France
Metz
Charles Levi sat in his dorm. On the floor before his bed laid an open trunk, packed; his clothes and his books and other odd accouterments he might need when leaving for Germany. His dorm room was mostly barren, save for the complimentary furniture and linens of the university. Those he had left where they were, or piled the used sheets in a corner of the room as he meditated on the final touches of his emigration.
Many of his belongings he had consigned to sell, especially his unwanted books, which took up considerable space and made his rather modest trunk heavy. He did not have many clothes, but they were packed tightly together alongside folios of notes and writing instruments. All of it was packed haphazard without regard to their specific safety of the items. To hell with his clothes! They could crease and fold as much as they will, they will work themselves out in the end anyways! But much of what he had in his dorm he had sold off rather quickly to make a quick franc, which he hoped would be more helpful to him on his long journey than the individual garments and effects. He had found many a freshman student who for their curiosity and interests greedily went for the opportunity to have an underused copy of the poems of Ovid or Homer, though he had kept a book of Euclid as a reference to Latin, it was well marked in the margins.
But now in his empty dorm, short of things to take to Germany, and having nothing he figured he should do away with to lighten his load. He thought to finally read all the papers that his father had packed for him in the envelope. He turned about and started to distribute everything onto the bed. The first thing that caught his eye was a French passport that was not his own. He furrowed his brow examining it. The name on it was for a “Karl Marx” and the biographical details were all the same as he, save for the place of birth which was Metz proper. He remembered in the moment, that Marx was his grandfather's name and he put it away in his wallet.
Second was the receipt for the stage coach trip to Berlin. He would by tomorrow leave from the center of Metz, and make a series of trips north-east through the German Rhineland, across the Elba, and finally to Berlin with stops in Trier, Koln, Dusseldorf, Bielefeld, Hanover, Brandenburg, Potsdam, and finally Berlin. The coaches would change in these cities and he could rest somewhere other than the road for several hours. On arriving, he would have to somehow make his way to the Frederic Wilhelm University. The distance of his trip sent the young man in a dizzy of vertigo. In just about a week, if the winter was well he would be expected to travel nearly across an entire country to reach his destination and it made him feel a bit sour. But it would be this, or it would be service in the army, and despite the apprehension in his soul he had to swallow his fear.
The third item in the envelop was a letter from a friend of his father's in the old home town or Trier, addressed to his dad, but all the same discussing Charles. It read:
“Faithful friend and old colleague,
“It is possible to establish your son in the university in Berlin and I have started work to make it possible. I will keep you up to date on how the admissions go. Let it be known I operate on your behalf, I will send any updates henceforth to you. In this way we may be able to avoid the gaze of the Prussian police.
“To make the security of your son possible however, I would advise against sending him as-is. Since the handover at the end of the wars, the State has seen to it to make several reversals on the Hebrews in the country and they are not only firmly locked out of public office in this country but are often scrutinized in the country. It may not be possible to successfully enroll Charles in university here were it known or suspected he professes the Jewish faith, even if impractically as you. As a colleague in law and philosophy, the best course of action would be a change in identity for him so he can pass through Germany without suspicion. He need not be entirely Germanized I don't think, but to act and profess a Christian to make his public life easier.
“As per other concerns, as an emigre the Prussian state can not conscript him for military service, but if he is to remain in Prussia for longer than his studies he may be confused with a natural citizen and obliged to join the army. I understand this is not preferable to you, so I would advise him to not stay in Germany for longer than is necessary to get his degree.
“It has been too many years since we have engaged in conversation, friend. Perhaps we might see one another again someday or I might see this son of yours you speak of.
“With love and admiration, your friend,
Ludwig”
Charles was familiar with a Ludwig, a friend of his from when they lived on the right banks of the Rhine. That had been perhaps a decade ago, maybe more. He recalled who he was and smiled to himself. The letter helped explain why it was he would be traveling under an assumed identification.
Earlier, he had tagged his luggage with his name, and where he would be. Knowing now that he would not be in Germany as Charles Levi, he hoped from his bed and knelt over the trunk, removing the paper tag that read his name and tore it up, disposing of it in the waste paper basket near the head of the bed. He got a new tag, ripping it out from an empty note book and wrote:
Karl Marx, Frederic Wilhelm University.
