Introduction
An irrepressible political thread
The purpose of this book is to show that Weber’s sociology in different ways gives expression to his political interests and concerns. This is not simply to claim that Weber was focused from young adulthood to the end of his life on the political problems faced by Germany at the time. Weber’s enthusiasm for politics, as well as scholarship, is not doubted by any of his interpreters. Of greater interest here, though, is not merely that Weber was engaged by both his political commitments and a pursuit of knowledge; rather, it is the relationship between these ardently embraced objectives in Weber’s imagination and in his writing. A conventional view is that political commitment and scholarly endeavours were to Weber what sleeping and eating are for all of us; we cannot do without both, but we do not –cannot – partake of them at the same time. Indeed, this understanding of the place of Weber’s political interest in relation to his interest in developing a language for and practice of cultural and social analysis means that it is possible to understand his scholarship without necessarily addressing his political commitments and orientation, which is a default position in the majority of studies of Weber’s work.
This last point is illustrated in a standard biography of Weber in which its author Dirk Käsler (1988: x) states that he has no need to examine ‘Weber’s interventions into political debates of his time . . [as they] have been extensively discussed elsewhere and the reader specifically interested in them is advised to consult other publications’. An underlying assumption here is that Weber’s sociology of religion, say, his mammoth theoretical compendium Economy and Society, and his methodological writings, each of which is the subject of a separate chapter in Käsler’s text, are essential for an understanding of Weber’s life and work, but that his political outlook and writings while possibly interesting are not necessarily significant for an appreciation of Weber’s intellectual engagements and his contribution to scholarship. There is a parallel assumption in the most recent biography, by Joachim Radkau (2009). While acknowledging and reporting on Weber’s political ‘passion’, Radkau regards it as incommensurable with his parallel passions for knowledge and for erotic experience. The idea that these three passions can be understood through the motif of Weber’s struggle with ‘nature’ predisposes Radkau to see Weber’s life as ultimately determined by his erotic passion, and that his passions for knowledge and politics remain remote from each other.
The argument of the present book, on the other hand, is that the influence of Weber’s political concerns and investigations on his studies in the sociology of religion, on the formulation of his methodological essays, and on his social scientific analyses overall, are central to these engagements, even though sometimes in an obscure manner. Such obscurity, though, is not necessarily a result of the way in which Weber himself proceeds – although at times it may well be – but derives, at least in part, from enduring predispositions in what might be described as the interpretive culture which dominates the study of Weber’s work. These include the scholar’s preference for intellect over engagement which tends to depreciate such pursuits as politics in comparison with the more uniformly cerebral engagements of knowledge formation. In addition, a good deal of the commentary on Weber is driven by a search for an underlying unity encompassing different aspects of Weber’s contributions, in the form of an overriding theme or question. A view that bears some association with what will be argued in this book holds that
contemporary politics exerted a great influence on Max Weber’s academic work without thereby detracting from its scientific character. Even when he was not dealing expressly with political matters the political dimension of his analysis can be traced just beneath the surface.
(Mommsen 1992: 3)
This is not necessarily to assert a singular political framework that constrains other elements of his thought, although we shall see that there is such an effective political framework which, in being complex, has a number of discrete but connected elements. Morphologically similar claims are made regarding what are perceived as dominant themes in Weber’s academic achievements. By fiat, such approaches lessen the relevance of other dimensions of Weber’s thought, including the political, in identifying what are regarded as different central themes. Two well-known cases will make the point.
In a clear revisionist statement concerning what he called the ‘thematic unity’ of Weber’s works, the German sociologist Friedrich Tenbruck, in the mid-1970s, shifted the focus of scholarly attention from Economy and Society (Weber 1978/1922) as the master work of Weber’s contribution, to the writings that make up the Economic Ethic of World Religions, namely The Religion of China (Weber 1964/1915), The Religion of India (Weber 1960/1916), and Ancient Judaism (Weber 1967/1917–19). Tenbruck’s intervention was directed against the interpretation of Weber developed by Reinhardt Bendix and also Guenther Roth in which the dominant themes discussed in Economy and Society, namely bureaucracy, charisma, historical variation in structures of domination, and so forth, are taken to constitute the basis of Weber’s intellectual achievement which informs his lasting contribution to social science (Bendix 1966/1959; Bendix and Roth 1971). Tenbruck achieved his reorientation in the perception of Weber by showing that through his career Weber was moving toward a singular unifying concern incrementally advanced in various select writings, namely ‘a universal-historical conceptualization of the process of rationalization’ (Tenbruck 1980: 333). The bold
supposition here is that the question animating Weber’s research was concerned with how cultural factors and especially religion, as determinants of the meanings embraced by persons, shape the actions that they undertake. This overarching question does not preclude the questions treated in Economy and Society, for instance, concerning the determination of action by social and economic factors; rather, it contextualizes them and suggests how they are selected as efficacious by the largely interpretive thrust of cultural forces.
In response to Tenbruck’s characterization of the thematic unity of Weber’s work, the German political scientist Wilhelm Hennis, in discussing what he saw as ‘Max Weber’s “Central Question” ’, made the observation that:
Weber never tired of emphasising that ‘rationalisation’ could mean anything and that what interested him was the closer definition of this ambiguous concept . . . [and that the] ‘kind’ of ‘rationalisation processes’ [of interest to Weber was] solely . . . the ‘rationalisation of Lebensführung’ – and in this case principally its ‘practical’ form related to the sphere of the Economic.
(Hennis 1983: 157)
Lebensführung means the rational conduct of life, a theme very different from that of the universal-historical conceptualization of rationalization noted by Tenbruck. For Hennis, then, the central question of Weber’s work is quite dissimilar to the one Tenbruck (1980) discovered. Indeed, according to Hennis (1983: 157):
The ‘material’ or ‘theme’ of Weber’s sociology is not to be found in ‘interests’, nor in ‘ideas’, nor in ‘images of the world’, nor in above all ‘action’: its sole ‘object’ is Lebensführung. Upon this, where men reveal their ‘humanity’ (Menschentum), everything turns.
In this way, Hennis moved against not only Tenbruck but also the idea that Weber’s questions were principally sociological, as he introduced into the study of Weber’s work an existential dimension. This departs from a social scientific framework through which Weber’s concerns have been previously understood, both through the prism of Economy and Society set out by Bendix and Roth as well as the vision Tenbruck outlined regarding the primacy of a perspective on and refinement of the idea of rationalization.
Tenbruck and Hennis have in common approaches that are totalizing. Where one looks at the slow evolution of Weber’s broadening appreciation of the unifying theme of ‘religious world images’ productive of ‘predominantly rational compulsions’ (Tenbruck 1980: 333), the other finds in The Protestant Ethic Weber’s proclamation that ‘One of the fundamental elements of the spirit . . . of all modem culture [namely] rational conduct on the basis of the idea of calling, was born . from the spirit of Christian asceticism’ (Weber quoted in Hennis 1983: 140), which he, Hennis, takes to mean ‘that Weber’s real concern was the historical genesis of “the rational Lebensführung” ’ (Hennis 1983: 140). Hennis immediately goes on to say that ‘If we compare the version of [The Protestant Ethic of]
1920 with that of 1905 we find that apart from a tiny editorial alteration Weber found nothing on which he could improve’. We shall see in the Appendix that this reading of the relationship between the two versions of The Protestant Ethic is in need of significant revision. At this point, though, it is enough to note that for Hennis Weber’s ‘central question’ of the ‘development of Menschentum’ was fully articulated in the first edition of The Protestant Ethic in 1905 and the significance of that question remained unchanged to the end of Weber’s life. Tenbruck (1980: 343), on the other hand, holds that the ‘entirety’ of Weber’s work, ‘including the methodology, owes its existence to the question: what is rationality?’ This question, it is held, emerged in Weber’s later work with full clarity through a long process of development.
Both Tenbruck and Hennis conform to a possibly universal practice of scholarship in their respective quest for connections between the works and themes of a given author, and their endeavours therefore are not to be criticized on this ground itself. Patterns may be located in an overview of any author’s works, but it is unlikely that there will be only one pattern to be discovered. The origin of a pattern typically resides in interpretation as much as in the object itself. The pattern which makes sense of the other possible patterns, though, is the one that deserves particular attention. The patterns discovered in Tenbruck’s and Hennis’ approaches to Weber, and those of Bendix and Roth before them, served to supersede another which bears some resemblance to the one to be developed in this book. An earlier and controversial approach to Weber’s contribution to political and social thought focused on his commitment to an expansionist German imperial project, a commitment which endured and was developed through his adult years and arguably gave coherence to not only his political thought but also his sociological writings and the scholarly research themes he pursued.
A major statement of the significance of Weber’s nationalistic imperial commitments for his sociology of power and its associated intellectual construction is a book by the German historian Wolfgang Mommsen, Max Weber and German Politics, 1890–1920, first published in 1959. Mommsen’s approach is partly biographical and largely historical, documenting Weber’s contributions to political debates and movements over a 30-year period until his premature death at the age of 56 years in 1920. As Mommsen (1990/1959: vii) recounts in his Preface to the English translation, his book ‘received a rather stormy reception’ as it challenged ‘the interpretation then dominant of Weber as one of the (albeit very few) ancestors of German democracy’ – a view still firmly held among some Weber scholars. In outlining the basis of Weber’s imperialist orientation and his ‘national ideal’ Mommsen (1990/1959: 84) acknowledges a precursor of his own assessment in a work published in 1954 by one of Weber’s younger associates, Georg Lukács, who was part of Weber’s ‘Heidelberg circle’ during the period 1912–1917 (see Karádi 2010). Lukács’ book, Die Zerstörung der Vernunft: Der Weg des Irrationalismus von Schelling zu Hitler [The Destruction of Reason: The Path of Irrationalism from Schelling to Hitler], is only marginally concerned with Weber. Of the 855 pages of the English translation, only 18 are devoted to Weber
5 (Lukács 2021/1954: 601–619). The argument of these few pages is described by Mommsen (1990/1959: 84 note 60) as a ‘highly one-sided, but at the same time perceptive criticism . . . of Max Weber and liberal imperialism’.
