed to
him the only possible procedure for nature, and he would
acknowledge neither mutations nor regressions. In short,
he was not emancipated from that materialism which was
274
in its death throes just when he was fixing what he

thought were its laws.
Yet, it is just that which makes these two volumes so
interesting. They are what Clemenceau wished to leave,
with his recovery of Alsace-Lorraine, as his legacy to the
future generations of France for their edification.
The language of this intellectual testament, Au Soir de
la Pensee, is clumsy in comparsion with the fluency of
its author when he spoke. He had dismounted and put
his Pegasus out to graze. For instance, on page 289 of
vol. 1 wTe find:
“Thanks to the two-edged sword of this conventional
doubt, the Renaissance, which set heathen tolerance of
thought against the dogmas of the Church, was able,
before the arrival of modern science, to bar the road to
religious absolutism in the name of Hellenism as the
bearer of a philosophy of humanity. The names of
Rabelais, Montaigne, Descartes, Pascal, Voltaire, are the
signposts on the road to this development. They are the
impulses in the evolution of doubt, in the movements of
thought in which all the powers of man are revealed
striving towards knowledge by all forms of verified
interpretation.
“Voltaire appears to us like a mocking giant in a
comedy, who overthrows the temples of his God simply
for the fun of building another to him after his own
fashion. Whether he believes or not has no more interest
for us than it had for him himself. There are no cruel
doubts haunting him. Montaigne’s reasonings with their
dual direction, the loud laughter of Rabelais, Descartes’
dry tension, and the tortures of Pascal are things he does
275
CLEMENCEAU
not know. He tells a tale. Montaigne also tells a tale,

but less for the sake of telling it than to suggest to
others, and perhaps to himself as well, conclusions which
secretly startle him more than he will admit.”
Then this, on page 313, which is more doubtful and
lets through a glâm of his father’s anti-clericalism:
“I have specially mentioned Asia because, from the
most remote ages down to the present day, her thought,
her rites, her cults, her philosophy, her metaphysics, have
invaded our European territory and developed there pro-
lifically. Here we are on familiar ground. The super¬
stitions and the magic of ancient Asia are still ours. She
gave us her last Messiah, and with black ingratitude we
have cursed, persecuted and tortured the people that begot
him. I admit that they put him to death. But why
should we not congratulate ourselves on that, since with¬
out Golgotha we would not have been saved ? And then,
what massacres of fellow Christians followed! Have we
then the right to repudiate the intolerant synagogue, after
imitating it so profusely?”
Clemenceau has what Nietzsche has called “the con¬
scientious mind.” One cannot help showing indulgence
to his good faith and his naivete when he writes:
“For a long time we have had sung to us the theatrical
marvel of a ‘divine revelation,’ which stands in poetic
contrast to the uncertainties of knowledge painfully
acquired out of a confusion of misunderstanding. To-day,
however, many are beginning to ask themselves if a
victory which has long hung in the balance and been
heroically wrested from the resistance of the cosmos, is
not finer than the easy assignment of ‘revealed’ know-
276
ledge for which man has not to exercise any effort of

will. How many ages of ignorance had to pass before it
was discovered that a superior beauty only exists in man
through the continuity of an organic evolution in which
his individual functions have to collaborate.”
And finally, to finish with the first volume:
“Under the open sky, thought proceeds imperceptibly
towards an efflorescence of problems which set us ques¬
tioning before the elements of the world, from which
there slowly come to us the responses of positivity. A
new power has come on the scene, which demands a
reckoning from the cosmos, and gets it. Whoever seeks
for things to admire has really found his goal. If we
want drama and to live poetry, let us recognize that
we are not grudged them. Who would dare to confront
the puerility of our myths with the wonder of the marvels
where imagination collapses beneath the light of reality?
Hanuman, the magician monkey of Ramayana, who
brought up whole mountains with their forests and
rivers, so that trained eyes might find the herb which
could cure his prince; the battles of the Titans; Hercules
and his labours; Pallas Athena coming out of Zeus’ head;
Vulcan thrown down from Olympus; Mars and Venus
surprised under a net of golden links, and—a God who,
to save us from his own severity, needs to be sacrificed
by criminals, whom he himself makes criminals by that,
and who are eternally damned, because they obeyed him.”
From the second volume I will borrow, so as not to
weary the reader’s attention, three characteristic quota¬
tions. First, that on the future of cognitive man:
“If then, it is necessary that experience supplants power-
277
CLEMENCEAU
less ‘providence,’ there remains to us our own efforts with

