Now events – and their own sovereign – were threatening their grand plans. The French had indeed puffed their chests and rattled their swords. They had been outraged. They had been insulted. Their foreign minister had threatened war.
King Wilhelm did not share Bismarck’s enthusiasm for war with the French, at least not over this issue. Prince Leopold himself had been lukewarm about taking the Spanish throne, for the situation there was unsettled.
So Wilhelm had blinked.
“It is finished,” Bismarck repeated, the resignation heavy in his voice. “The king has backed down. Leopold has renounced any claim to the throne.”
“I thought you had secured the cooperation of his father,” said von Roon.
“As did I. I persuaded his father by appealing to his sense of duty as a Prussian. And his father persuaded him. It was done. Leopold had asked King Wilhelm to allow him to accept, and Wilhelm agreed. But then Wilhelm changed his mind.”
Bismarck shook his head in anger. “Gott in Himmel, Wilhelm lacks spine. He has buckled under his fear of the French. He has no stomach for the unknown. If the king grants further concessions to the French, I shall have no choice but to resign.”
At that moment an aide appeared through a heavy paneled oak door. He approached the table and saluted.
“Herr Minister, an urgent telegram.” He held out a tray to Bismarck, who took the envelope from it and opened it.
“It is from the king, through the foreign office.” The king was taking the waters at Ems. Bismarck silently read a few sentences. “It appears the French ambassador approached him today.” He read further, shaking his head in wonder. “Mein Gott, but they are insolent. Evidently the king’s assurance that he is withdrawing his support of Leopold is not enough for them. They asked Wilhelm to guarantee that Leopold will never seek it again. And they have asked Wilhelm to apologize.”
“Apologize?” said an incredulous von Roon. “For what should he apologize? The king has done nothing in this matter but what the French themselves have asked!”
Bismarck was not paying attention. He was still reading. “His Majesty has rejected their demands,” he continued. “He has decided not to receive the French ambassador again. He wants to know if I think we should communicate the latest demand and the king’s rejection to the press.” He passed the telegram to the others and fell silent, thinking.
“Even for the French, unbelievable arrogance,” spat von Moltke. “Of course, Excellency, this should be reported to the press at once. The public will see their demands as outrageous.”
“It will accomplish nothing,” said von Roon. “It is mere posturing now. The cause is lost.”
But a smile was taking shape on Bismarck’s face. There was new light in his eyes.
“Gentlemen, this telegram should not be released to the press.”
“I think you are wrong, Exc—” started von Moltke. Bismarck raised a hand to silence him.
“I said this telegram should not be released.” He rose and walked to a desk at the side of the room, from which he retrieved a fountain pen. He returned to the dinner table and pushed the dishes aside. He laid the telegram down and carefully began to edit it. For a few moments his pen made the only sound in the room as he scratched through a few words and added others. When he was done he straightened up in his chair. The look on his face was impassive as he held the revised telegram out for the others.
“Gentlemen, this is what the world shall read.”
Von Roon and von Moltke studied Bismarck’s work. The realization of what he had done dawned slowly upon them. Their eyes took on a look of admiration as they understood. He was an artist. He had taken the king’s simple refusal to see the ambassador and turned it into an outright insult to the French. It would be more than the French could bear. They looked in awe at Bismarck. No one but he would have dared.
No one else had the balls.
“It is brilliant,” was all that von Moltke could say.
“A red rag for the Gallic bull,” acknowledged Bismarck with a modest smile. He poured them each more schnapps, and raised his glass in a toast.
“To a united Germany,” he said. “Gentlemen, we shall have our war after all.”
* * *
General Bernard Delacroix entered his carriage in the courtyard of the Tuileries, the palace of Napoléon. The general was a member of the emperor’s elite Imperial Guard. He was heavyset with a round face and florid features from too many days of leisure and too many nights of excess.
“Le Château deVries,” he ordered his driver, and settled back to enjoy the drive. It was a beautiful summer evening. The sky was cloudless and deep blue. The shadows of the setting sun lengthened across the courtyard.