On the occasion of the centenary of Weber’s birth, the German Sociological Congress held a commemorative conference on the theme of ‘Max Weber and Sociology Today’. At this time, in 1964, the issue of Weber’s commitment to German imperialism was again raised in two major contributions, by Raymond Aron (1971/1965) and by Herbert Marcuse (1971/1965). Both contributions attracted extensive discussion (Stammer 1971/1965: 101–131, 152–184). The major points raised in the exchanges included the idea that Weber’s commitment to a German power-state with an expansive role in the international arena was to support the development of modern industrial capitalism within the German nation; second, Weber’s commitment to parliamentary governance derived from his sense that this form would strengthen political leadership and thus increase the power of the German state; and, finally, that these political commitments cannot be easily separated from Weber’s theoretical and sociological writings. These propositions together constitute an intellectual framework functionally equivalent to what Tenbruck called a ‘thematic unity’ in Weber’s work and what Hennis described as Weber’s ‘Central Question’, although the content is different for each of them as indicated earlier.
Of particular interest here, though, is that the substance of Tenbruck’s concern, the theme of rationalization in Weber’s work, and Hennis’, the ‘development of Menschentum [humanity]’, are each explicable in terms of Weber’s national imperialist commitment. One relates to a growing self-command and efficiency of human agents in exercising their control over the circumstances to which they are subjected, and the other relates to the development of personality through a vocation, the means whereby a person may exercise power in conducting their affairs. It is shown in the chapters to follow that these and associated concerns are conceptualized in terms of Weber’s notion of vocation, and especially vocation in politics, in his development of the role of culture and community in the formation of a German ethno-nation or ‘master race’ and its means of domination in a power-state, in his outline of the nature and significance of citizenship both in early modern Europe and in the modern state of post-war Germany, and finally in the significance of the Calvinistic ethic of calling for the political education of the German middle class otherwise distracted by conservative and sentimental Lutheranism and ritualistic Catholicism, and through these latter dispositions unsuited to contribute to Germany’s imperial destiny.
It is in the analysis of Weber’s concepts, undertaken in the chapters to follow, including those less frequently discussed in the literature on Weber, namely race and citizenship, and of his strategy of political argument informed by interests of national dominance, that the distinctiveness of the present book is to be located. The discovery of political concerns and preoccupations in Weber’s work is not novel, of course. Mommsen’s historical account of Weber’s treatment of state power and imperialism has been briefly mentioned earlier. David Beetham
(1985) has described Weber as a ‘theorist of bourgeois politics’ who was ‘emotionally committed to the German nation’, the latter defined by him through the ‘value concept’ of ‘Kultur’ (Beetham 1985: 58–59, 143, 127). But the unifying theme of Weber’s analysis of politics, according to Beetham, drawn from Weber’s bourgeois standpoint, is class and class conflict, factors which he regards as disconnected from Weber’s academic social science. The idea in Beetham (1985: 250–252) that Weber’s politics and his sociology relate to different types of questions and operate through different structures of analysis is not accepted here. Indeed, a feature of the present book is an argument concerning the multifaceted manner in which one articulates the other.
While disagreement concerning the details of Weber’s political outlook is unavoidable and continuing there is at the same time a broad consensus regarding his abiding attachment to both liberalism and nationalism. How these core terms are characterized in the constitution of Weber’s political thought and practice, and how the relations between them are configured, have been represented in a number of different ways in the literature (Beetham 1989; Bellamy 1992; Eliaeson 1991; Kim 2002; Ringer 2002; Turner and Factor 1984: 14–22, 27–29, 59–69). Weber’s liberalism, in particular, has been taken by some authors to be manifest in his attachment to the principle of liberty or freedom, a core element of classical liberalism. But Weber’s understanding of the basis of freedom departs significantly from the universalist and rights-based notion of liberty in classical liberalism. For Weber liberty arises through the development of specific social and political conditions and is absent when these latter are not present. This is particularly clear in his discussion of the fight for liberty in Russia in 1905. Here the struggle ‘against both bureaucratic and Jacobin centralism’ cannot adequately be supported by the ‘boring’ and ‘old individualistic basic idea of the “inalienable rights of man” . . . [and similar] axioms of “natural law” [which] no [longer] give unambiguous guidelines for a social and economic programme’ (Weber 1997/1906a: 108). Material conditions and interests, rather, are necessary foundations for individual liberty, which
arose from a unique, never to be repeated set of circumstances . . [including] overseas expansion . . the peculiarity of the economic and social structure of the ‘early capitalist’ era in Western Europe . . . the conquest of life by science . . . [and finally] certain ideal values . . . [emergent in] a certain religious thought world [and] numerous political constellations [which] make up the particular ‘ethical’ character and cultural values of modern man.
(Weber 1997/1906a: 109)
So while material conditions are not sufficient for the realization of liberty the additional requisite cultural elements arise through a narrow set of economic, social, intellectual, and political circumstances. The rejection of a universalistic rights-based notion of liberty and an assertion of its limited, indeed, unique manifestation in only certain societies, does not exhaust Weber’s particular grasp of the nature of liberty.
Whereas the notion of liberty in classical liberalism is understood as a predominantly political factor, in which it is expressed as a means whereby government is curtailed or limited, in Weber, it is primarily a factor of personal development and is itself politically limited to the personalities of state leadership rather than predominant among the citizenry. In noting ‘Weber’s fundamental commitment . . . to the ideal of individual liberty’ it is acknowledged that he ‘valued [liberty] because it makes possible the fullest development of the human personality’ (Lassman and Speirs 2000: xxiv; see also Ringer 2002: 384). Indeed, while finding Weber’s (primary) valuation of ‘the magic of freedom’ in the inaugural lecture of 1895 (Weber 2000/1895: 8), Kim (2002: 444) regards this as anticipating
the ideal type of the Puritan ‘man of vocation’ . . . which surfaces in Weber’s work under various names – personality, charismatic individual or politician and scientist with vocation. . . . In The Protestant Ethic it was the anthropological foundation for the exercise of modern individual freedom and autonomy.
This is a signal consideration because as Weber (1991/1920a: 69, 119) makes clear in The Protestant Ethic, the freedom in question is experienced as an individual ‘clarity of vision and ability to act’ which makes the carrier of a sense of vocation ‘into a personality’. Not only is this notion of freedom somewhat removed from the political realm, when it comes to be applied to political practice by Weber it is understood to be a quality of state leadership rather than, and at the expense of the electorate or citizenry as a whole.
Before treating the ‘personality-freedom’ of leadership in Weber’s political vision it is important to appreciate that his sociologization of the notion of liberty means that not only is freedom seen to arise in unique social, economic, and political circumstances but also that freedom is eroded, when manifest, by developments in economic and political organization through forces summarized as rationalization and bureaucratization, which rob the individual of their personal initiative and therefore their freedom, as Weber understands it. A trend in modern German political life, identified by Weber (2000/1918b: 156–159), was domination by state administration or bureaucracy. The decisive question, for Weber (2000/1918b: 159–160), in considering how this trend may be curtailed, is ‘what is not performed by bureaucracy’, to which the answer is ‘leadership’. Whereas officials are qualified by their training, leaders are qualified by their personal responsibility: ‘The struggle for personal power and the acceptance of full personal responsibility for one’s cause (Sache) which is the consequence of such power – this is the very element in which the politician and the entrepreneur live and breathe’ (Weber 2000/1918b: 161). The training ground for political leadership, according to Weber (2000/1918b: 181–182), is the parliamentary form of governance, in which politicians must prove their worth and are selected on the basis of successful performance in working committees and other demonstrations of effective leadership. The development of the political vocation has an
additional component, namely performance in electoral competition. According to Weber (2000/1918b: 228),
The business of politics is carried out by interested parties [for] it is not the politically passive ‘mass’ which gives birth to the leader; rather the political leader recruits his following and wins over the mass by ‘demagogy’ . . . [which] is the case in even the most democratic form of state.
Here, then, are the three instrumental functions of plebiscitary parliamentary democracy identified by Weber: control of the bureaucracy, leadership training and selection, and charismatic shaping of the electorate. The development of the personality or vocation of political leadership is thus implicitly at the expense of the electorate which while arguably saved from bureaucracy by political leadership is at the same time subjected by it to a narrowed citizenship. It has to be noted that for Weber (2000/1918b: 270) political leadership is necessarily in service of the nation, ‘the political fate of his people’ about whom the leader will think in terms of the next two or three generations . . . since these are the people who will decide what is to become of his nation. If he proceeds differently, he is no politician but one of the littérateurs.
Here the rectification of the state through the political vocation of its leaders serves the interest of the German nation. The amalgam in Weber of liberty, the vocation of political leadership, and also national interest, together project the instrumental power of a political elite devoted to national strength, both domestically and internationally, as demonstrated in the chapters to follow. Not all interpretations of Weber accept the argument presented here. Rather than explore dissenting voices now they will be addressed where relevant in the following chapters.
