His Excellency the Minister | Page 5

the manager's box. Little lassies of ten or twelve came and seized your hand, saying:
"'Please, monsieur, point out Monsieur Gambetta to me--he is here--I would so much like to see him.'
"And then Gambetta was pointed out to them during the entr'acte--after which, delighted, they went off caracoling and pirouetting behind the scenes:
"'You did not see Monsieur Gambetta, but I saw him!'
"This was popularity--and it must be confessed that only one man in France to-day receives such marks of it. This man is Gambetta.
"Meanwhile Claretie's minister continues his walk through the corridors of the Op��ra house. He reaches the greenroom of the ballet at last and exclaims:
"'And that is all!'
"Alas, yes, your Excellency, that is all!--"
And everything is only a "that is all," in this world. If one should set himself carefully to weigh power or fame,--power, that force of which Girardin said, however: "I would give fifty years of glory for one hour of power,"--even if one tilted the scale, one would not find the weight very considerable.
It would be necessary to have the resounding renown of a personality like that one who, if I am to believe Monsieur Hal��vy, alone enjoyed the privilege of revolutionizing the foyer of the ballet, in order to boast of having been someone, or of having accomplished something.
A rather witty skeptic once said to a friend of his who had just been appointed minister:
"My dear fellow, permit me as a practical man to ask you not to engage in too many affairs. Events in this world are accomplished without much meddling. If you attempt to do something to-day, everyone will cry out: 'What! he is going to demolish everything!' If you do nothing, they will cry: 'What! he does not budge! If I were minister, which God forbid, I would say nothing--and let others act--I would do nothing--and let others talk.'"
Everybody, very fortunately--and all ministers do not reason like this jester. But the truth is that it is very difficult for an honest man in the midst of political entanglements as Vaudrey was, to realize his dream. When opportunities arise--those opportunities that march only at a snail's pace--one is not allowed to make use of them, they are snatched from one. They arrive, only to take wings again. And in those posts of daily combat, one has not only against one the enemies who attack one openly, which would be but a slight matter, a touch with a goad or a prick of the spur, at most--but one has to contend with friends who compromise, and servants who serve one badly.
Every man who occupies an office, whatever it may be, has for his adversaries those who covet it, those who regret it, those who have once filled it, and those who desire to fill it. What assaults too! Against a successful rival, there is no infamy too base, no mine too deep, no villainy too cruel, no lie too poisoned to be made use of--and the minister, his Excellency, is like a hostage to Power.
And yet one more point, it is not in his enemies or his calumniators that his danger lies. The real, absolute evil is in the system of routine and ill-will which attack the statesmen of probity. It will be seen from these pages that there is a warning bell destined, alas! to keep away from those in power the messengers who would bring them the truth from outside, the unwelcome and much dreaded truth.
The novel may sometimes be this stroke of the bell,--a stroke honest and useful,--a disinterested warner, and I have striven to make Monsieur le Ministre precisely that, in a small degree, for the political world. I have essayed to paint this hell paved with some of the good intentions. The success which greeted the appearance of this book, might justify me in believing that I have succeeded in my task. I trust that it will enjoy under its new form--so flattering to an author, that an editor-artist is pleased to give it,--the success achieved under its first form.
Monsieur le Ministre is connected with more than one recollection of my life. I was called upon one day to follow to his last resting-place--and it is on an occasion like this that one discovers more readily and perceives more clearly life's ironies--one of those men "who do nothing but create other men," a journalist. It was bitterly cold and we stood before the open grave, just in front of a railway embankment, in an out of the way cemetery of Saint-Ouen,--the cemetery called Cayenne,because the dead are "deported" thither. We were but four faithful ones. Yes, four, but amongst these four must be included a young man, bare-headed and wearing the uniform of an officer, who stood by the deceased man's son.
Whilst one of us bade the last farewell