which to achieve earthly contentment of short duration
to the advantage of one and all. In other words, man’s
evolution should bring about the transformation of
character and of the quality of the individual happiness
to which he incessantly aspires, by relieving him of the
fears which constantly beset him. The happiness we
find in the fulfilment of our inmost wishes is to-day still
of primitive construction. To suffer as little as possible
on earth, and to anticipate the enjoyment, no one knows
where, of an eventual no one knows what, is proof of
a primeval simplicity of mind. Beasts flee from pain
just as we do, but have no access to those comforting
contrivances which aspire to control the ‘life to come.’
‘Evolved’ man must be permitted to extend his search
beyond the needs of the mentality of the Ice Age.
“The quality of happiness will be refined, and the value
of pain, measured by the general standard of our life,
will find a more certain attenuation in the development
of a stoicism capable of making man excel himself. Is
it not clear that those who faced torture and death for
the sake of an idea sought a satisfaction beyond the
common measure, and seem to have found it? Is
Socrates’ speech to his judges a lament? The condemned
man faces death calmly. ‘The time has come for us
to part,’ he said simply to his executioners, ‘you to con¬
tinue living, and I to die. God alone can know whose
is the better destiny.’ ”
Then, on the faculty of imagination:
“If action were equal to reaction, there would be no
evolution, and the universe would be an eternal
278
pendulum, which developed no energy. It is the differ¬

ence between action and reaction that produces evolution.
And although we do not know the movements of the
vegetable world, it is the sentiment of a projection above
ourselves which sends the imagination to meet the fleeing
glimmers, where we seek, as in the dark, the first signs
of the coming dawn with that happiness with which in
dreams we anticipate the hopes of the morrow. Imagina¬
tion? Yes, but it is mighty even in its errors—which
will be put right—since it lights the way. I have already
said that imagination does not create anything, for its
whole effort is concentrated on enlarging the components
of what is observed, at the risk of deforming them. What
does it matter if the star towards which we walk is a
near jet of flame or a huge conflagration far away in
space? It will have temporarily lighted up the path of
an ephemeral life, and we shall have walked forward.”
And finally, the materialistic “revelation” . . . the
height of illusion:
“Then the day will come when the knowledge of the
cosmos will be universal. The day of mankind, since
the eternal ‘nature of things,’ will become its right in a
posterity of minds capable of looking at the Infinite with¬
out fear. Supreme magnificence of the positive magic
power of the atom in the endless course of the flaming
stars, the fires of which will end by becoming the
activities of living and thinking organisms, which will
dare to question the universe and, a final marvel, will
receive its answers. What are the poor miracles of the
holy books in comparison with this dazzle of light?
“Freed from the divine obsession, man takes on him-
279
CLEMENCEAU
self, indeed, the right to form a subjective judgment of

the cosmos of which he is a part. He finds himself
one of the lowest, but capable, all the same, of a reaction
of personal thought under the law of cosmic energies,
which makes it his good fortune to know and to judge.
Does not his very lowness then give him the finest title to
greatness in the relation between that infinite world,
which is unaware of itself, and the organic particle,
which feels itself living, that is to say, for a brief time
struggling?”
Thus Clemenceau goes back to Pascal—with the aid of
M. Homais’ helping hand.
But the great man’s philosophical impulse was to be
interrupted by the first strokes of the bell ingratitude,
sounded by his dearly beloved Field-Marshal Foch.
Complete ingratitude, which we call black, is the lot
of all, whether prince, noble or commoner. Whosoever,
in his wide or narrow sphere, devotes himself to some¬
thing, sacrifices himself, his time, his selfless endeavour
and his fortune to a man or a cause, must know that,
except in the rarest of cases, this man will disavow him,
that cause will turn from him, and he will be left alone
with his shattered illusions—if he had any—like a farmer
regarding his fields the hail has flattened. He must
know that services done create, in those to whom they
are rendered (unless they have an exceptional nature), a
sullen irritation and rancour which the first opportunity
turns into envy and hate. Nine times out of ten it is
childish and even grotesque to count on being shown even
the slightest sign of gratitude. One must accept this
without bitterness, and even, if possible, with a smile.
280
Ingratitude certainly does not induce one to be good

