Paris, City of Dreams

by Mary McAuliffe

  It was while he was building up his expertise in bridges that Eiffel developed his experience in dealing with iron, both in his designs and in his methods of assembly. Soon he would become known for his rigorous planning and execution, all based on equally rigorous mathematical calculation.

  But all the while he earned his living by building bridge after bridge, Eiffel dreamed of something more—iron-framed buildings and even other structures. For this genius with iron would in time build not only the tower bearing his name but also the internal structure of Frédéric Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty.

  While the young were finding their way with varying degrees of success, the empire itself was aging, and with it, some of its most distinctive figures.

  Despite the contempt of society leaders such as Princess Mathilde, great courtesans such as La Païva continued to hold sway. According to the Gon-courts, Princess Mathilde protested “the dominion enjoyed by these women, honored by the company of philosophers, men of letters, scientists, and thinkers.” She was right, in that La Païva, even in old age, continued to attract the very philosophers, men of letters, scientists, and thinkers whom the princess resented for flocking around the courtesan.

  By 1868, Russian-born La Païva had lost her beauty but none of her powers of attraction. “She is always the same,” the Goncourts noted, “disagreeable, unpleasant.” And yet they—and many others—continued to patronize her at her extraordinary mansion on the Champs-Elysées. Dripping with emeralds one cold winter evening, the old courtesan presided over a dinner table discussion in which she expounded what the Goncourts found to be a “frightening theory of will-power.” She insisted that “there were no such things as fortuitous circumstances, that one created one’s own circumstances, and that unfortunate people were so only because they did not want to stop being unfortunate.” When called upon to support her theory, she spoke of a woman who, in order to attain an unspecified goal, shut herself up for three years, scarcely eating, and entirely focused on a plan that she was developing.

  La Païva then concluded, “I was that woman.”18 There was no need to ask her to name her goal—or her plan.

  That November, James de Rothschild died. The last of the five Rothschild brothers, sons of the empire’s founder, James had steered the family firm through multiple storms during the course of his long and eventful career. He had given the Paris house an additional and all-important role as an industrial investment bank, whose railroad empire added mightily to the house’s fortunes, and he had, in the end, defeated the Rothschilds’ great challengers, the Pereires.

  By the time of his death at age seventy-six, James was enormously rich and powerful, and in recognition of this, his funeral figured as a major event in Paris. His grandnephew, Leo, reported with awe that “all Paris came to pay their respects,” and Leo’s brother Natty related that he had never seen “such an assembly of people as came to the Rue Lafitte this morning.” Some four thousand people passed through the drawing room, he added breathlessly; “they say there were six thousand people in the court yard, and from the Rue Lafitte to Père-Lachaise [the burial site on the eastern edge of Paris] the wheels are lined five deep on both sides.” Even The Times’s Paris correspondent was uncharacteristically impressed: not within his memory had he seen the streets more crowded.19

  Many telegrams of sympathy came from around the globe, most especially from heads of state, including the exiled Orléans family. But Napoleon III did not attend, sending a representative in his place. Other leading political figures also thought it best to follow their emperor’s lead and keep their distance.

  Despite a definite mending of relations in recent years between James de Rothschild and the emperor, James had never taken to either Louis-Napoleon or to his empire. Recognizing this fact, the emperor chose not to pay his respects in person—a slight that did not seem to overly disturb the Rothschild family.

  Around the same time, Maxime Du Camp dined alone with George Sand, by now considered one of the masters of French literature. The famed author was then sixty-four years old and, as Du Camp put it, “very talkative,” even “disposed to confide in me more fully than I desired.”

  Sand’s long life, during which she had lived boldly and exactly as she chose, was legendary, as had been her beauty. Now, Du Camp observed, “there was nothing left of her former beauty.” But this hardly mattered. After a long conversation, “a masterful smile passed over her face which seemed to express pride in her own influence and acknowledged supremacy.”