The general was bone tired. For weeks he had barely ventured from the Tuileries. Tonight he would take a welcome break from the relentless pace and attend a party. Count Henri deVries was returning from Russia and had passed through Berlin along the way. The general wanted to get his sense of the preparedness of the Prussians. But there was another reason, a far more compelling reason he was attending: it was Elisabeth, luscious Elisabeth, the wife of Colonel Jules deVries, the count’s brother. Elisabeth, lovely Elisabeth, blond and willing. Elisabeth, wild and ambitious and brazen. The general stirred in his seat and felt himself growing excited at the thought of her. He smiled at her persistence, wishing his own officers had her spirit. With the Prussian situation the general was accepting no social invitations, but Elisabeth had taken great pains to ensure his presence, first sending a note and then stopping by the Tuileries personally. Brandishing her parasol like a sword and her resolve like a club, she’d bullied his aide into accepting her invitation on the general’s behalf. The general didn’t mind, not at all. He was ready for Elisabeth. He would have her. Tonight, in the count’s home, with her own husband nearby. The thought brought a smile to his lips and a shiver to his groin.
His carriage turned to the east outside the palace gate. The route to the deVrieses’ would take him past the best of the city. There was the Palais Royal, and the Garden of the Tuileries, where the band from his own Imperial Guard entertained men and women enjoying the fresh air and strolling along the paths among the flowers and trees and fountains.
He passed beneath the long branches of the chestnut trees that lined the rue de Rivoli and into the Place de la Concorde. His carriage joined a never-ending stream of vehicles rolling along the streets in a dizzying parade of élan and excitement. Coachmen’s whips lashed magnificent purebred English horses drawing the elite of society to and from their affairs: an endless procession of top hats, gowns, capes, and jewels feeding an unlimited supply of parties, masked balls, dinners, operas, musicals, and plays. All the formidable resources of finance, intellect, and culture were brought to bear to prevent that most horrible of French maladies, boredom. The refrain of Paris at Play, a popular musical revue, was heard everywhere: “Without finery and pleasure, we must agree, life is just a stupidity.”
The pursuit of pleasure was insatiable, permeating every aspect of French life, consuming every waking moment: for the rich, an evening at the opera; for the middle class, the cancan at the Bal Mabille; for the poor, a drinking den and twelve-year-old prostitutes, or, more likely, nothing at all.
The general passed through streets that were a carnival of jugglers and magicians and potion peddlers and harlots. Sidewalk cafés were everywhere. At the Café Guerbois one might see Renoir or Zola, while at the Nouvelle-Athenes, the general thought grimly, the traitors Clemenceau or Gambetta might be heard roasting Napoléon. They were becoming bold to the point of disloyalty. They ought to be banished, like the writer Hugo. General Delacroix thought the emperor was too soft on dissidents. He had stopped cleaning France’s house too soon. He should have done to the intellectuals what Haussmann had done to the poor, only instead of the suburbs he should have shown them the guillotine. Even banishment was too easy, an unsure fix that could come undone. Blades and bullets: these solved problems
more permanently. Delacroix would have been only too happy to deal with the writers and the painters for the good of the empire, painters like that dandy Manet who slopped the excrement of thinly disguised insults to the emperor onto his canvases, and composers like Offenbach, the half-Prussian who wrote operettas satirizing empires and armies and – yes – generals. It was humiliating. Liberty had gone too far when one couldn’t attend the theater without fearing another assault upon one’s integrity or sovereign or profession.
But it would not come to pass, the general knew, for the emperor was sick and weak, a slave to his Spanish empress, Eugénie, and her intrigues. His hold over the empire was slipping, his prestige among the other rulers of Europe at a low, a low that meant danger for France, for where there was no respect for a sovereign’s fitness or judgment or resolve, there was danger of war. Even in the best of times, Napoléon had never been imposing. Now his miseries were clear to anyone who looked. He could barely walk for his kidney stones. The eyes had lost their luster. The whispers at the palace were louder now. The man was disengaged, drifting in pain, losing his grip. There had been violent strikes and street riots in the spring as a struggle developed between authority and liberty, the poor and the rich. Attacks on the emperor were growing commonplace. The newspapers were full of it, full of the fury of discontent, full of the lies and license of the malcontents. The general shook his head at the outrage.