natured or charitable, but neither should it prevent one
from being so. It would seem that Clemenceau with his
sensitive nature suffered, for all his age and experience,
like any greenhorn from the wave of ingratitude—one of
the finest examples in history—which, in the course of a
few years, submerged him and embittered his life until
the end.
In all my long life I have only known two beings whose
nature it was to do good and who yet apparently escaped
ingratitude: my father, to whom his readers gave in
December, 1897, a funeral of unprecedented pomp, and
Professor Potain. But, had one looked closer, one could
yet have found on the rim of the golden cup from which
the funeral libations were poured, a few drops of the gall
of ingratitude.
What had Clemenceau not done for Foch? He had
treated him like a son, although he was a friend of the
Jesuits. He had helped him in his career, saved him
from incomprehensible and unmerited disfavour, made
him generalissimo of the Allied Armies. He had obtained
the sole command for him, despite all the difficulties in
the way. When we were so badly surprised that time at
Chemin-des-Dames he had thrown himself between Foch
and the parliamentarians, and—unexpectedly—kept him
in his command. Foch declared later on that he was
indebted to Lloyd George(!) for this, and disparaged his
benefactor in a posthumous “memorial,” attributed to a
third party, which astounded many people.
The reason for this is supposed to be that Clemenceau,
on 27th May, severely reprimanded Foch in the presence
281
CLEMENCEAU
of others, taking the line: “I get supreme command for

you, and this is what you do with it!” The “Old Man”
could, it is true, hurt without meaning to, but he also
knew how to heal the wounds he made, with a kindly
word and a gesture of affection. The temperaments of
these two men were, of course, bound to clash. Foch
was respectful and disciplined, the type of soldier who
obeys the orders he receives and expects others to obey
those he gives, while Clemenceau had disrespect strongly
rooted in his generous soul. When Foch was received
into the Academie Franâise he congratulated himself on
being able to mix henceforth with people “who write so
well,” and Clemenceau was one of the first to laugh at
the absurd naivete of such an idea. There was also the
fact that Poincare, who was naturally deceitful (as all
cowards are), incited the military victor of the war against
the civil one. All this explains, but does not excuse,
Foch’s subsequent ingratitude to the man to whom he
owed everything, including his Field-Marshal’s baton.
Old Father Victory was deeply hurt by this, as he
showed in that strange book of his, Grandeurs et Miseres
d’une Victoire, which he wrote ab irato from memory
and notes, and which thus comes between his philo¬
sophical credo, Au Soir de la Pensee, his Demosthene,
which I prefer to all his other works, and his penetrating
study of his dear friend Claude Monet, the prince of light.
In the first pages of Grandeurs et Miseres d’une
Victoire there is this moving passage:
“Why now, Foch, Foch, my good Foch! Have you
forgotten everything, then? I can still see you in all
your glory, hear that authoritative voice which was not
282
the least of your accomplishments. We did not always

agree. But our bouts always ended with a joke and,
when tea-time came, you would jog my elbow and say—
no strategy here—‘Come! Off to the trough.’
“Yes, we used to laugh sometimes then. There is not
much laughter to-day. Who would have said that those
days were, in some sort, a good time for us! We were
living in the worst of the storm. Often we did not even
have time to grumble at each other. But if we did, we
always drowned our grumbles in the ‘trough.’ We lost
our tempers, but our hopes and our wishes were the
same. The enemy was there, and that made us friends.
Foch, the enemy is still there and that is why I am angry
with you for having placed your time-bomb at the gates
of history, so as to scotch me in the back—for that is
an insult to the past.
“I am sure that you no longer remember my farewell
words. It was at the Paris City Hall, when they unveiled
the commemorative tablet which said that there were the
three of us who had deserved well of our country—a
crying injustice to so many others. As we left, I put
a friendly hand on your chest, and tapping where your
heart beat beneath your uniform, I said to you: ‘Under¬
neath it all there is good there.’ ”
The tone is both good-natured and sorrowful.
As for the Chemin-des-Dames affair, the disappointed
friend declared that he never received the slightest
explanation either from the Field-Marshal or anyone else.
Foch merely asked Clemenceau: “Do you intend to send
me before a court-martial?” To which Clemenceau
replied: “There can be no question of that.”
283
CLEMENCEAU
There are in this book of Old Father Victory’s some