There is another aspect of Weber’s ‘liberal nationalism’ which needs to be addressed, namely the connection between liberalism and race. It was mentioned previously that Weber regards the cultural dimension of the German people as an ethno-nation or ‘master race’. This controversial proposition will be argued in detail in Chapter 2. The point to be made here is that such a position does not contravene Weber’s liberalism, or historical liberalism in general. Today, because liberalism is understood as a doctrine supporting tolerance of difference including racial or ethnic dissimilarity, it is forgotten that in its classic form liberalism in J.S. Mill and others was aligned with colonial conquest, empire, and attendant racist evaluations of subject people who, through their supposed backwardness, were thought to be racially inferior (Schultz 2007). This is true not only for the liberal defenders of the British empire, but also for the German empire, and such defenders included Weber (Zimmerman 2013). Indeed, in the national liberal project of German modernization Jews and Poles – associated with ancient and backward cultures, respectively – were theorized in cultural-racial terms within the predominant liberal discourse (Stoetzler and Achinger 2013). Weber’s contribution to this discourse and his application of a cultural-racial characterization to not only such
‘foreign’ elements but also the German national people as a whole is documented in Chapter 2.
Whereas arguments concerning Weber’s inner commitment to muscular German nationalism based on a premise of the cultural formation of the German people, as an ethno-racial community supported by a power-state infused with a particular ethos, have previously been presented in a biographical or historical mould, the present book departs from such approaches by providing a conceptual exploration. The argument of this book also departs from those approaches, such as Beetham’s and also Käsler’s mentioned earlier, which hold that Weber’s political commitments and his social scientific theorizing occupy separate and more or less unconnected spheres. In Chapter 1, an ironic form in Weber’s discussion of politics is identified. While emphasizing the employment of (legitimate) violence as a defining feature of not only the state but also the practice of politics, through which the ethical problems informing the political vocation emerge, Weber at the same time regards the political mobilization of a following for electoral victory as the core business of modern politics. The exercise of violence or force unavoidably puts an end to the contest between assemblies of opinion, but Weber is blind to this contradiction when a heroic imperial sensibility informs his concept of the state, the instrument of power in a global contest of nations. Weber’s neglected discussion of citizenship, as outlined in Chapter 3, connects with this discussion of the state. Weber’s treatment of citizenship is extensive although dispersed through a number of texts, but the concept of citizenship fails to be given an ideal-type representation by him, through which a recognition of its analytic significance would be registered. Instead, the notion of citizenship is treated as a second-order category that conveys the idea of military obligation to the national state and its practical endorsement of its own power interests. For Weber, citizenship in the modern state encapsulates an exchange: an opportunity to vote in an election is provided in return for an opportunity to die in war. That is all. Yet members of the state as citizens are at the same time participants in the nation, as shown in Chapter 2, integral parts of a cultural community, a Kulturgemeinschaft, a German ‘national people’ from which the authority of the power-state derives. These various political threads are effectively woven together sociologically in Weber’s concept of vocation, the idea of ascetic self-control in order to achieve a world-shaping purpose, one which is extrinsic, enduring, and personality generating, but possibly distracted from in the absence of a doctrine and practice of vocation itself. It is shown in Chapter 4 that Weber’s social science classic, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, which famously develops the notion of vocation or calling, is not simply an argument concerning the genesis of the spirit of modern capitalism in early modern Europe. Weber’s treatment in this work of the limited capacity of Lutheranism to provide the fortitude to make a difference in the world, and the value of Calvinism in creating a worldtransforming capacity through vocation, was directed to a German readership Weber felt was in need of the political education necessary to realize its destiny of superordination in a world of nations, to be achieved by embracing an appropriate vocation.
These themes, of political education and vocation, it is shown in the chapter to follow, are rehearsed in Weber’s inaugural lecture of 1895 in which his attack on Germany’s traditional landowning class scandalized his audience. In order to make his argument concerning political education more convincing and intellectually appealing Weber goes on to demonstrate in The Protestant Ethic the power of his concept of vocation by placing it at the centre of the transition from feudalism – where the landowning Junkers originally reside – to modern industrial capitalism, the basis of American and British power at the beginning of the twentieth century, a power which Weber anticipates Germany could subsequently achieve and possibly surpass international rivals. The intellectual force of Weber’s argument is palpable, but its contrivance drew distractors and The Protestant Ethic generated a debate largely concerned with Weber’s sources, both theological and historical (see Chalcraft and Harrington 2001; Ghosh 2008), and its relation with his explicitly political project has gone largely unnoticed in subsequent considerations of his work.
The study of Weber today is predominantly uninterested in the imperial political and nationalist issues pointed to earlier. Weber was a complex, commanding, and divisive personality, well-described as a multipotentialite or polymath. His contribution to social science has been regarded as enduring in its value and universal in its application (see, e.g., Kalberg 2012; Waters, Waters and Elbers 2015). In these circumstances, research attention by scholars interested in Weber has in recent times focused on his life and his associations, on the connections between Weber’s analytic framework and its conceptual content, on the one hand, and their relevance for employment in accounts of historical trends and current events and developments, including such things as Donald Trump and charisma (Joose 2018), modern democracy (see Maley 2016), and so on. A return to consideration of Weber’s nationalistic and imperialist commitments in this context may seem atavistic and unnecessary, disruptive, and even distasteful. And yet the focus of the present book and current preoccupations in the research on and publishing about Max Weber are not as divergent as they may first appear.
As indicated here, there is a continuing and vigorous debate concerning the value of Weber’s concept of democracy for both the development of democratic theory and Weber’s possible contribution to that theoretical elaboration. It is shown in the present book that Weber’s argument and conceptualizations disrupt a citizen-centric model of political participation in his construction of a theory of a national ethno-community which can only be manifest in concert with an expansive and strident power-state, both of which – nation and state – are legitimated in terms of the interests of future generations. Second, the broad field of socioeconomics which covers not only the origins of industrial capitalism but also the contemporary operations and direction of its development, draw extensively on Weber’s writings. It is fair to say that this literature, while appreciating what Weber has to say about the relevance of cultural forces and religious traditions and practices for the process of capital accumulation, the organization of labour and managerial styles, and so on, has almost totally ignored the significance of
Weber’s politics and especially his nationalist imperialism for an understanding of economic organization (Adair-Toteff 2021; Kirby 2019).
When Weber’s politics are brought into his analysis of socio-economics in this conventional literature, it is typically his political sociology outlined in Economy and Society that is discussed rather than an account of Weber’s full-blown political commitments to the German Kulturgemeinschaft and power-state as an instrument of imperial expansiveness (Swedberg 1998: 54–81). It is shown in Chapters 2 and 4, however, with regard respectively to his treatment of the cultural dimension of nation, and the nexus between Weber’s sociology of economics and his perception of the national state as indicated in The Protestant Ethic, that for Weber economic development and configurations of economic relations relate directly to the ambitions of ethno-nations and the machinations of their powerstates. The current political rivalry between Washington and Beijing, in which the prospects of economic advancement – and their curtailment – are primary, makes Weber’s stance on these issues remarkably contemporary. Finally, the present book returns to the debate inspired by Mommsen (1990/1959) and rekindled by Aron (1971/1965). But it does so on grounds dissimilar to theirs; the historical arguments of these precursors are replaced with conceptual investigations. This approach more clearly demonstrates the ways in which Weber’s political dispositions and passions are inextricably linked to his social scientific analysis and methodological expositions.
Weber’s academic and scholarly interests developed in tandem. His awareness of and interest in political issues began early in his life; his father was a professional politician and his family’s milieu was one of political discussion and engagement. At the age of 18, in 1882, Weber began legal studies, graduating with a doctorate in 1889. His thesis was on the history of trading companies in the middle ages. In 1891 he produced a habilitation thesis, required for entry into a university career in Germany at the time, on Roman agrarian history and its significance for constitutional and civil law. Weber’s early legal background as much as his political involvement has been seen as an important factor in the development of his sociological conceptualization (Turner and Factor 1994). No sooner had he qualified as a legal historian Weber turned his attention to contemporary political and social developments in Germany by undertaking an empirical investigation of the conditions of agricultural workers in the East Elbian region of Prussia. This research was sponsored by the Verein für Sozialpolitik (Association for Social Policy), a social science organization that supported policy research oriented toward social reform (Krüger 2010). Weber’s research on agrarian labour was highly controversial, as we shall see in Chapters 2 and 4, and he canvassed his findings in an engaged and polemical manner at meetings of the Evangelical Social Congress, a Christian forum for social policy debate (Aldenhoff 2010), as well as in his inaugural lecture in 1895 at the University of Freiburg on taking up a professorship in political economy. Through this research, Weber expressed clear political attitudes related to German development and Germany’s standing in the world of nations.
The social science developed by Weber during the mid-1890s had a highly politicized content that lent it polemical application; these qualities were somewhat abated in his writing from late 1903, however, a period in which he published methodological studies and the two essays which constitute the first version of The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. These works are widely regarded as fundamentally discontinuous with his agrarian labour studies, in being purely academic, a view critically assessed in Chapter 4 and the Appendix. Irrespective of these considerations, it is clear that Weber did not lose his interest in or attachment to political affairs at this time. His highly focused concern with the unfolding revolution in Russia in 1905 was sufficiently intense that it led him to learn Russian in a matter of months with sufficient proficiency that he was able to ‘read [Russian] newspapers and follow events with the closest attention’ (Marianne Weber 1975/1926: 357). In 1906 Weber published two long essays, ‘Bourgeois Democracy in Russia’ (Weber 1997/1906a) and ‘Russia’s Transition to Pseudo-constitutionalism’ (Weber 1997/1906b). These works remain useful for understanding the 1905 Russian Revolution; for Weber, the significance of these texts is the opportunity they afforded him to develop a deeper appreciation of the predicament facing Germany’s political options and prospects at this time as both countries were dominated by agrarian interests and structures inhibiting national economic advancement and which suffered politically inarticulate middle classes lacking appropriate political direction and capacity (Wells and Baehr 1997: 17–24; Eliaeson 2016). Indeed, his political concerns regarding the prospects of Germany’s economic development were manifest in Weber’s participation in the annual conference of the Social Democratic Party in 1906 and of the National Liberal Party in 1908. The point here is that at the time in which Weber wrote academic social and cultural analysis he was contemporaneously politically engaged. Various underlying connections are drawn out in the following chapters. The aforementioned brief survey of Weber’s political engagements up to the first decade of the twentieth-century reports on a period that was interspersed with ostensibly non-political writing. There was no break from either activity. With the coming of war in 1914, throughout the period of hostilities, and in the post-war period, Weber participated in political controversies, at the level of national affairs relating to policy, legislation, party, and governance, as well as at the level of local disputation and academic affairs, by way of publications in the form of journal articles, letters to editors, speeches on various platforms, and private intervention through correspondence, direct advice, and admonishment. Indeed, it is correct to say that throughout his adult life Weber contributed to political debate, controversy, and analysis. This political deliberation and participation were not at the expense of Weber’s scholarly and intellectual pursuits, but always conducted in conjunction with them. Indeed, it was during these years that Weber’s sociology of the religions of China, India, and ancient Judaism was written and published. In various ways, to be explored in the following chapters, Weber’s academic writing expressed in an ambient manner his political concerns and persuasion.