  She then added, “I regret nothing.”20

  Berthe Morisot, 1869. Photograph by Pierre Petit. Private collection. © Archives Charmet / Bridgeman Images

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Haussmann in Trouble

  (1869)

  Debates in the Legislature on the finances of Haussmann’s grands travaux began that February and continued, through eleven sessions, into March. Not only were Haussmann’s opponents angered by the huge costs of his operations (tackling in particular his theory of productive expenditure), but they also accused him of embezzlement, of bribery, and of using inside information for his own and his associates’ profit. Stories that had circulated underground now surfaced openly about figures altered in certain reports and bribes offered in the form of “commissions” to the powerful prefect of the Seine.

  Unquestionably, with so much money involved, there were multiple possibilities for irregularities, most especially involving those who stood to benefit from municipal contracts. An area attracting particular scrutiny was the difference between purchase price and compensation payment for expropriated property, which could be considerable if those in possession of crystal balls (or a friend in City Hall) bought up property well in advance of the government’s publicized decision to acquire the property in question. Whether this involved inside knowledge or was simply a shrewd guess, it was enough to make certain individuals, such as the Pereires, very rich indeed.

  But had it benefited Haussmann? He would spend many years in retirement writing his memoirs, in which he defended himself and his expenditures at great length and in even greater detail. His honor meant much to him, and he was at pains to defend it as well as the unparalleled changes he had wrought in the city he loved. Central to his thinking then, and at the time of his prefecture, was the concept that Paris “is not the exclusive domain of Parisians,” but belonged to—and was the glory of—the entire nation. Not only was Paris the “universal home of Letters, Science, and the Arts,” but it was the converging point of great roads, railroads, and telegraphs. Laws, decrees, decisions, and orders originated and spread from there, and the sum total of all this creativity and activity made Paris the very soul of France, “its head and its heart.” As such, it was the worthy recipient of whatever measures were necessary to improve and beautify it.1 Moreover, if any failure in management had occurred in the service of this queen of cities, Haussmann was more than ready to defend these as the inevitable results of a huge enterprise boldly undertaken as a necessity and under the severe constraints of time.

  Yet members of the Legislature were no longer inclined to acquiesce to Haussmann or his grands travaux, and although in effect acquitting the prefect for lack of solid proof, they firmly settled up the outstanding credit certificates and shut down the Caisse des Travaux.

  It was clear that Haussmann would not be prefect of the Seine much longer.

  During the Legislature’s debates, Eugène Rouher—in his capacity of serving the emperor—had made it clear that Napoleon III bore no responsibility for whatever irregularities of accounts and management were under discussion. As for the future, Rouher assured the Legislature that “there will be no more contracting out, no more discounting of bills, no more disguised loans,” and certainly no more credit certificates. “We have accomplished a great endeavor,” he assured the deputies. “If there was also some irregularity of management, this will be forgotten and the grandeur of the enterprise will remain in the memory.”2

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p; Yet even if the emperor was not implicated in the affair, he certainly was not burnished by it—especially as the mounting attacks on Haussmann could also be understood as surreptitious attacks on him. As May elections approached, Louis-Napoleon’s prestige continued to decline, even while the political climate throughout the nation—particularly in its cities and towns—had substantially changed, in part encouraged by the liberalization of assembly and press, albeit small, that had occurred the year before.

  These spring elections did not go well for the emperor. The number of angry young republicans had proliferated, as had their meetings and assemblies, while the opposition press had similarly burgeoned. The 1851 coup d’état, hitherto sacrosanct, now came under attack, with new leaders such as Léon Gambetta denouncing it as a crime and its victims as martyrs. Under this withering criticism of both emperor and empire, prefects and mayors showed less enthusiasm for turning out the vote for official candidates, while some candidates, even though blessed by official imprimatur, were reluctant to display the fact.