terrible pages. Particularly those about the massacre at
Pirmasens of the Rhenish separatists, for which Poincare
seems to have been largely responsible. On the whole
this book, where he is both angry and sorrowful, in
which pity is stronger than resentment, constitutes an
historical and psychological document of the highest
rank. Those who want to get an intimate knowledge
of Clemenceau cannot afford to neglect it.
Other defections, although they affected him less,
nevertheless cut him to the quick. Particularly that of
Rene Renoult, who had often accompanied him to the
front and to whom he had passed on his seat in the
Senate when he retired. It was Renoult who later, when
he was Home Secretary, under no one knows what
influence, pardoned the wretched Cottin.
Clemenceau, having heard that Renoult was going to
visit him, instructed his servant to say: “My master has
told me to tell you that he is not at home and has ordered
me to burn the door-mat, if you have stood on it.” The
fact is that this pardon of Cottin had all the appearance
of being the result of a recommendation or order from
the political police. For the attempt on Clemenceau’s
life, as I have said, was not the result of some individual’s
hate or spite, but was part of a plot.
Ingratitude soon spreads, like a drop of oil on the
surface of water. Just as the number of patients in the
waiting-room of a great doctor can suddenly thin and
disappear, as was the case with Professor Charcot towards
the end of his life, so the clientele of an ageing politician
shrinks and finally dwindles away to nothing. Besides,
284
everybody knew of the feud between Clemenceau and

Poincare. The one had retired, so what could one get
from him save a rebuff or a kind word? while the other
remained in power and had every imaginable kind of
post to give away and far-reaching influence. Then there
were the people in his set, themselves very influential
and animated by sullen spite against the heroic old man,
whose jibes and snaps were retailed all over the city.
Jean Martet in his four-volume book—which is the
equal, on another plane, of the conversations of Goethe
and Eckermann—Rene Benjamin, with his Clemenceau
dans la Retraite and Fernand Neuray, the learned editor
of La Nation Beige, have all recorded these apt and
crushing judgments of the Tiger on the men of the
Republic with whom he had been in such close contact
and knew so well. They are not merely things said on
the spur of the moment, for in even the harshest and
funniest of them there is something of the zoologist’s
secret pity for poorly endowed and ridiculous animals:
“It is not their fault.” They constitute an incomparable
picture gallery and one that will give the future a good
idea of France and make people ask: “How could she
survive such a collection of babblers and fools?” French¬
men, even those in high positions, are very much inclined
to bow down before the man in power. Barres, for
example, when writing to that mediocrity Poincare,
assured him of his “respectful admiration.” What was
there admirable in Poincare, except his cold heart and the
meanness of his intellect? As for his judgment, I will
give one example of that. He had just returned from
Genoa, or else Switzerland, where he had met Mussolini,
285
CLEMENCEAU
and when we questioned him in the Chamber about this

Duce of whom all Europe was talking, he replied:
“Pooh, a drill-sergeant.” The note of scorn in his voice
was extraordinary. This poor dwarf, who was surrounded
by flatterers, even came in the end to believe that he
was someone. After Poincare, it was Briand who put
the sharpest edge on Clemenceau’s tongue. He knew
him in and out, and pulled him to bits as a cook does
the rabbit destined for a stew. Lloyd George was dis¬
gusted by it.
Although he was very gallant and always treated
women with refined courtesy—ever the peasant prince—
he called himself an anti-feminist and shared Moliere’s
opinion of women. His marriage had not been a happy
one, and that explains everything. His dominant charac¬
teristic was his sense of honour, which had been well
drilled into him by his parents. He very early developed
a horror of untruth, as witness his historical debate with
Czernin whom he treated as a man of no conscience.
Untrustworthiness and malice repelled him, while any¬
thing spontaneous, the least act of generosity went straight
to his heart.
“Underneath everything there is good there.”
Few men have had such a highly developed sense of
the ridiculous, or exercised it so profusely. Yet true worth
never escaped him, and when it came accompanied by
modesty, he could also admire. That explains his attach¬
ment and frequent visits to Claude Monet, who was never
satisfied with his canvases, astonishing and luminous as
they were. The Greeks, Demosthenes, Claude Monet,
such was the narrow circle of those he most admired and
286
valued. This painter of cathedrals, hayricks and white