Different particular questions are addressed in Weber’s separate texts. Those works which comprise what are generally regarded as his ‘political writings’ are
indeed diverse in many ways. These include the 1890s studies of agrarian labour (Weber 1989/1894, 2000/1895), the two essays mentioned earlier concerning the 1905 Russian Revolution (Weber 1997/1906a, 1997/1906b), two long essays on German politics written toward the end of the First World War (Weber 2000/1917, 2000/1918b), and a lecture on the vocation of politics (Weber 1970/1919). These works, each different from the other in many ways and written at different times and addressing different specific concerns, are unified in their relevance to Weber’s fixation on German politics in many of its aspects, and especially by a nationalistic orientation underpinned by both a cultural particularism and an assumption concerning the necessity of a power-state for national advancement. These different works, separately and in their aggregation, are typically taken to be quite distinct from Weber’s major contributions to social science, including The Protestant Ethic (Weber 2002/1905, 1991/1920a), the compendious Economy and Society (Weber 1978/1922), and his comparative studies of world religions (Weber 1964/1915, 1960/1916, 1967/1917–19). The purpose of the chapters to follow is to show that such a perception of disconnection between Weber’s political and sociological texts requires qualifying correction. Weber’s best-known political text, his 1919 lecture to the Union of Free Students at Munich University, is discussed in Chapter 1. ‘Politics as a Vocation’ raises issues central to political analysis, including the nature of the state, and of politics, as well as questions concerning the ethical requirements of a political career, a vocation for politics. The first part of the chapter critically examines Weber’s famous definition of the state as predicated on the availability of physical force or violence as a means for political action. Weber’s understanding of the state in these terms is widely cited and generally accepted, but insufficiently subject to careful analysis. It is shown in the chapter that his approach to the state is at least unnecessarily narrow. Without denying that the state’s military and police powers ultimately rest on its capacity to impose violence – legitimate by virtue of its emanation from the state – on those who oppose it, such instrumentalities are necessarily supported by the fiscal basis of taxation, another means specific to the state which Weber ignores in this signal statement of his political sociology. In fact, of course, the fiscal means underpin all of the state’s elements, not merely those which dispense legitimate force. Indeed, taxation more readily, effectively, and completely than the means of violence, disciplines a population subject to the state’s rule.
Another aspect of Weber’s definition of the state is that the use of force is ‘within a given territory’ and that territory is ‘one of the characteristics of the state’ (Weber 1970/1919: 78). This statement is surely incomplete, though, in so far as it ignores the state’s extra-territoriality. In fact, the extra-territoriality of states is more consistent with the definition of the state in terms of violence, and warfare, than with the state’s domestic territoriality. Weber had written much about the state’s extra-territoriality prior to delivering this lecture, so it is appropriate to ask why extra-territoriality is left out of what he has to say to his student audience in 1919. The second part of the chapter provides an answer to this question, showing that Weber’s polemic form risks distorting his intellectual formulation. Having
completed the discussion of Weber’s definition of the state, the chapter next considers his understanding of politics, which is also conceived in terms of the application of (legitimate) violence in public affairs and thus the source of the ethical dilemmas underlying the political life which, for Weber, determines the character of the political vocation. Political struggle, according to Weber, requires a leader’s recruitment of allies and encouragement of followers, in order to successfully attain goals against the intentions of opponents. According to this understanding, the substance of politics resides in the struggle and conflict conducted by leaders and their followers. But violence, legitimate or otherwise, eliminates opposition and possibly opponents and, in that sense, suppresses conflict. This is not the only problem with Weber’s account of politics in this famous lecture.
The final section of the chapter considers Weber’s account of the moral quandaries that the practice of the political vocation must necessarily manage, if not resolve. This highly regarded part of Weber’s reflections on politics is shown in the chapter to be largely polemical, which tends to compromise what analytic value it possesses. The alternate moral courses Weber nominates as defining the compass of politics are not related to the direct practice of moral conduct, as he claims, but rather are theories of ethics removed from real-life engagements. The framework Weber sets up in considering the vocation of politics, it is demonstrated, is primarily designed to show that his student audience is unfit for a political vocation and Weber’s discussion unfortunately fails to address such questions as the trajectory and maintenance of political careers which presumably underpin the vocation of politics. ‘Politics as a Vocation’ is the most accessible and authoritative of Weber’s accounts of politics in the modern state. The purpose of Chapter 1 is to examine his approach to these themes and to consider how Weber makes his case.
Having examined Weber’s best-known account of politics in Chapter 1, Chapter 2 turns to what is possibly the least examined notion in his writings, namely that of race, even though – as shown in the chapter – a particular notion of race underlies a good deal of his sociology and is core to aspects of his political outlook. It is true that Weber wrote little about the concept of race, and that discussion of his treatment of race is generally confined to his account of racial minorities, namely Poles in East Prussia, American Blacks, and possibly European Jews although Weber regards the Jews as a religiously rather than a racially defined group (Barbalet 2008: 183–213). The conventional approaches to race, as relating to social minorities defined in terms of their biologically based physical characteristics, mean that Weber’s approach to the German Kulturgemeinschaft (‘cultural community’) as a historically defined collective identity of world-shaping political significance, realized as a Herrenvolk or ‘master race’, remains ignored if not invisible to the majority of those interested in Weber and his ideas.
The first section of Chapter 2 considers Weber’s understanding of race in cultural rather than biological terms by examining his treatment of the Chinese by way of their perceived collective attributes. It is shown that while Weber disagrees that Chinese characteristics can be understood in terms of innate qualities, as typically reported at the time by German missionaries, state envoys, and traders, Weber’s own culturally based assessment of Chinese attributes rationalizes rather
than departs from the pejorative racialized accounts of the Chinese proffered by many European sojourners in China. The second part of the chapter goes on to examine Weber’s argument against the biological conception of race, including his exchange with Alfred Ploetz in 1910, and his development of a notion of race based on cultural and political foundations, especially in Economy and Society (Weber 1978/1922) and in his war-time Suffrage and Democracy in Germany (Weber 2000/1917). In exploring Weber’s rationale for a cultural and political conceptualization of race, the third section of the chapter critically examines how he uses the perceived racial qualities of Polish settlers in East Prussia to inform his understanding of what constitutes, by contrast, a German race. This treatment is developed further in the following part of the chapter, in which it is shown how Weber’s notion of a German Herrenvolk or master race requires well-articulated connections between the ‘people’, the ‘nation’, and the ‘state’. This discussion draws on Weber’s writing from the time of The Protestant Ethic (Weber 1991/1920a) through to his war-time essays (Weber 2000/1917, 2000/1918b). The final section of the chapter shows how Weber’s commitment to an ethno-national conception of race informs his sociological thinking, through an examination of two key concepts, ‘value orientation’ and also ‘domination’.
A Herrenvolk and the associated formations of nation and power-state, which forge a people’s destiny in a world of competing states, necessarily introduce the consideration of the possibility of warfare and violence in the relations between political societies. In developing the arguments of the first two chapters, Chapter 3 examines Weber’s understanding of citizenship in which it is shown that for him citizenship is based on a military foundation. Weber was uninterested in developing a normative theory of politics, although he was focused on providing prescriptive and not only analytic accounts of politics. Weber’s advocacy for democratic institutions was pragmatic in the sense that he sought mechanisms and structures that would more securely serve German national interests as he saw them. In his discussion of Weber’s theory of politics, the Canadian political scientist Terry Maley (2011: 4) discerns a paradox in Weber’s view of modern democracy, in which ‘he seeks to expand the arena of democratic politics [while he] contracts the political, restricting . . the political to heroic vocational politicians’ (emphasis in original). Weber’s own position is that there is no tension between these two formulations; parliamentarism has to be expanded in order to preserve the legitimacy of the state, at the same time parliamentary ‘leadership democracy’ is required to ensure the selection and training of able political practitioners (see Beetham 1985: 95–118; Eliaeson 2000; Whimster 2007: 237–246). An obvious question, but one which has not sufficiently been asked by Weber scholars, queries where citizenship stands in this schema. The answer is provided in Chapter 3. Although he did not develop an ideal-type concept of citizenship, suggesting that Weber did not regard citizenship as a core notion for understanding states and politics, he effectively provides a comparative analysis of it in so far as he wrote about both the historical basis of citizenship in urban communities of medieval and early modern Europe, especially in General Economic History and The City, a manuscript incorporated into Economy and Society, and also discussed the basis
and nature of modern citizenship in a twentieth-century nation-state, in particular in his texts of 1917 and 1918, Suffrage and Democracy in Germany and Parliament and Government in Germany under a New Political Order, respectively, regarding the situation in Germany at the close of the First World War. The first part of the chapter explores Weber’s account of early European citizenship while the second part outlines Weber’s treatment of modern citizenship, developed in Suffrage and Democracy and also Parliament and Government. Weber’s purpose in these two separate discussions of different stages of the historical development of citizenship, in which different forms were manifest, is not the same. His discussion of early European citizenship is to demonstrate a predominance of citizenship in Western political cultures and therefore the uniqueness of the West in the development of political rationalization, whereas the discussion of modern citizenship is largely an argument in favour of expanding the suffrage and entitlements of political citizenship to returned soldiers. In each case, though, Weber reveals that in distinctive ways these different forms of citizenship rest on a premise of responsibility for military engagement, defensive in the one and expeditionary in the other. The final part of the chapter provides a discussion of Weber’s characteristic understanding of modern politics and the role of citizenship in it. It is shown that his treatment of the fate of soldier citizens underlies the nature of modern citizenship as he sees it, a transactional arrangement in which the right to vote is in return for the right to die in defence of one’s country; this perspective expresses Weber’s view of the political state as an instrument of a national community’s power in the international arena.