  Pro-government candidates still won the majority of votes but by a significantly smaller margin than ever before. The emperor and his candidates retained the loyalty of rural voters, but Paris and other cities and towns now were swinging ever more strongly toward republicanism, including candidates who irreconcilably opposed the regime.

  It may not have amounted to a complete disaster for the emperor, but it certainly was far from the kind of victory he wanted and needed. Louis-Napoleon no longer could claim to be the absolute ruler of France. Bonapartists now were a minority in the Legislature, although still a sizable one, while the majority consisted of a volatile mix of moderates largely opposed to the regime but willing to support it should it move toward parliamentary government. Given this situation, the emperor at first hesitated, but then, pushed by liberals at the Legislature’s opening session on July 6, he promised to yield to their demands for concessions. Several days later, the emperor responded by giving the Legislature further rights and by sacking his severely conservative minister, Eugène Rouher, replacing him with the more moderate Adolphe de Forcade La Roquette.

  A transitional government was now appointed to carry out reforms, which would result the following year in the creation of a bicameral parliamentary system, with significant powers for the legislative body and constraints on the emperor. A new government, with the moderate republican Emile Ollivier in its ranks, would form in early 1870.

  In the meantime, Haussmann clung to his job and Louis-Napoleon battled illness, suffering another bad attack that summer. Rumors spread that he was dying, and the stock market took fright, causing shares on the stock exchange to plummet. But the reports of the emperor’s imminent demise had been exaggerated. As in the past, he quickly recovered, and soon he could be seen riding in the Bois de Boulogne. Later that autumn, the wife of one of his ministers reported how impressive the emperor’s good health appeared to be and how he astonished his guests at his Compiègne château with his “gaiety and high spirits,” leading them in a whirling dance that lasted for nearly two hours.

  At the time of this particular house party, Eugenie was representing the emperor at the ceremonial opening of the Suez Canal. Largely funded by a sea of small French investors, the resulting achievement was a French one, even if not one that the government had underwritten, and the empress accordingly presided over the November ceremonies in Egypt. Later in life, she told an interviewer that this occasion remained with her as one of the most dazzling experiences in her life. “There was a real Egyptian sky,” she recalled, “a light of enchantment, a resplendence as of dreams. . . . My yacht, L’Aigle, at once took the head of the procession. . . . The spectacle was so supremely magnificent, and proclaimed so proudly the greatness of the French regime, that I could contain myself no longer, I was exultant.”

  Such a spectacle momentarily distracted the empress from troubles at home, which she was quick to enumerate: “Outside the gates, a threatening Prussia, a thankless Italy, and the other powers sulking or spiteful . . . and within, disaffection and restlessness.” Eugenie especially resented the press, “ignoble in its insolence and bad faith,” as well as “continual strikes, riotous manifestations.” In particular, she singled out Henri Rochefort’s paper, La Lanterne, for contributing to “a wind of madness” that was “sweeping over France.”3

  Victor Hugo called Henri Rochefort his “third son.” Born into an aristocratic and ultra-royalist family, Rochefort had veered sharply left in his politics, and by 1868, he had founded a newspaper, La Lanterne, that did not hesitate to reveal the shipworms that infested Napoleon III’s empire. Rochefort idolized Victor Hugo, and when La Lanterne quickly earned Rochefort a fine and prison sentence, he fled to Brussels, where he set up La Lanterne in exile and met Hugo.

  In the meantime, although censorship still stalked the press, Victor Hugo’s sons, Charles and Franҫois-Victor, along with Auguste Vacquerie and Paul Meurice, agreed to take advantage of the reform that allowed newspapers to be published without official consent and founded a newspaper that Victor Hugo named Le Rappel—a word of many meanings, one of which was “a reminder.”