water-lilies was indeed a grand figure, with his beard,
black eyes and brief, decisive way of speaking. Of all
knowm painters he is the only one who has been able
to render the splash of the sun as it arises over the
horizon and at midday, when it sets everything ablaze.
Towards the end of his life Clemenceau thought con¬
tinually about death and stubbornly maintained that
there was nothing beyond it but illusions and myths.
But why then did it preoccupy him so, and why did
he ask the opinions of all and sundry upon it? I think
that he was, after all, not so sure about his “eternal
nothingness” and hoped for contradiction, even while
it irritated him.
I watched him closely at the funeral of his life-long
friend, Gustave Geffroy, at the Gobelins. Where he sat
in the front row—it was a civil ceremony—near the coffin
covered with a black cloth and magnificent flowers, he
seemed the very image of grief. He had clasped his hands
like a man in a dream, and his eyes had the glassy,
far-away stare of a condemned person waiting his turn
to die. I have since thought that he was already planning
the savage grandeur of his own funeral.
At first this ingratitude, which could not help hurting
such a sensitive nature as his to a certain extent, was
confined to individuals, but then it became general, like
a great forest in early Autumn where only a few leaves
fall, then the winds come and strip the trees in a few
hours. One no longer heard the name Clemenceau,
which for two years had been on everyone’s lips, and
only saw it in print when there was some celebration
287
CLEMENCEAU
or war anniversary, or when a war memorial was being

unveiled or a message sent to America. To those who
said they would pay him a visit, he gave the melancholy
reply: “You won’t get josded in the waiting-room.”
People fled the memory of the war and its huge sacrifices,
and turned to pleasure, to sport, the cinema and the
usual frivolities. The sight of the blind and the cripples
going their awkward and hesitant way almost made
people angry and uncomfortable. In short, the ingrati¬
tude shown to this old warrior of eighty years and more
was only one particular case out of thousands and tens
of thousands of similar ones of which no one heard.
As people deserted him, last year’s grubs emerged
from hibernation and reappeared on the surface of
politics—Briand, Caillaux and Malvy. Everyone was
astonished, but nobody did anything. France seemed
everywhere bereft of her normal reactions, seemed to be
—unnerved is the word. Appalled by this situation and
wishing to put things right, I one day mounted the
rostrum in the Chamber on the first excuse that offered
and began Clemenceau’s apologia. I reminded them in
a few words of the services he had rendered his country,
of the superhuman efforts he had made at an age when
one normally thinks of nothing but one’s armchair, of
how he had daily given fresh courage to soldiers and
civilians alike in a splendid peregrination worthy of
Plutarch. I was loudly applauded. The Chamber rose
to its feet and cheered the grand old man of France,
who was not there to hear them. Poor Briand was in
torture. His attempt at an expression of agreement was
a sour grimace; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, and,
288
!
still more interested in his nose than in peace, explored

it with an agile thumb.
Clemenceau’s rare guests, whom he kept to lunch or
dinner, came away marvelling at his youngness, his wit
and the alertness of his mind, and also at the dishes
with which his cook, Clotilde, the creator of the famous
“poulet Soubise,” regaled them. In cooking, as in life,
this magnificent recluse had simple tastes and a healthy
horror of the complicated. This, too, was a legacy from
his home, for the Vendee is one of the parts of France
where food is at its best. His conversation was full of
rapidly sketched “I remembers,” ingenious ideas and
flashes of wit. His hurried trip to India did not seem
to have impressed him much, and he always switched the
conversation back from it to Greece. I remembered on
one such occasion the definition of my friend Charles
Bernard, the great Belgian art critic: “Greece has purified
for the west the monsters of the east.” Shade of
Aeschylus!
Clemenceau’s conversations, while in his retreat in the
Vendee or Paris, have not, in my opinion, any historical
counterpart except perhaps those of Martin Luther. They
all bear witness to his sufferings. They straddle half a
century of anecdotes, jests and comforting blasphemies.
Then, suddenly, his voice takes on a higher note, and
the talk turns on the beliefs of his youth and of his
ripe age. He never said a word about the Revolution,
his passion in the early days of his career, except for
an occasional outburst against its so-called giants: he still
burned incense before evolution, but—and there is much
evidence to prove this—he no longer believed in his old
t 289
CLEMENCEAU
idol, democracy. “In a republic, whether parliamentary