Weber’s best-known work, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, presents an argument concerning the origins of modern capitalism in terms of a religious innovation, through which salvation is achieved by ‘this-worldly’ activity. It, therefore, seems quite remote from the themes treated in the preceding chapters. When it is appreciated, though, that Weber saw The Protestant Ethic as primarily providing an account of the origin and nature of a particular type of calling or vocation, one that would consolidate a social class for political leadership, then the distance between Weber’s political concerns and this ‘academic’ writing narrows. It is shown in Chapter 4 that the subtext of The Protestant Ethic is an argument concerning the political vocation of national leadership. In this way The Protestant Ethic is unavoidably linked with Weber’s 1919 lecture, ‘Politics as a Vocation’, discussed in Chapter 1, and also with his inaugural lecture of 1895 in which he first introduced the notion of vocation and alerted his readers to the need for the political education of the German middle class in terms of it.
Chapter 4 begins, then, by demonstrating that key elements of the argument presented in The Protestant Ethic have their origins in Weber’s inaugural lecture. From this perspective, The Protestant Ethic can no longer be regarded as a work that contributes only to our understanding of the historical relations of Protestantism and capitalism. The clarification of the concept and practice of vocation in The Protestant Ethic entails an underlying account of the necessity of a Calvinistic or modern form of vocation as opposed to a Lutheran or traditional form, for the political education of the German middle class. This question, of the role in
The Protestant Ethic of the notion of calling as a means of political education, is treated in the second part of the chapter. Concurrent with Weber’s writing of The Protestant Ethic are key methodological texts. The third and final section of Chapter 4 turns to the way in which Weber’s treatment of values in his methodological essays relate to questions of political calling and his project concerning the political education of the German middle class for rule in what Weber calls a ‘power-state’, issues that have been identified and discussed in the three previous chapters of this book.
The concurrence of the notions of vocation, political education, and national interest, referring to factors embodied in and engaged by a political class, indicates connections between a number of Weber’s texts that are typically not considered in the same light. This outlook, of advancing political education through a modern form of vocation or calling, is transformative of the way in which The Protestant Ethic and other works by Weber can be regarded. It is especially significant to acknowledge that this vision is Weber’s own, as demonstrated in the chapter through an attentive examination of his texts and what they reveal of his political preferences and aspirations.
Together, the previous four chapters demonstrate that Weber’s social-science scholarship is not only infused with political concerns but that these latter provide the energy and animus of his knowledge creation. Weber’s political engagement and discernment fashion the social analysis he provides, set the questions he asks, and energize the writing. These general themes, concerned with how Germany’s national interest may be defined and prosecuted, are unfolded in Weber’s writings over the course of his adult life in the changing contexts of peace time and war time, policy variation in the arenas he could not control, and the broad drift of circumstance. Certainly, what particular political issues and themes drew Weber’s attention were varied and complex, as well as ever-engaging, but they are persistently unified by a visceral commitment in him to nation, a conception of its cultural unity, an acknowledgement of a need for vocational adherence supportive of political education, and a political apparatus in which a parliamentary form and leadership-democracy legitimate a power-state able to secure the future destiny of the German people on the world stage. This political background informs Weber’s sociology without necessarily subverting its immense intellectual content, although there are notable cases where paradoxical and possibly problematic formulations emerge, as indicated earlier. What has to be acknowledged, though, is that the political and scholarly elements of Weber’s writings cannot be separated and that in meaningful ways his sociology is a product of these political commitments, engagements, and aspirations.
The final part of this book is an Appendix which, while not in itself contributing to understanding the national imperial theme of Weber’s politics, relates to certain aspects of that theme, and especially amplifies an aspect of the treatment of The Protestant Ethic discussed in Chapter 4. This is Weber’s politics in a minor key, his taking sides in a religious politics concerning the competition between Protestantism and Catholicism; in particular, Weber’s treatment of Calvinism as the most rational of religions in its ‘elimination of magic from the world’ (Weber
1991/1920a: 105). The Protestant Ethic is almost universally regarded as a work of innovative scholarship, portraying a major historical transformation in early modern Europe on the basis of detailed research. It is shown in the Appendix that Weber’s arguments, concerning the nature of Calvinism and especially its opposition to magic that is productive of a more or less complete religious rationalization with consequences for wider social processes, significantly result from a political orientation and less from the evidence that would have been available to Weber. The discussion begins with a correction of Weber’s exaggerated argument concerning Calvin’s attitude to sacraments, a result of his taking sides in a religious dispute between Calvin and the Catholic church. The second part of the Appendix reviews Weber’s detailed account of magic and its relationship with religion and goes on to consider his treatment of magic in Confucianism. Whereas Confucian rationality is compromised by an inconsistent attitude to magic, according to Weber, Calvinism has succeeded in liquidating magic, discharging magic from its practices and precepts, and therefore from the northern European world of the Reformation. It is on this basis that Weber is able to argue that while modern capitalism arose in Europe, it is without a basis in China because of the latitude given there to magic.
There is a problem with Weber’s treatment, though, as shown in the third part of the Appendix. At a time in which Calvinism promoted unequivocal rationalization, according to Weber, it was in fact obsessed with demonic sorcery and witchcraft which were taken by believers – including Calvin himself – to be material powers in the world. Historical Calvinism, then, undermines the strong contrast Weber draws between Calvinism and Confucianism. An alternative account to Weber’s religious rationalization argument, of the decline of magic and the growth of rationalization, is offered in this section of the Appendix. The final section returns to Weber’s treatment of magic in China in order to indicate aspects of it neglected in his account. A salient point is that in the Chinese context there is no connection between magic and religion, undermining a major plank of Weber’s comparative sociology of religion, in which religious rationalization through demagicalization is assumed to be a general not a merely European phenomenon. Rather than provide a consistent sociology of religion, it is shown then that Weber is primarily engaged in religious politics.
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—Signé?... fit le malicieux et courageux bossu.
—Signé François, dit Maillé.
—Non, non, reprit le prince, il y a «votre bon cousin et ami François!»—Messieurs, cria-t-il aux Écossais, je vous suis dans la prison où vous avez charge de me conduire de la part du roi. Il y a assez de noblesse en cette salle pour comprendre ceci!
Le profond silence qui régna dans la salle aurait dû éclairer les Guise; mais le silence est ce que les princes écoutent le moins.
—Monseigneur, dit le cardinal de Tournon qui suivit le prince, depuis l’affaire d’Amboise, vous avez entrepris sur Lyon et à Mouvans en Dauphiné des choses contre l’autorité royale, desquelles le roi n’avait pas connaissance quand il vous écrivait ainsi.
—Fourbes! s’écria le prince en riant.
—Vous avez fait une déclaration publique contre la messe et pour l’hérésie...
—Nous sommes maîtres en Navarre, dit le prince.
—Vous voulez dire le Béarn? Mais vous devez hommage à la couronne, répondit le président de Thou.
—Ah! vous êtes ici, président? s’écria le prince avec ironie. Y êtes-vous avec tout le parlement?
Sur ce mot, le prince jeta sur le cardinal un regard de mépris et quitta la salle: il comprit qu’on en voulait à sa tête. Lorsque le lendemain messieurs de Thou, de Viole, d’Espesse, le procureurgénéral Bourdin et le greffier en chef Du Tillet entrèrent dans la prison, il les tint debout et leur exprima ses regrets de les voir chargés d’une affaire qui ne les regardait pas; puis il dit au greffier: Écrivez! et il dicta ceci:
«Moi, Louis de Bourbon, prince de Condé, pair du royaume, marquis de Conti, comte de Soissons, prince du
sang de France, déclare refuser formellement de reconnaître aucune commission nommée pour me juger, attendu qu’en ma qualité et en vertu du privilége attaché à tout membre de la maison royale, je ne puis être accusé, entendu, jugé, que par le parlement garni de tous les pairs, toutes les chambres assemblées, et le roi séant en son lit de justice.»
—Vous deviez savoir cela mieux que d’autres, messieurs, c’est tout ce que vous aurez de moi. Pour le surplus, je me confie à mon droit et à Dieu!
Les magistrats procédèrent nonobstant le silence obstiné du prince. Le roi de Navarre était en liberté, mais observé; sa prison était plus grande que celle du prince, ce fut toute la différence de sa position et de celle de son frère; car la tête du prince de Condé et la sienne devaient tomber du même coup.
Christophe ne fut donc gardé si sévèrement au secret par les ordres du cardinal et du lieutenant-général du royaume, que pour donner aux magistrats une preuve de la culpabilité du prince. Les lettres saisies sur La Sague, le secrétaire du prince, intelligibles pour des hommes d’État, n’étaient pas assez claires pour des juges. Le cardinal avait médité de confronter par hasard le prince et Christophe, qui n’avait pas été placé sans intention dans une salle basse de la tour de Saint-Agnan, dont la fenêtre donnait sur le préau. A chaque interrogatoire que les magistrats lui firent subir, Christophe se renferma dans un système de dénégation absolue, qui prolongea naturellement le procès jusqu’à l’ouverture des États.
