MayDay In Paris
It was May Day in Paris, 1858. The birds flitted easily through the warm, comforting breeze. The air was alive with spring fragrance, and with the sounds of life. Garlanded cows were being led through the streets, as was the tradition, and throngs of thousands of enthralled people were milling about, enjoying the season and the holiday.
Pietr van Rensselaer had been to Paris for May Day before, but the people had never been this happy. They were beyond joy. It was more of a sense of elation. After all, just one week before they had received news that the long, demoralizing Crimean War was over and they could get on with their lives. Was it any wonder the people were ebullient?
Rensselaer was in good spirits himself as he walked toward the Presidential palace… The Imperial Palace, he corrected himself. It had been a remarkably successful year for the Prussian government. For that matter, it had been a good several years of progress and industry. It was indeed time for a good vacation, to congratulate himself for a job well done.
He approached the sentry at the gate. After some evident confusion, the sentry called for an imperial clerk to make sense of the situation. The uniformed officer listened to Rensselaer’s story, invited him to a small sheltered office, and checked his papers once more.
“I am sorry. I have no record of your having called yesterday.”
“Well, I am certainly embarrassed. I swear that I did deliver my card yesterday, with the intention of visiting today.”
“My apologies, Monsieur. Things have been quite disrupted of late, and I am sure it has just been misplaced.”
“Yes, well… I suppose there is nothing for it,” he said with resignation. It would be impolite to visit without calling first. Offering another card, Rensselaer said, “Please, give this to the Emperor’s secretary. I will return tomorrow at this time, in hopes that the Emperor will see me. Thank you.” Rensselaer turned to go, then stopped and asked the clerk, “If I may inquire, why does everybody seem so preoccupied? I thought you’d be excited that the war is over.”
Just then, a crowd of ministers and attendants rushed out of a palace portico, followed by none other than Emperor Louis Napoleon Bonaparte. He was clearly hurrying, too, but he stopped in his tracks two moments after he looked Rensselaer’s direction. He stared for a moment with a complicated expression of… What was that? Surprise, shock, consternation, anger, fear? Which one? Or which several?
Immediately, the Emperor began striding directly toward Rensselaer, to the obvious dismay of his companions. As he neared, he raised his hand in friendly greeting. “Pietr! You surprise me again!” His smile was beaming.
“My Emperor, I must apologize. I left a calling card yesterday, but it has been lost. I was intending to come again tomorrow.”
“Nonsense!” Napoleon nodded to the clerk that it was okay, and with an expansive gesture of his hand welcomed Rensselaer to follow him toward the palace. “And it is still Louie, between us.”
“Of course, Mon Ami.”
Napoleon signaled to an agitated minister, among several, to whom he shouted, “I will have to meet you there, shortly.” To wave off the man’s determination, Napoleon had to add, “I swear I will come as soon as I am able. Go!” The last man climbed into the closed carriage, and the two black vehicles trotted away, leaving the Emperor’s carriage behind.
The two friends chitchatted as they entered the palace and Napoleon led Rensselaer toward his private office – yet larger than the last one he had seen. Rensselaer was impressed. And yet he was also taken by the emotional chill and nervousness of all those they had passed in the halls on the way there. The mood inside the palace was certainly in contrast to the celebrations outside. What was going on? No matter. He had come to visit, so they visited.
After some time, a secretary dutifully let himself in, and seemed surprised to see Napoleon still in his office. “Oh!” he exclaimed, then explained his presence just as Napoleon made a peculiar gesture with his hand. “Mon Empereur, I have brought the mobilization tables you had requested.” As soon as Rensselaer registered what he had said, he quickly glanced to catch a look of embarrassment and perplexity on Napoleon’s face.
“Thank you, Rene. Put them on the standtable, and I shall look at them tonight.”
Even that phrase seemed to catch the secretary funny, for some reason, but then he suddenly noticed that the Emperor was not alone. He hastened to comply with the Emperor’s request, and left at once. A trickle of chilly adrenaline began to find its way down Rensselaer’s frame.
“We are examining our army’s mobilization from the Crimean War, trying to improve for when we shall need it again,” Napoleon lied, pitifully.
Rensselaer smiled slightly. “There is always room for improvement, my friend.” How to distract? “You have the power to implement changes now, as Emperor. I’m sure that changes things quite a bit, from having to follow the legislature’s lead.”
“Indeed,” Napoleon chuckled. “I always appreciate having a free hand.”
“Although I’m sure, with your political prowess, you were able to get your way before.” Yes, flattery. Rensselaer smiled.
Napoleon instead seemed to remember his duties. “My friend, I must go attend to some business, but I must insist that you stay here at the palace while you are here in Paris.”
That was quite an invitation… which Rensselaer, frankly, had expected. But one must never assume. “Why thank you, Louie. That is very generous.” But now, Rensselaer’s imagination was describing a trip to his room down a dank, dark corridor. In truth, of course, the chamber to which he was led was spacious and comfortable. But as he sat down to rest by the window, things kept niggling at his mind. Nothing made sense.
As darkness closed in outside, Rensselaer quietly turned the handle on his door, and peered carefully out. Some distance down the hall, a man in extravagant livery glanced his direction when he caught the movement, but once he recognized Pietr, he looked quickly away. Rensselaer retreated, closed the door, and stopped to ponder. “I am under discreet guard!” he thought. “What is going on?” His heart began to pound, both in excitement at having a mystery to unravel, but also at the impending sense of danger.
His thoughts took him down a trail. “France had to be going to war, or something as serious… What was as serious as war? Nothing that threatened France at present. What sense would it make for France to be going to war? They’d just finished with one. It must be with Prussia, else why the reactions to my own particular presence? Or the Netherlands… No. But how?” Rensselaer stopped himself. “Britain had been the moving force behind the invasion of Russia. Had French troops played a major role?” He couldn’t recall any major battles within Russia that involved substantial French troop presence. “Was France never really committed on land? Did they husband their troops here?” Now his chest pounded, and he knew he was in some degree of danger. And so was Prussia.
Taking advantage of the fact that his guard was kept at a distance, Rensselaer slipped out the window, and sidled along a ledge until he reached a corner. Then, recalling the skills he had exercised as a boy, he climbed down the palace wall and into the courtyard. Slipping past yet more guards, and over one more wall, he escaped into Paris abroad.
By the time Pietr had reached the border, having contacted a spy and ridden by horseback along circuitous back-country routes, the war had already begun. Crossing the border into Baden, he from there made his way home to his duties in Berlin.