or plebiscitary, or in a monarchy, men are always the
same and, to whatever class they may belong, are
imbecile, ridiculous and disgusting.”
It was curious, but his most recent memories, those
of his twelve labours in the war, came rarely to the lips
of this retired Hercules. He had never liked blowing
his own trumpet and left self-advertisement to the stage
and screen.
A remark of his that Barres quotes in his Cahiers is
typical of this. Here it is:
“May 5th, 1918. Clemenceau was talking familiarly
and tenderly with his brother Albert, whom he loved
and called his ‘kid,’ and said to him: ‘Look, I am old;
war and power have taught me a lot. I have wasted my
life. I have been guilty of dilettantism. What great
things I should have done, if I had relied on the healthy
elements of the country!’ ”
What did he mean by “dilettantism”? In my opinion,
he meant everything that did not absolutely concern his
country. The party system, the whole business of parlia¬
ment, degrades a man of his stature. It cuts him up
and wears him out in daily contact with mediocrity. By
the “healthy elements” of the country he obviously meant
those fundamentals, the family, military power and
religion, on which neither the doctrinaires nor the so-
called “progressives” have set their mark. The war,
finally, had revealed to him the spiritual being which
exists in each of us and which is hidden from us by the
cares of everyday public or private life. He had fought
against this new conception of inner life with the help
290
of his Au Soir de la Pensee, but the approach of death,

of which his calendar reminded him, periodically renewed
in him that “strife between soul and body” of Villon,
whom he loved so much.*
For the parliamentary system, of which he had once
been so ardent a supporter, he hit on this formula: “A
parliament will always resent it if a man prosecutes a
national policy.” That is absolutely true, and there was
much of this “resentment” in the amazing ingratitude
his colleagues showed towards Clemenceau. The way
this banterer survived irritated them. After all had he
won the war as much as all that?
Shortly before he died someone asked Clemenceau
who were the worst parliamentarians, and was told:
“The worst—I will tell you ... I have never been able
to find him. Whenever I thought I had, I have immedi¬
ately come across one still worse.” Poincare, in particular,
he called the Meusosaur, or Meuse serpent, “a lively little
beast, dry, disagreeable, and not courageous. The Meuso¬
saur does not like fighting. This prudence on its part
has preserved it up to the present day. A somewhat
unpleasant animal, as you see, of which, luckily, only
one specimen is known.”
Before I left Paris to go into exile I paid a visit to
Clemenceau at his flat in the Rue Franklin. In the
course of our conversation he told me that he had kept
one of my father’s letters, written a short time before
his death, in which he entrusted me to Clemenceau’s
‘Philippe Berthelot was aware of Clemenceau’s passion for Villon, and

when he paid his first visit to him as Prime Minister, took care to slip into
his jacket pocket, so that it could easily be seen, a little collection of those
incomparable poems.
29 I
CLEMENCEAU
care like a young medical student to his senior. Then

he went on (I made a note of the exact words):
“Daudet, I would like to ask you a question which is
perhaps indiscreet.”
“Out with it, M. Clemenceau.”
“How is it that, having gone through your medical
studies and also studied philosophy, you still believe in
the divinity of Jesus Christ? It is extraordinary.”
“My dear sir, permit me to reply that the astonishing
thing is that, at the end of a life such as yours, having
thought and suffered as you have thought and suffered,
you do not admit so simple a fact.”
“What do you mean so simple.” (And he pushed back
his smoking-cap from his astonished face.) “But, if God
existed, we should see him. ...”
“M. Clemenceau, there is life. You know it is there,
but you do not see it. You can see your blood, your
muscles, your eyes, but not the life which, nevertheless,
animates them.”
He looked at me in genuine amazement.
“And what do you make of the whole of philosophy?”
“And what do you, sir, make of Saint Thomas and all
the theologians? They are all very great philosophers,
I assure you, and base their beliefs on reason.”
Upon this, he stretched across his crowded table and,
taking my hand between his, said with an expression
I shall never forget:
“In any case, we have one faith in common, you and
I, and that is France.”
At this period he thought constantly about death, to
which he had never given a thought when he was in
292
the trenches facing the rain of shells, and was turning