Lecamus, qui n’avait pas manqué de se faire nommer député du Tiers-État par la bourgeoisie de Paris, arriva quelques jours après l’arrestation du prince à Orléans. Cette nouvelle, qui lui fut apprise à Étampes, redoubla ses inquiétudes, car il comprit, lui qui savait seul l’entrevue du prince et de son fils sous le Pont-au-Change, que le sort de Christophe était lié à celui de l’audacieux chef du parti de la Réformation. Aussi résolut-il d’étudier les ténébreux intérêts qui se croisaient à la cour depuis l’ouverture des États, afin de trouver un moyen de sauver son fils. Il ne devait pas songer à la reine Catherine, qui refusa de voir son pelletier. Aucune des personnes de
la cour qu’il put voir ne lui donna de nouvelles satisfaisantes sur son fils, et il en était arrivé à un tel degré de désespoir, qu’il allait s’adresser au cardinal lui-même, quand il sut que M. de Thou avait accepté, ce qui fait une tache à sa vie, d’être un des juges du prince de Condé. Le syndic alla voir le protecteur de son fils, et apprit que Christophe était encore vivant, mais prisonnier.
Le gantier Tourillon, chez qui La Renaudie avait envoyé Christophe, avait offert dans sa maison une chambre au sieur Lecamus pour tout le temps de la durée des États. Le gantier croyait le pelletier secrètement attaché, comme lui, à la religion réformée; mais il vit bientôt qu’un père qui craint pour les jours de son fils ne comprend plus les nuances religieuses, et se jette à corps perdu dans le sein de Dieu, sans se soucier de l’écharpe que lui mettent les hommes. Le vieillard, repoussé dans toutes ses tentatives, allait comme un hébété par les rues; contre ses prévisions, son or ne lui servait à rien; monsieur de Thou l’avait prévenu que s’il corrompait quelque serviteur de la maison de Guise, il en serait pour son argent, car le duc et le cardinal ne laissaient rien transpirer de ce qui regardait Christophe. Ce magistrat, dont la gloire est un peu ternie par le rôle qu’il jouait alors, avait essayé de donner quelque espérance au père désolé; mais il tremblait tellement lui-même pour les jours de son filleul, que ses consolations alarmèrent davantage le pelletier. Le vieillard rôdait autour de la maison. En trois mois, il avait maigri. Son seul espoir, il le plaçait dans la vive amitié qui depuis longtemps l’unissait à l’Hippocrate du seizième siècle. Ambroise essaya de dire un mot à la reine Marie en sortant de la chambre du roi; mais dès qu’il eut nommé Christophe, la fille des Stuarts, irritée à la perspective de son sort s’il arrivait malheur au roi, et qui le crut empoisonné par les Réformés, à cause de l’opportune soudaineté de sa maladie, répondit:—Si mes oncles m’écoutaient, un pareil fanatique serait déjà pendu! Le soir où cette funeste réponse fut donnée à Lecamus par son ami Paré, sur la place de l’Estape, il revint à demi mort et rentra dans sa chambre en refusant de souper. Tourillon, inquiet, monta, trouva le vieillard en pleurs, et comme les yeux vieillis du pauvre pelletier laissaient voir la chair intérieure des paupières ridées et rougies, le gantier crut qu’il pleurait du sang.
—Consolez-vous, mon père, dit le Réformé, les bourgeois d’Orléans sont furieux de voir leur ville traitée comme si elle eût été prise d’assaut, gardée par les soldats de monsieur de Cypierre; et si la vie du prince de Condé se trouvait en péril, nous aurions bientôt démoli la tour de Saint-Agnan; car toute notre ville est pour la Réforme et se révoltera, soyez-en sûr!
—Quand on pendrait les Lorrains, leur mort me rendrait-elle mon fils? répondit le père désolé.
En ce moment on frappa discrètement à la porte de Tourillon, qui descendit pour ouvrir lui-même. Il était nuit close. Dans ces temps de troubles, chaque maître de maison prenait des précautions minutieuses. Tourillon regarda par la grille du judas pratiqué dans sa porte, et vit un étranger dont l’accent trahissait un Italien. Cet homme, vêtu de noir, demandait à parler à Lecamus pour affaires de commerce, et Tourillon l’introduisit. A la vue de l’étranger, le pelletier tressaillit horriblement; mais l’étranger trouva le temps de se mettre un doigt sur les lèvres; Lecamus lui dit alors en comprenant ce geste: Vous venez sans doute pour m’offrir des fourrures?
—Si, répondit en italien l’étranger d’une façon discrète.
Ce personnage était en effet le fameux Ruggieri, l’astrologue de la reine-mère. Tourillon descendit chez lui, en comprenant qu’il était de trop chez son hôte.
—Où pouvons-nous causer sans avoir à craindre qu’on ne nous entende? dit le prudent Florentin.
—Il nous faudrait être en plein champ, répondit Lecamus; mais on ne nous laissera pas sortir, vous connaissez la sévérité avec laquelle les portes sont gardées. Nul ne quitte la ville sans une passe de monsieur de Cypierre, fût-il, comme moi, membre des États. Aussi devons-nous dès demain, à notre séance, nous plaindre tous de ce défaut de liberté.
—Travaillez comme une taupe, mais ne laissez jamais voir vos pattes dans quoi que ce soit, lui dit le rusé Florentin. La journée de demain sera sans doute décisive. D’après mes observations, demain ou après vous aurez peut-être votre fils.
—Que Dieu vous entende, vous qui passez pour ne consulter que le diable!
—Venez donc chez moi, dit l’astrologue en souriant. J’ai pour observer les astres la tour du sieur Touchet de Beauvais, le lieutenant du Bailliage, dont la fille plaît fort au petit duc d’Orléans. J’ai fait le thème de cette petite, il indique en effet qu’elle sera une grande dame et aimée par un roi. Le lieutenant est un bel esprit, il aime les sciences, et la reine m’a fait loger chez ce bonhomme, qui a l’esprit d’être un forcené guisard en attendant le règne de Charles IX.
Le pelletier et l’astrologue se rendirent à l’hôtel du sieur de Beauvais sans être vus ni rencontrés; mais dans le cas où la visite de Lecamus serait découverte, le Florentin comptait lui donner le prétexte d’une consultation astrologique sur le sort de Christophe. Quand ils furent arrivés en haut de la tourelle où l’astrologue avait mis son cabinet, Lecamus lui dit:—Mon fils est donc bien certainement vivant?
—Encore, répondit Ruggieri, mais il s’agit de le sauver. Songez, marchand de peaux, que je ne donnerais pas deux liards de la vôtre, s’il vous échappait, dans toute votre vie, une seule syllabe de ce que je vais vous dire.
—Recommandation inutile, mon maître; je suis fournisseur de la cour depuis le défunt roi Louis XII, et voici le quatrième règne que je vois.
—Vous direz bientôt le cinquième, repartit Ruggieri.
—Que savez-vous de mon fils?
—Eh! bien, il a été mis à la question.
—Pauvre enfant! dit le bonhomme en levant les yeux au ciel.
—Il a les genoux et les chevilles un tantinet broyés; mais il a conquis une royale protection qui s’étendra sur toute sa vie, fit vivement le Florentin en voyant l’effroi du père. Votre petit Christophe a rendu service à notre grande reine Catherine. Si nous tirons votre fils des griffes du Lorrain, vous le verrez quelque jour
conseiller au parlement. On se ferait casser trois fois les os pour être dans les bonnes grâces de cette chère souveraine, un bien beau génie, qui triomphera de tous les obstacles! J’ai fait le thème du duc de Guise: il sera tué dans un an d’ici! Voyons, Christophe a vu le prince de Condé...
—Vous qui savez l’avenir, ne savez-vous point le passé? dit le pelletier.
—Je ne vous interroge pas, bonhomme, je vous instruis. Or, si votre fils, qui sera mis demain sur le passage du prince, le reconnaît, ou si le prince reconnaît votre fils, la tête de monsieur de Condé sautera. Dieu sait ce qui adviendra de son complice! Rassurez-vous. Ni votre fils ni le prince ne seront mis à mort, j’ai fait leurs thèmes, ils doivent vivre; mais j’ignore par quels moyens ils se tireront d’affaire. Sans compter la certitude de mes calculs, nous allons y mettre ordre. Demain le prince recevra par des mains sûres un livre de prières où nous lui ferons passer un avis. Dieu veuille que votre fils soit discret, car il ne sera pas prévenu, lui! Un seul regard de connaissance coûtera la vie au prince. Aussi, quoique la reine-mère ait tout lieu de compter sur la fidélité de Christophe...
—On l’a mise à de rudes épreuves! s’écria le pelletier.
—Ne parlez pas ainsi! Croyez-vous que la reine soit à la noce? Aussi va-t-elle prendre des mesures comme si les Guise avaient résolu la mort du prince; et bien fait-elle, la sage et prudente reine! Or, elle compte sur vous pour être aidée en toute chose. Vous avez quelque influence sur le Tiers-État, où vous représentez les corps de métiers de Paris, et quoique les guisards vous promettent de mettre votre fils en liberté, tâchez de les trupher, et soulevez votre Ordre contre les Lorrains. Demandez la reine-mère pour régente, le roi de Navarre y consentira demain publiquement à la séance des États.
—Mais le roi?
