Hugo's guard

Victor Hugo died after a long agony on Friday, May 22, 1885, at 1:27 p.m. Immediately a friendly hand approached the Louis XVI cartel placed on the fireplace, and stopped it. Three days before, while struggling against death, the Poet had uttered his last verse:

"This is the fight of day and night!" »

The newspapers of the time are full of the story of his astonishing funeral. The poets of my generation played a modest role in it, if you will, but very characteristic of the admiration they had for the Master. On the initiative of Catulle Mendès, it was decided that at the time of the lifting of the body, fourteen French poets, chosen among the friends and disciples of Victor Hugo, would escort his coffin, from the mortuary house to the Arc de Triomphe of the 'Etoile, and would watch over him in turn. I had the honor of being one of these poets. My emotion still clings to those unforgettable days. On the evening of May 30, we were summoned to the town hall of the 16th arrondissement by Edouard Lockroy, assisted by his private secretary, the poet Georges Pavelle, now first president of the Court of Auditors. After a speech by Doctor Marmottan, we were given our insignia—a crepe armband, with the initials. V.H. in yellow metal and a "funeral commissioner" card, signed by the Minister of the Interior Allain-Targé.

It was late. The coffin, in the early hours of the day, had to leave the house now widowed by an immortal spirit. In the meantime, one of us suggested renewing an ancient custom: the funeral meal. Around midnight, Place Victor-Hugo, the restaurant du Coq opened its doors to us. For four hours, under the presidency of Armand Silvestre, we recited poems by our Master, exalting his brilliant work and his life. We also remembered the toast given to him by Emile Augier, in the name of French Letters, in the solemn banquet of 1882 "Au Père".

At five o'clock on Sunday, May 31, we were in front of the little hotel, which had long since disappeared, alas! The double coffin, of lead and oak, had been brought the day before. Through the crowd around us, we saw the ugly green painted van appear, intended “for transport”. We protested against the sending of such a vehicle; and we wondered if we would not carry our "dear dead" to the Star ourselves. Doctor Alix opposed it. “Poets,” he said, “the family has given you your Master's coffin for safekeeping. We'll shower it with flowers! ". We set to work, and M. Pierre Lefèvre was most active. They went to cut branches in the garden of the Princess of Lusignan. Soon, the ugly van disappeared under a mass of greenery and armfuls of flowers.

It was about eight o'clock when we set off, escorting (right and left) the carriage followed by Madame Lockroy, Georges and Jeanne Hugo. Slowly, recollected, moved, we went up the avenue in the middle of a hedge of ten thousand people. To the left, towards the Villa d'Eylau, a brave tradesman came out of his shop, in a work apron, and greeted the Poet with a naive farewell. This man humbly expressed the thoughts of the inhabitants of his neighborhood who all knew Victor Hugo by sight.

The coffin placed under the pyramidal sarcophagus, we distributed the guard shifts, the vigil. Already, thousands of Parisians. invaded the vast square.

On Monday, June 1, at ten o'clock, we proceeded to form the procession, and our role as funeral commissioners began.

In his curious novel Les Déracinés, Maurice Barrès devoted magnificent pages to the nocturnal apotheosis of Victor Hugo. "You must have seen it," he writes, "the coffin raised in the dark night, dark itself at this height, while the green flames of the lampposts desolated the imperial portico with pale gleams, and multiplied the cuirasses of the horsemen. torch bearers who held the crowd together. The waves, in intense eddies, from the Place de la Concorde, beat on the terrified horses, up to two hundred meters from the catafalque, and delirious with admiration at having made a God. Worshipers were crushed at the foot of the idol. It was known that to this corpse, twelve young men had been given, poets and fanatics, to honor and serve it. Jean Aicard, Paul Arere, Victor d'Auriac, Emile Blémont, Rodolphe Darzens, Léon Dierx, Edmond Haraucourt, Jacques Madeleine, Tancrède Martel, Catulle Mendès, Albert Méral, Armand Silvestre watched in a terrible wind which brought them Quasimodo, Hernani, Ruy Blas, the Burgraves, Mgr Myriel, Fantine and dear Gavroche, and millions of rustling verses, and words above all, words, words!..."

In reality, we were fourteen. To the twelve poets named by Barrès — superb and lyrical translator of our sensations ! — we must add Jean Marras and Auguste Générès.

A tribune draped in black was erected in front of the group representing Napoleon crowned with Glory. There spoke Le Royer and Floquel, presidents of the Senate and of the Chamber; René Goblet and Emile Augier, the latter on behalf of the Academy.

A salute of honor is fired, the drums beat in the fields, the music plays Chopin's Funeral March, then the Marseillaise, and around 11:30 a.m. the huge procession begins to descend. A voice, that of Edouard Lockroy, cries out to us: “Isolate Georges! »

Indeed, Georges Hugo, splendidly solitary, will lead the mourning of his grandfather, behind the hearse of the poor - the hearse of Fantine, Colonel Pontmercy and Jean Valjean.

To the right and left of the modest chariot walk six close friends. I can still see Paul Meurice, his white head. bent over, her eyes moist with tears. After family, friends, commissioners, officials and the world of letters, arts and theater, comes a crowd that can be estimated at nearly a million people. As many Parisians and foreigners watch passing and discover each other. At Concorde, the army pays the honours. The generals, in full dress, salute with the sword while the troop bears arms.

At the corner of the Quai d'Orsay and the Boulevard Saint-Germain, there was, not an incident, but an attempt to protest against the enthusiastic homage that France and Paris paid to the glorious Poet. A few members of a circle appeared on their balcony, their hats on their heads and affecting airs of indifference to the admirable vision which unrolled before their eyes. A silent contempt did justice to this evil act.

At two o'clock they arrived in front of the Pantheon, which had been restored "to great men" for some days, by a special law. Leconte de Lisle, who was to occupy Hugo's chair at the Academy, gave his speech. The procession of the procession lasted nearly eight hours; it did not end until the first shadows of night.

The weather all day was bright. The sun smiles on Victor Hugo entering immortality. A foreigner, very well dressed, had seated himself on a step of the Pantheon, had opened a parasol, and intended to listen to the speeches. Albert Mérat and I called him back to suit. He obeyed immediately and politely apologized "for ignoring our customs".

As I write these brief memories, death has taken half of Hugo's guard, as we were called. Aicard, Arène, Dierx, Marras, Mendès, Mérat, Silvestre have left us; but the seven survivors remain faithful to the worship of their Master and will never forget these epic funerals, the most beautiful that Paris had seen - but how much more intellectual! — from those of Gambetta.

Tancrede Martel