He passed through the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in the Place de l’Étoile. In all the world this was his favorite place, a memorial to the great wars of the empire, an affirmation of the might of France, its frieze depicting a procession of conquerors bringing the spoils of war home to the motherland, full of glory past, full of glory present, full of glory to come. As always, the Place was vital and alive and surging with humanity. Here one could find reassurance in troubling times. Here one could see and hear and touch that which the general felt would forever preserve France: men-at-arms, men of power and pomp, men with plumed helmets and golden breastplates and swords and guns; the sky blue tunics and jackboots of the Cent Gardes; Lancers on white horses; officers of the Guides, aristocrats in green and gold with their sabers gleaming in the sun; hussars; the Chasseurs d’Afrique and the Zouaves on their Arabian horses; the Spahis from the Sahara. Everywhere, the mighty trappings of a nation that could deploy a half-million men under arms, fighting men who were the envy of the world. From North Africa to Tahiti, China to Somalia, Madagascar to the West Indies, the armies of France rivaled the English as they sought to fulfill their destiny of acquiring and civilizing the world. Yes, reflected the general, kings and emperors would come and go, but France could always look to her military to serve her interests and protect her God-given role as civilizer of the world. France would muddle through, as she always did.
And muddle through she now must, for there was something new in the air of Paris this evening, a special energy and excitement and sense of danger. One could always find something in the air of Paris – love or lust, revolution or intrigue. Now it was the prospect of war with the Prussians, whose king had insulted France. The affront filled the sidewalks with cocky, swaggering crowds, full of the giddy self-assurance that comes so easily to those who don’t have to fight. Parliament was hot, the press on fire. On street corners and in parks, crowds gathered to listen to impassioned speeches. Notices papered every wall. Rumors fed gossip, and gossip became news, and the news made all France indignant.
It was wonderful to be a military man just then, to enjoy the respect and awe of the masses, who saluted anything wearing a uniform. True to form, the general’s passage brought tipped hats and excited waves amid feverish cries of “Vive la France!” and “À Berlin!” and “Vive la guerre!” After four wars and progressively increasing rank, Delacroix had gotten farther from the battlefield but closer to the glory.
* * *
Elisabeth was in ecstasy. This was her party, the party she had worked and hoped for. It was not the party of the year, or even of the month, for this was Paris, after all, but the party of the week perhaps; and for the wife of a colonel, the guest list glittered with promise for advancement for herself and Jules. She had tirelessly leveraged the guest list, first convincing one notable to come, then using that name to persuade someone else, then using both to obtain yet another of even higher stature, until the collective assurance grew that the party would indeed be worth attending.
Henri had been out of the country in Russia, on one or another of his explorations. She didn’t know where or what, but what she did know was that his absence allowed her to dominate the household and take control of its budget and to begin to move things along in her own way. Move them she had. For tonight there was an abundance of help: butlers and cooks, servers and maids, all frantically keeping up with her commands and setting table just so, taking care that all was dusted and arranged and that the candles were lit and the gaslights polished and rugs beaten and floors mopped and shined. There was so much to undo.
She detested the way Henri had, as she put it, “savaged the château.” He was uncomfortable with the affectations of Paris. Upon the death of the old count, he had done away with everything he considered ostentatious or silly, which was to say most of the contents of the house. Stone and wood took the place of frills and satin. Fine carpets were replaced with African rugs. Out went the overstuffed chairs and gilded picture frames and baroque consoles and enameled tables.