He tied it to the handle with a piece of cotton yarn, and like wise changed out a tag in a metal sleeve on the front should the other be torn off. Finishing with this, he became satisfied and he shut the lid on the trunk and clasped it shut.
Finishing with it, it felt strange to now sit in his empty dorm room. He could hear his heart beat off the walls of the tall cavernous room. The summer sun heating it, so he removed his outer coat as he laid back in his bed and thought about his last adventures of being in Metz.
It had been a whirlwind of socializing, of joining the German social clubs on the French bank of the Rhineland. Parties drinking beer, and arguing and debating loudly the merits of politics of the time and their professional concerns. He had at nights eloquently described Mary Shelly's modern piece of art, Frankenstein and its place among the canon of European literature, reading aloud passages in a French translation. Only for the next night, after raucous drinking argue to decry the rule of the Bourbons, to summon the spirit of the Republic to come forth and do again what it had in the previous epoch.
In these reflections in reflected that perhaps yes: he had not entirely satisfied any academic commitments. But they had been a riot. He would miss these men he drank with. He'd have to conspire to write to them from Berlin.
Paris
On the windows rain fell. In one of the salons of the Palais Royal the wine was poured. Sparkling like the sun across dark seas, the light of the fire places that warmed the space in the rainy afternoon glittered and gleamed off the Atlantic-dark red wine; watered down appropriately for lunch. But none of the men sitting at soft high backed recliners or at reclined sofas ate at a formal table. Instead servants served them at coffee tables and end tables as the men in their frock coats smoked their pipes delicately and sipped their wine. A maid servant went through the room and laid out small plates of delicate macaroni and cheese.
Standing at the head of the room by the fire pit, flanked on either side by the tall windows through which the apocalyptic dark storm clouds outside shone stood Émile Pereire, tall and lithe with a slight ruddy complexion, and thin but wild hair. The collar of his shirt rising up to gently frame his sharp jaw. “The damn disposition of this government.” he swore, thumb hooked into his vest, “Every passing quarter they frustrate the financial development of this country. Of the future industrial progress of France. My brother and I approach the King and his ministry with a plan to build a railroad as the British do, and they twiddle their thumbs and direct us elsewhere. So we take it up with our peers in the Chamber of Deputies, but then the damn Chamber of Peers forecloses it because, 'what if it were to trample the rights of privileges of the canals and the roads?'” and now we are again forced to step back another ten years. Before long we will be right in the 1600's and concerning ourselves with war with the Germans for fear of Protestantism. We will be none the more developed, perhaps less so. All of France lesser to that of the Dutch, who like Britain takes at every moment five years of progress for every one. And I may even obtain British financing for my brother and I's endeavors, if it were not the Crown that refuses to give us right.”
Émile drinks angrily from the glass of wine in his hand and the maid servant offers him some food, “Yes dear, you can put it on the table I'll see to it when I'm done sulking.” he says in a low agitated voice and she does so.
Louis Philippe sits alone in his own couch, one leg crossed over the other and with a detached look on his face. Antithetical to his Bourbon relatives on the throne, he does not wear the uniform of the nobility of the last century. His suit is tailored and smart with a wide collar and a velvet vest over his shirt. On the table next to him sits his top hat. He says nothing to the complaints of Émile but he sympathizes with the man.
Over the last several years he, like the rest of them feels that as much as the rule of Charles has degraded so has the morale of the liberal opposition, of which he has cultivated around him and become much a part of, even from the first Restoration. He dearly loves his cousin Charles still. But is more the frustration by the reluctance of he and his ministers to govern. They rule, but they have since ceased functioning as governor. The lack of energy in his cousin and his ministry has for the years since their retreat from public eye sapped the energy from he and the Marquis de Lafayette through total inaction.
Gilbert du Mortier, the Marquet de Lafayette himself was also present. Severely advanced in age, his hair long gray, face shallow, body weak. He had swelled in his late life, and was no longer the dashing soldier of his youth of the American War, or the Revolution. He still however bore himself with dignity and pride, wearing at this gathering of the minds his old American uniform and decorations. But though he sought to sit strong it was unmistakable, he was a tired old man and the wear of Austrian prison. And the wetness of the summer was clearly affecting him. He sat close to the fire to keep warm, but in his breath it was easy to tell: he was having difficulty breathing. Still he spoke: “It is a shame” he said in the softened voice of an old man, “I did not believe that as a man I could see two failures to my own legacy dealt so swiftly.”