—Le roi mourra, répondit Ruggieri, j’ai dressé son thème. Ce que la reine vous demande de faire pour elle aux États est tout simple; mais elle attend de vous un plus grand service. Vous avez soutenu dans ses études le grand Ambroise Paré, vous êtes son ami...
—Ambroise aime aujourd’hui le duc de Guise plus qu’il ne m’aime, et il a raison, il lui doit sa charge; mais il est fidèle au roi. Aussi, quoiqu’il incline à la Réforme, ne fera-t-il rien contre son devoir.
—Peste soit de ces honnêtes gens! s’écria le Florentin. Ambroise s’est vanté ce soir de tirer le petit roi d’affaire. Si le roi recouvre la santé, les Guise triomphent, les princes meurent, la maison de Bourbon sera finie, nous retournerons à Florence, votre fils est pendu, et les Lorrains auront bon marché des autres enfants de France...
—Grand Dieu! s’écria Lecamus.
—Ne vous exclamez pas ainsi, c’est d’un bourgeois qui ne sait rien de la cour; mais allez aussitôt chez Ambroise, et sachez de lui ce qu’il compte faire pour sauver le roi. S’il y a quelque certitude, vous viendrez me confier l’opération en laquelle il a tant de foi.
—Mais... dit Lecamus.
—Obéissez aveuglément, mon cher, autrement vous seriez ébloui.
—Il a raison, pensa le pelletier. Et il alla chez le premier chirurgien du roi, qui logeait dans une hôtellerie sur la place du Martroi.
En ce moment, Catherine de Médicis se trouvait dans une extrémité politique semblable à celle où Christophe l’avait vue à Blois. Si elle s’était formée à la lutte, si elle avait exercé sa haute intelligence dans cette première défaite, sa situation, quoique exactement la même, était aussi devenue plus critique et plus périlleuse que lors du tumulte d’Amboise. Les événements avaient grandi autant que la femme. Quoiqu’elle parût marcher d’accord avec les deux princes lorrains, Catherine tenait les fils d’une conspiration savamment ourdie contre ses terribles associés, et attendait un moment propice pour lever le masque. Le Cardinal venait d’avoir la certitude d’être trompé par Catherine. Cette habile Italienne avait vu dans la maison cadette un obstacle à opposer aux prétentions des Guise; et, malgré l’avis des deux Gondi, qui lui
conseillaient de laisser les Guise se porter à des violences contre les Bourbons, elle avait fait manquer, en avertissant la reine de Navarre, le projet concerté par les Guise avec l’Espagne de s’emparer du Béarn. Comme ce secret d’État n’était connu que d’eux et de la reine-mère, les deux princes lorrains, certains de la duplicité de leur alliée, voulurent la renvoyer à Florence; et, pour s’assurer de la trahison de Catherine envers l’État (la maison de Lorraine était l’État), le duc et le cardinal venaient de lui confier leur dessein de se défaire du roi de Navarre. Les précautions que prit à l’instant Antoine de Bourbon prouvèrent aux deux frères que ce secret, connu d’eux trois seulement, avait été divulgué par la reine-mère. Le cardinal de Lorraine reprocha sur-le-champ à la reine-mère son manque de foi devant François II, en la menaçant d’un édit de bannissement, au cas où de nouvelles indiscrétions mettraient l’État en péril.
Catherine, qui se vit alors dans un extrême danger, devait agir en grand roi. Aussi donna-t-elle alors la preuve de sa haute capacité; mais il faut avouer qu’elle fut aussi très-bien servie par ses intimes. L’Hospital fit parvenir à la Reine un billet ainsi conçu: «Ne laissez pas mettre à mort un prince du sang par une commission, vous seriez bientôt enlevée aussi!» Catherine envoya Birague au Vignay, pour faire dire au chancelier de venir aux États, malgré sa disgrâce.
Birague arriva, cette nuit même, à trois lieues d’Orléans, avec L’Hospital, qui se déclarait ainsi pour la reine-mère. Chiverny, dont la fidélité fut alors à bon droit soupçonnée par messieurs de Guise, s’était sauvé d’Orléans; et, par une marche qui faillit lui coûter la vie, il avait atteint Écouen en dix heures. Il apprit au connétable de Montmorency le péril de son neveu, le prince de Condé, et l’audace des Lorrains. Anne de Montmorency, furieux de savoir que le prince n’avait dû la vie qu’à la subite invasion du mal dont mourut François II, arrivait avec quinze cents chevaux et cent gentilshommes. Afin de mieux surprendre messieurs de Guise, il avait évité Paris en venant d’Écouen à Corbeil, et de Corbeil à Pithiviers par la vallée de l’Essonne.
—Capitaine contre capitaine, il y aura peu de laine, dit-il à l’occasion de cette marche hardie.
Anne de Montmorency, qui avait sauvé la France lors de l’invasion de Charles-Quint en Provence, et le duc de Guise, qui avait arrêté la seconde invasion de l’empereur à Metz, étaient en effet les deux plus grands hommes de guerre de la France à cette époque. Catherine avait attendu le moment précis de réveiller la haine du connétable disgracié par les Lorrains. Néanmoins, le marquis de Simeuse, commandant de Gien, en apprenant l’arrivée d’un corps aussi considérable que celui mené par le connétable, sauta sur son cheval, espérant pouvoir prévenir à temps le duc de Guise. Sûre que le connétable viendrait au secours de son neveu et pleine de confiance dans le dévouement du chancelier à la cause royale, la reine-mère avait ranimé les espérances et l’audace du parti de la Réforme. Les Coligny et les amis de la maison de Bourbon menacée avaient fait cause commune avec les partisans de la reine-mère. Une coalition entre des intérêts contraires attaqués par un ennemi commun, se forma sourdement au sein des États, où il fut hautement question de nommer Catherine régente du royaume, dans le cas où François II mourrait. Catherine, dont la foi dans l’astrologie judiciaire surpassait sa foi en l’Église, avait tout osé contre ses oppresseurs en voyant son fils mourant à l’expiration du terme assigné à sa vie par la fameuse sorcière que Nostradamus lui avait amenée au château de Chaumont.
Quelques jours avant le terrible dénoûment de ce règne, François II avait voulu se promener sur la Loire, afin de ne pas se trouver dans la ville au moment où le prince de Condé serait exécuté. Après avoir abandonné la tête de ce prince au cardinal de Lorraine, il craignit une sédition tout autant que les supplications de la princesse de Condé. Au moment de s’embarquer, un de ces vents frais qui s’élèvent sur la Loire aux approches de l’hiver lui donna un si cruel mal d’oreille qu’il fut obligé de rentrer; il se mit au lit pour n’en sortir que mort. En dépit de la controverse des médecins qui, hormis Chapelain, étaient ses ennemis et ses antagonistes, Paré soutint qu’un dépôt s’était formé à la tête du roi, et que si l’on ne donnait pas d’issue aux humeurs, de jour en jour les chances de mort augmenteraient. Malgré l’heure avancée et la loi du couvre-feu, sévèrement appliquée dans Orléans, alors exactement en état de siége, la lampe de Paré brillait à sa croisée, et il étudiait; Lecamus
l’appela d’en bas, et quand il eut crié son nom, le chirurgien ordonna qu’on ouvrît à son vieil ami.
—Tu ne prends pas de repos, Ambroise, et tout en rendant la vie aux autres, tu dissiperas la tienne, dit le pelletier en entrant.
Il voyait en effet le chirurgien, ses livres ouverts, ses instruments épars, devant une tête de mort fraîchement enterré, prise au cimetière et trouée...
—Il s’agit de sauver le roi...
—En es-tu donc bien certain, Ambroise? s’écria le vieillard en frémissant.
—Comme de mon existence. Le roi, mon vieux protecteur, a des humeurs peccantes qui lui pèsent sur le cerveau, qui vont le lui remplir, et la crise est imminente; mais en lui forant le crâne, je compte faire sortir ces humeurs et lui dégager la tête. J’ai déjà pratiqué trois fois cette opération, inventée par un Piémontais, et que j’ai eu l’heur de perfectionner. La première s’est faite au siége de Metz, sur monsieur de Pienne, que je tirai d’affaire, et qui depuis n’en a été que plus sage: il avait un dépôt d’humeurs produit par une arquebusade au chef. La seconde a sauvé la vie d’un pauvre sur qui j’eus le désir d’éprouver la bonté de cette audacieuse opération à laquelle s’était prêté monsieur de Pienne. Enfin, la troisième a eu lieu à Paris, sur un gentilhomme qui se porte à merveille. Le trépan, tel est le nom donné à cette invention, est encore peu connu. Les malades y répugnent, à cause de l’imperfection de l’instrument, que j’ai fini par améliorer. Je m’essaie donc sur cette tête, afin de ne pas faillir demain sur celle du roi.
—Tu dois être bien sûr de ton fait, car ta tête serait en danger au cas où...
—Je gagerais ma vie qu’il sera guéri, répondit Ambroise avec la sécurité de l’homme de génie. Ah! mon vieil ami, qu’est-ce que trouer la tête avec précaution? n’est-ce pas faire ce que les soldats font tous les jours à la guerre sans en prendre aucune?
—Mon enfant, dit l’audacieux bourgeois, sais-tu que sauver le roi, c’est perdre la France? Sais-tu que cet instrument aura placé la
couronne des Valois sur la tête du Lorrain qui se dit héritier de Charlemagne? Sais-tu que la chirurgie et la politique sont brouillées en ce moment? Oui, le triomphe de ton génie est la perte de ta religion. Si les Guise gardent la régence, le sang des Réformés va couler à flots! Sois plus grand citoyen que grand chirurgien, et dors demain la grasse matinée en laissant la chambre libre aux médecins qui, s’ils ne guérissent pas le roi, guériront la France!