She could only watch in dismay as, despite her protests, her brother-in-law stripped the house of its soul. She rescued what pieces she could, and furnished her private rooms in the château as richly as leftovers and a military salary would permit. Not one sou remained after her budget was spent on clothing and furnishings. As a colonel, Jules was well paid, but only as emperor would he have been rich enough for Elisabeth. Had the count not fed them they would have starved, for there was no room in Jules’s salary for Elisabeth’s fashion and food.
Now, with Henri away and a party at hand, the house was hers to remake. She had been clever and determined. Carefully she searched the storerooms and four different attics and found what she needed in dusty trunks that had belonged to the old count; the old man had had a greater appreciation for show than Henri. In the attics she uncovered riches she hadn’t known existed: enameled glass goblets, deep blue in color, with hand-painted miniature portraits from the court of Louis XIV; matching hard-paste porcelain dishes with exotic patterns of cherubs and carriages and forest scenes; a table of painted pine inlaid with Belgian marble and ebonized fruitwood; overstuffed couches and chairs with carved legs; a tapestry of woven wool and silk. Everything she chose was dusted and cleaned and polished and arranged until the whole house more closely suited her tastes and sense of propriety.
Through all these preparations Serena had stayed out of her way, caring little for the party or the budget. There could not have been a greater contrast between the two women. Serena had been born and raised a nomad. Comfort to her was found by looking inward, while comfort to Elisabeth was strictly an external proposition. Serena was content sleeping on the floor; Elisabeth required a Louis XIV canopied bed in which to recline. Serena was an excellent horsewoman; Elisabeth complained of the beasts’ smell. Where Serena dressed plainly and wore no makeup, Elisabeth changed her clothes six times a day. Each season demanded a fresh set of clothes. Once a month she visited the specialty salons in Paris: first, to be seen doing so; second, to purchase the latest rage – cashmere shawls, cosmetics, or scarlet shoes. She had seven parasols and twenty-three garters and thirty-one pairs of shoes. Innumerable hats filled countless boxes stacked in deep rows in her closet.
Elisabeth found Serena an embarrassment, so painfully… foreign. Elisabeth had trouble introducing her to her friends, for Serena seemed to have no gift for the small talk so central to parlor life. As for her clothes – well, the woman had no sense at all how to dress. At least she had dropped her desert rags and adopted the French style, but she wore her gowns unadorned. Yes, El
isabeth granted, she was ravishing; and it troubled Elisabeth not a little that even without hairdressers and hours of preparation, Serena still managed to look so fresh and beautiful. Elisabeth noticed the way men stole looks at Serena. It was impossible not to notice. However the military men and their wives might criticize Serena behind her back for being so different, a heathen and all, the men all looked at her that way. All of them did, the pigs. Elisabeth was particularly incensed when, on one occasion, she was certain she’d caught her own Jules looking at his sister-in-law. She’d refused to sleep with him for a month, as though somehow that might dim the flames of passion she was convinced he harbored for Serena. If logic was not Elisabeth’s strong point, sex was a weapon she used wisely and well. Owing to his military service, Jules was away for long periods, so that when he came home he was naturally eager to renew the bonds of marriage. If she had anything at all to resolve with him, any scheme or program or plan in which she needed his intervention or cooperation or connivance, that was the time to do it. For in the heat of passion Jules was an animal, and prone to promise anything.
Years earlier, Elisabeth had given up on transforming Serena into a lady, or instilling in her the social graces, dressing her and teaching her the proper demeanor of a countess. An early instinct to help her sister-in-law had been replaced by the realization that the Château deVries needed a lady, a proper lady. She was that lady, and whatever polish Serena lacked added luster to her own. Yet Elisabeth felt somehow cheated by Serena or, more accurately, felt that she and Jules had been cheated by Henri and Serena. For it was Jules who had the bearing of a count, not Henri, and Elisabeth who looked the countess, not Serena. It was only by fault of birth order that Jules was untitled and penniless, whereas Henri held the name and family fortune. The title was entirely wasted on the man. Why, if Jules were count – how she longed for it! – the Château deVries would be returned to grandeur and life would be fine.
Empires of Sand Page 10