  Not only did Le Rappel publish Hugo’s speeches and messages, but it supported republican candidates in the May elections, including Léon Gambetta and Rochefort himself. Soon the paper felt the force of official displeasure, when its offices were trashed and its editors threatened with imprisonment. Still, the tide of republicanism in Paris and other French cities continued to rise. Rochefort and Gambetta were elected, and when the police tried to shut down Le Rappel on the night of June 10, a large crowd of Parisians quickly mobilized in protest. In the process, some of the angriest erected the first street barricade seen in Paris since 1851.

  Despite rumors that Victor Hugo was about to return, Napoleon III’s nemesis remained safely outside of France, where he urged all protests to remain peaceful. That September, Hugo chaired a peace conference in Lausanne.“To perpetuate war is to perpetuate tyranny,” he said in his opening speech. “The logic is impeccable.”4

  The 1867 execution of Archduke Maximilian, which followed France’s withdrawal of military support, had quickly emerged as yet one more target for republican critics of Napoleon III and his regime. Edouard Manet, who was steadily embracing republican politics, found himself drawn to the subject of Maximilian’s demise and, soon after the execution, decided to make it the subject of a history painting.

  He began work on a large canvas that summer, probably based on a detailed account published in Le Figaro, and then began another full-scale version in September, followed by a smaller version and yet another large painting. In his final version, Manet clothed the firing squad in the uniforms of French soldiers—graphically illustrating where he felt responsibility for the tragedy lay.

  Manet had every intention of submitting his final version to the 1869 Salon, but he was unofficially advised that it would not be accepted. Clearly the subject was politically sensitive. Still, Manet was disinclined to follow rules, whether political or artistic, and proceeded to make a lithograph, or print, of Execution to popularize the painting.

  When Manet’s printer presented the lithograph for copyright registration, he learned that it was banned. Manet promptly wrote Zola that he “had thought they could stop it from being published but not from being printed,” and he appealed to his friend “to write a few lines about this ludicrously small-minded procedure.” Manet took the approach that “we are surprised at the action of the authorities in banning a purely artistic work.” Zola responded and, in his report on the ban, pointed out the French uniforms of the soldiers: “You understand the horror and anger of the censors. . . . An artist dared to put before their eyes so cruel an irony: France shooting Maximilian!”5

  Soon matters escalated, and Manet’s “Maximilian affair” became “more complicated,” as he informed art critic Philippe Burty. Frightened, the printer asked Manet for permission to erase the image from the lithographic stone, bu
t Manet refused. The printer then refused to give the stone back. “I should imagine,” Manet continued, “one can’t destroy a printing block, stone, etc., without a court order, and without publication there can be no punishable offense.”6

  Soon after, the Chronique des Arts published a letter from Manet providing details of the ban and the events that followed, along with the editor’s comments on the gravity of the questions involved. Shortly afterward, the printer returned the stone to Manet.

  The painting would not be shown in public for ten years, when it was exhibited in the United States. The lithograph would not be printed until after Manet’s death.

  Edouard Manet may have failed to exhibit Execution at the 1869 Salon, but he had two other paintings that successfully navigated that year’s Salon jury: Le Déjeuner dans l’atelier (The Luncheon in the Studio) and Le Balcon (The Balcony). Luncheon in the Studio features his wife’s son, Léon Leenhoff, standing before a luncheon table, while The Balcony depicts three figures, including a stunning dark-haired woman seated in front. The woman was Berthe Morisot.

  This was the first time Morisot had posed for Manet, and her dark beauty evidently captivated him. Yet the painting itself, which paid homage to Goya’s Les Manolas au balcon, did not captivate Salon viewers. Critics agreed that it was mysterious and even unsettling and pointed to the ambiguous relationship between its three figures. “One doesn’t quite know what these good people are doing on the balcony,” one critic wrote, while another complained about the complete absence of connection between the figures. Manet in turn had found it difficult to create The Balcony and was plagued with doubts about his work—as Madame Morisot commented in early spring to her daughter Edma: “Manet looks like a madman: he hopes that his picture will be a success, then all of a sudden he is filled with doubts that cast him down.”7