“Things may not be at all over.” said a low voice. It was Jacques Laffitte, the typically conservative silver haired deputyman, “The Chambers do not meet again until near September, and we have a month yet to organize something to encourage the government to at the least move.”
“Ah, right.” Gilbert said, his face lighting up. The old banker shifted in his seat, putting down his plate of macaroni and rising.
“If I may, monsieur?” he said to Louis Philippe.
“Go ahead.” he invited.
“Émile, the work of you and your brother and superb. I respect the small empire you have built for yourselves. And I acknowledge that for the future development of France we will need to break from the outmoded canals and roads of the nation to develop into the modern era. On the conditions that the Ministry has proven itself not only slow, but entirely unwilling to development – let alone rule itself – I offer a proposal. I trust, monsieur Marquis that your societies are alive and well.”
“Despite the press bans, they are.” the Marquis said proudly, referring to the Aide-toi.
“I assure those of us here today that in the Chambers there are deputies as frustrated with the lack of progress and of governing of the Crown, though they may not be as outspoken of it now as I. With all do respect to the honorable King Charles, he is a man who has surrounded himself with dishonorable ministers. Because of the court's inability, I believe we may dare to try and impeach the king, if not the ministry.”
“The King has the right to dissolve the Chambers.” Louis Philippe reminded him, drinking from his wine, “It has been the response of d'Polgniac to threaten to disband the chambers the moment the voice of discontent has risen.”
“Yes, and more than ever d'Polgniac retreats into discussing how the Virign Mary comes to him every Sunday night to impart the wisdom of the benevolent savior to him.” Jacques said, “As a man he is not right in the head, and we may test his mental capacity and the fortitude of the King with an earnest and real vote of no-confidence. D'Poligniac has only two possible reactions to being voted out: and that is he retreats to pray for a positive outcome and we reject his government, or he and Charles issues orders to dissolve the whole of government and we beat them in the election. In the later, I will be more than willing of quitting the government to come over in full to the Cause.”
“Are you not already for the Cause if you are here?” Émile said with a wry smile, finally taking his seat and reclining back. He smiled knowingly up at the head of the Bank of France.
“I agree on the principle there has been a lack of sound government and I would like to see one formed.” Jacques explained, “I wish to move forward with France and to cut this congealed mass. I do not think the body is dead, but it has become arthritic and lighting a fire under it is all we need for it to move straight. To send it to the sauna and limber it again. I believe it is safe to say that is the very minimum all of us here want to do: for Charles to recognize he needs to respect the will of the Chambers, and that those Chambers need to act in accordance with maturity and modernity. As opposition, you – we – have not been offered the respect we deserve.”
“Yes, I agree” said Gilbert.
Louis Philippe nodded and Émile rose his glass with a toast.
In a corner a door opened and the men looked to see who it was. It was Louis's sister, Adélaïde
flanked by a maid servant bringing in a platter of oysters. “I'm sorry gentlemen, if I'm barging in.” she said apologizing.
“No, you are not, madame.” Gilbert said with reverence, “Though may you have not asked?”
“Is it not also my house?” she said sternly. But she followed it with a polite smile as she came forward and took a position behind her brother, standing far enough back so as to not be as if a part of the salon, but all the same within the boundaries so she may offer input.
She was a fair, middle aged woman. Now fifty-nine her face heavy with graceful age. She was never married, and at her advanced age never would. But this didn't bother her, for she devoted herself to her sister-in-law the wife of Louis, Maria Amalia and to her brother himself as adviser and head of the household.
“We are trying to decide on what we should do with the king.” Gilbert said.
“Well, you all know me. We should get rid of him.” she scowled, “My brother may love him, but I have no such tolerance of the man. His norms are not up to the period. And if the time comes, I will be the first to wear the cockade.”
“That is the problem.” Jacques said, “We do not want to bring the Republic back.”
“Oh, far from that. That is what killed father. Anarchists have no place in rule. But the guidance of a firm liberal king is enough. One to check the passions of the Masses, but with the propriety for modern government.”
“I agree.” Jacques and Gilbert both said.
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