over in his mind an original vengeance for the ingrati¬
tude and desertion of his fellow citizens whom he had
saved from ruin and slavery. He, too, would desert
them when he died, by refusing to have any pomp,
official speeches or procession of any kind. Just imagine
Poincare there, with all his insignia of office, Briand with
his jeers, Millerand, that lump of burned-out ashes and
the rest of them, all following the catafalque—and the
gaping crowd, his fellow academicians with their swords
at their sides. Ugh! The thought of it made him feel
sick. There was only one way of escaping such a degrada¬
tion, with its hypocritical speeches and crocodile’s tears,
and that was—flight. But, where could he fly to? To
the land of his ancestors, to the Vendee, to his father’s
resting-place; that father who had never flinched, who
had never known a base thought. How could he fly?
In a car, with Braban, the faithful Braban, at the wheel.
This chauffeur-mechanic with the fine name was a
man in a thousand. He had gone with Clemenceau on
all his visits to the front. His loyalty had stood every
test and shone out of his eyes. His master sent for him.
Braban listened in silence, understood exactly what was
required of him and promised that, whatever happened,
he would carry out the wishes of his beloved master,
whose least desire was sacred in his eyes. He was
rewarded with one of those embraces with which Clemen¬
ceau was not prodigal.
Claude Monet’s studies in light and colour, which were
very much on the same lines as those of Goethe, brought
the two friends on to the subject of heat. Clemenceau’s
293
CLEMENCEAU
“synthetic” mind immediately leaped to the moral aspect

of it, and he coined this aphorism which is as good as
any of Pascal’s: “Coldness is the soul’s worst illness.”
“That inner disaster might have happened to me,” the
“Old Man” told an intimate friend, who smiled, know¬
ing Clemenceau had a soul of fire.
“Yes, yes, I assure you it is so. I have had a glimpse
of that frightful torment. I escaped it by study. Hard
and unremitting work: there is, taking it all in all,
nothing better than that. A really hard job, if it is
systematic, is never crushing.”
He had made Braban promise not to say anything
about his plan. Then, on second thoughts, he decided
that it would be better to let his relations and intimate
friends know about it. One and all protested. There
was nothing in his appearance to make them think that
he was likely to die so soon. Moreover, he based his
assumption on his organic and materialistic credo with¬
out taking into account the rejuvenation which he had
undergone on three occasions. He hardly looked at the
newspapers now and showed no interest in public affairs
beyond an occasional outburst of indignation about the
way in which “those fellows were bungling the victory.”
The debates in the Chamber were deplorable and shame¬
ful and those in the Senate senile. With unsparing
severity he condemned those republican institutions in
whose efficiency he used to believe and to which he had
once devoted himself. Even the “heroes” of the revolu¬
tionary “base” had now come down from their pedestals
and waded across, up to their knees in blood, to join
Poincare, Briand and the rest, the degenerate beneficiaries
294
of their excesses and illusions. However, there still

remained art and science.
The thoughts of the very old are apt to turn to their
childhood days, and Clemenceau was no exception to the
rule. He cleared the barrier of the War and looked
once more on the Vendee of other days, the school at
Nantes and his schoolfellows, most of whom were dead
and buried. “Forward, over the graves!” The fire of
memory reanimates the past.
Certain odd and sudden weaknesses and an intermittent
bladder trouble gave Clemenceau food for thought. He
took a large sheet of paper and, in a steady hand, wrote
the following lines:
“This is my last will and testament. I desire to be
buried at Colombier, by the side of my father. My body
is to be taken from the mortuary to the cemetery, with¬
out any kind of procession or ceremony. There must
be no oblation. There are to be no demonstrations, no
invitations, no ceremonies. Round my grave there is
to be only an iron grating, without name, as with my
father’s. In my coffin I wish to have placed my iron-
knobbed cane, which I have had ever since I was young,
and the little casket covered with goat’s-skin, which stands
in the left corner of the top shelf in my mirrored ward¬
robe. The little book, which my dear mother put in it
with her own hand, is to be left there. Finally, the two
little bunches of withered flowers, which are on the
mantelpiece of the room leading into the garden, are to be
put in with them. The small bunch is to be placed in the
shell which holds the larger one, and the whole to be
placed at my side.
295
CLEMENCEAU
“I appoint my very dear friend Nicolas Pietri to be my

executor, and, as co-executors, Maitre Pournin, barrister,
and my son Michel, and I thank them for the trouble
this may cause them.
“Given in Paris, 28th March, 1929.
“Georges Clemenceau.”
I have seen thousands of people quivering as they stood
listening with tears in their eyes to the reading of this
imposing will.
A few months later, as, being a doctor, he had fore¬
seen, Clemenceau contracted uraemia. With only Sister
Theoneste to help him, he had to suffer a very painful
agony. He could be heard moaning, and even screaming.
He was attended with every care, and his mind remained
clear right to the end. All France anxiously followed the
progress of his illness, and many were the priests who
prayed for him with more than their usual fervour.
So died in his eighty-ninth year this great man, the
saviour of his country, the plaything from beginning to
end of a helpful and compassionate providence in which
he did not believe, but which allowed him to achieve his
greatest aim.
296
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DC 342.8 C6 D32
Daudet, Leon, 1867-1942
Olemenceau : a stormy life / b 010101 000
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TRENT UNIVERSITY
DC342.8 .C6D32
DaudetL Leon
Clemenceau.
ISSUED TO
81804

Clemenceau A Stormy Life

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NUNC COGNOSCO EX PARTE

LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW

WILLIAM HODGE AND COMPANY, LIMITED

There was a party that evening at the Menard-Dorian’s

passionate “left’’ convictions, for was she not the daughter

pretty close with his money. He owned and ran the

and fame came to him with that callous telegram he sent

of laughter, he would pucker his eyes, pull furiously at

whom he had put in charge of the ]ournel Officiel as

kind face, like that of a hairy dog, sulky and affectionate,

“Sit down there, next to Albert—there is still room.

The guests had requested that there should be no music

public houses, there to ply them with soup and wine.

frightened, he, whose father had taught him never to

Vive le son du canon!*

Long live the cannon’s voice!

The spell broke. He must have dreamed aloud, for,

Gustave Geffroy checked a laugh and murmured:

hair. It was Father Considerant, one of the figures of

not so long ago. The thing will have to be done

in a bed hung with little bells. When these bells rang,

from battle-field to battle-field—and what a pitiable

“Yes, and I even know French.”

on the amnesty, and it had produced a great effect. He

big way. Perhaps, after all, he had been wrong to refuse

speeches, jotting down, as he thought, merely the general

fully. Camille, it is essential, you understand, for me to

. . . Besides, beware of using the genitive, and, as a

to interfere in France’s affairs and make her a second

political career was, in the first place, his hostility towards

THE PAPER, THE CHAMBER AND THE

One day towards the middle of January, 1885, the staff

Light. Edouard Durranc was a burst of laughter from

marriage with a wealthy Prussian of the lesser provincial

minister were not led by a “crow,” whether his wife

La justice knew the peasant world well, that aristocracy

mittees. Radical is a word that means that one would

“It’s very simple. Ferry is carrying on Gambetta’s

wanted and was so certain of himself as to gain and

thing. But, I say Martel, didn’t old Flaubert get a play

Those who worked with Clemenceau were accustomed

is not enough snow falling to make it slippery: at least,

“Do you think I don’t know that! This business of

Well, why not? Judging it by the present cabinet

of opinion—as long as we are allowed to have our own.”

“Yes, France is a family divided. She will have to

Brebant’s on a Sunday created a stir. Catulle Mendes

in the morning they would see. Nini, who understood

at him and threatened to give him a hiding. The mis¬

“It appears, Herr Director, that you are intending

me, on behalf of Vienna, a hundred thousand francs

“I may be a bit mad, but it is a divine madness,” said

At each meeting at the Circus Fernando Clemenceau

Early in the afternoon, while the paper-boys shouted

Than-Moi, began to think there was going to be another

session was opened, while the wretched members of the

This unforgettable session marked the death of oppor¬

Grevy, the President and a man who hated strong person¬

also joined in, some thinking him ugly and mongoloid,

unscrupulous fellow, was leading a vicious and dissolute

absolute tiger! ’ said Targe, who delighted in them, and

by his son-in-law. “Ah, poor old chap, what a way to