—Moi! s’écria Paré, que je laisse périr un homme quand je puis le sauver! Non! non, dussé-je être pendu comme fauteur de Calvin, j’irai de bonne heure à la cour. Ne sais-tu pas que la seule grâce que je veux demander, après avoir sauvé le roi, est la vie de ton Christophe. Il y aura certes un moment où la reine Marie ne me refusera rien.
—Hélas! mon ami, reprit Lecamus, le petit roi n’a-t-il pas refusé la grâce du prince de Condé à la princesse? Ne tue pas ta religion en faisant vivre celui qui doit mourir.
—Ne vas-tu pas te mêler de chercher comment Dieu compte ordonner l’avenir? s’écria Paré. Les honnêtes gens n’ont qu’une devise: Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra! Ainsi ai-je fait au siége de Calais en mettant le pied sur la face du Grand-Maître: je courais la chance d’être écharpé par tous ses amis, par ses serviteurs, et je suis aujourd’hui chirurgien du roi; enfin, je suis de la Réforme, et j’ai messieurs de Guise pour amis. Je sauverai le roi! s’écria le chirurgien avec le saint enthousiasme de la conviction que donne le génie, et Dieu sauvera la France.
Un coup fut frappé à la porte, et quelques instants après un serviteur d’Ambroise remit un papier à Lecamus, qui lut à haute voix ces sinistres paroles:
«On dresse un échafaud au couvent des Récollets, pour décapiter demain le prince de Condé.»
Ambroise et Lecamus se regardèrent en proie l’un et l’autre à la plus profonde horreur.
—Je vais m’en assurer, dit le pelletier.
Sur la place, Ruggieri prit le bras de Lecamus en lui demandant le secret d’Ambroise pour sauver le roi; mais le vieillard craignit quelque ruse et voulut aller voir l’échafaud. L’astrologue et le pelletier allèrent donc de compagnie jusqu’aux Récollets, et trouvèrent en effet des charpentiers travaillant aux flambeaux.
—Hé! mon ami, dit Lecamus à un charpentier, quelle besogne faites-vous?
—Nous apprêtons la pendaison des hérétiques, puisque la saignée d’Amboise ne les a pas guéris, dit un jeune Récollet qui surveillait les ouvriers.
—Monseigneur le cardinal a bien raison, dit le prudent Ruggieri; mais dans notre pays, nous faisons mieux.
—Et que faites-vous? dit le Récollet.
—Mon frère, on les brûle.
Lecamus fut obligé de s’appuyer sur l’astrologue, ses jambes refusaient de le porter; car il pensait que son fils pouvait demain être accroché à l’une de ces potences. Le pauvre vieillard était entre deux sciences, entre l’astrologie judiciaire et la chirurgie, qui toutes deux lui promettaient le salut de son fils pour qui l’échafaud se dressait évidemment. Dans le trouble de ses idées, il se laissa manier comme une pâte par le Florentin.
—Eh! bien, mon respectable marchand de menu-vair, que ditesvous de ces plaisanteries lorraines? fit Ruggieri.
—Hélas! vous savez que je donnerais ma peau pour voir saine et sauve celle de mon fils!
—Voilà qui est parler en marchand d’hermine, reprit l’Italien; mais expliquez-moi bien l’opération que compte faire Ambroise sur le roi, je vous garantis la vie de votre fils...
—Vrai! s’écria le vieux pelletier.
—Que voulez-vous que je vous jure?... fit Ruggieri.
Sur ce mouvement, le pauvre vieillard répéta son entretien avec Ambroise au Florentin qui laissa dans la rue le père au désespoir,
dès que le secret du grand chirurgien lui fut divulgué.
—A qui diable en veut-il, ce mécréant! s’écria le vieillard en voyant Ruggieri se dirigeant au pas de course vers la place de l’Estape.
Lecamus ignorait la scène terrible qui se passait autour du lit royal, et qui avait motivé l’ordre d’élever l’échafaud du prince dont la condamnation avait été prononcée par défaut, pour ainsi dire, et dont l’exécution avait été remise à cause de la maladie du roi.
Il ne se trouvait dans la salle, dans les escaliers et dans la cour du Bailliage, que les gens absolument de service. La foule des courtisans encombrait l’hôtel du roi de Navarre, à qui la régence appartenait d’après les lois du royaume. La noblesse française, effrayée d’ailleurs par l’audace des Guise, éprouvait le besoin de se serrer autour du chef de la maison cadette, en voyant la reine-mère esclave des Guise et ne comprenant pas sa politique d’Italienne. Antoine de Bourbon, fidèle à son accord secret avec Catherine, ne devait renoncer en sa faveur à la régence qu’au moment où les États prononceraient sur cette question. Cette solitude profonde avait agi sur le Grand-Maître, quand, au retour d’une ronde faite par prudence dans la ville, il ne trouva chez le roi que les amis attachés à sa fortune. La chambre où l’on avait dressé le lit de François II est contiguë à la grande salle du Bailliage. Elle était alors revêtue de boiseries en chêne. Le plafond, composé de petites planches longues savamment ajustées et peintes, offrait des arabesques bleues sur un fond d’or, dont une partie arrachée il y a cinquante ans bientôt a été recueillie par un amateur d’antiquités. Cette chambre tendue de tapisseries et sur le plancher de laquelle s’étendait un tapis, était si sombre, que les torchères allumées y jetaient peu de lumière. Le vaste lit, à quatre colonnes et à rideaux de soie, ressemblait à un tombeau. D’un côté de ce lit, au chevet, se tenaient la reine Marie et le cardinal de Lorraine. Catherine était assise dans un fauteuil. Le fameux Jean Chapelain, médecin de service, et qui fut depuis le premier médecin de Charles IX, se trouvait debout à la cheminée. Le plus grand silence régnait. Le jeune roi, maigre, pâle, comme perdu dans ses draps, laissait à peine voir sur l’oreiller sa petite figure grimée. La duchesse de Guise, assise sur une
escabelle, assistait la jeune reine Marie, et du côté de Catherine, dans l’embrasure de la croisée, madame de Fiesque épiait les gestes et les regards de la reine-mère, car elle connaissait les dangers de sa position.
Dans la salle, malgré l’heure avancée de la soirée, monsieur de Cypierre, gouverneur du duc d’Orléans, et nommé gouverneur de la ville, occupait un coin de la cheminée avec les deux Gondi. Le cardinal de Tournon, qui dans cette crise épousa les intérêts de la reine-mère en se voyant traité comme un inférieur par le cardinal de Lorraine, de qui certes il était ecclésiastiquement l’égal, causait à voix basse avec les Gondi. Les maréchaux de Vieilleville et de SaintAndré, le garde-des-sceaux, qui présidait les États, s’entretenaient à voix basse des dangers auxquels les Guise étaient exposés.
Le lieutenant-général du royaume traversa la salle en y jetant un rapide coup d’œil, et y salua le duc d’Orléans qu’il y aperçut.
—Monseigneur, dit-il, voici qui peut vous apprendre à connaître les hommes: la noblesse catholique du royaume est chez un prince hérétique, en croyant que les États donneront la régence aux héritiers du traître qui fit retenir si longtemps en prison votre illustre grand-père!
Puis, après ces paroles destinées à faire un profond sillon au cœur d’un prince, il passa dans la chambre, où le jeune roi était alors moins endormi que plongé dans une lourde somnolence. Ordinairement, le duc de Guise savait vaincre par un air très-affable l’aspect sinistre de sa figure cicatrisée; mais en ce moment il n’eut pas la force de sourire en voyant se briser l’instrument de son pouvoir. Le cardinal, qui avait autant de courage civil que son frère avait de courage militaire, fit deux pas et vint à la rencontre du lieutenant-général.
—Robertet croit que le petit Pinard est vendu à la reine-mère, lui dit-il à l’oreille en l’emmenant dans la salle, on s’est servi de lui pour travailler les membres des États.
—Eh! qu’importe que nous soyons trahis par un secrétaire quand tout nous trahit! s’écria le lieutenant-général. La ville est pour la
Réformation, et nous sommes à la veille d’une révolte. Oui! les Guépins sont mécontents, reprit-il en donnant aux Orléanais leur surnom, et si Paré ne sauve pas le roi, nous aurons une terrible levée de boucliers. Avant peu de temps nous aurons à faire le siége d’Orléans qui est une crapaudière de Huguenots.
—Depuis un moment, reprit le cardinal, je regarde cette Italienne qui reste là dans une insensibilité profonde, elle guette la mort de son fils, Dieu lui pardonne! je me demande si nous ne ferions pas bien de l’arrêter, ainsi que le roi de Navarre.
—C’est déjà trop d’avoir en prison le prince de Condé! répondit le duc.
Le bruit d’un cavalier arrivant à bride abattue retentit à la porte du Bailliage. Les deux princes lorrains allèrent à la fenêtre, et à la lueur des torches du concierge et de la sentinelle qui brûlaient toujours sous le porche, le duc reconnut au chapeau cette fameuse croix de Lorraine que le cardinal venait de faire prendre à ses partisans. Il envoya l’un des arquebusiers, qui étaient dans l’antichambre, dire de laisser entrer le survenant, à la rencontre duquel il alla sur le palier, suivi de son frère.
—Qu’y a-t-il, mon cher Simeuse? demanda le duc avec le charme de manières qu’il déployait pour les gens de guerre en voyant le gouverneur de Gien.
—Le connétable entre à Pithiviers, il a quitté Écouen avec quinze cents chevaux d’ordonnance et cent gentilshommes...
—Sont-ils accompagnés? dit le duc.
—Oui, monseigneur, répondit Simeuse, ils sont en tout deux mille six cents. Thoré, selon quelques-uns, est en arrière avec un parti d’infanterie. Si le connétable s’amuse à attendre son fils, vous avez le temps de le défaire...
—Vous ne savez rien de plus? Les motifs de cette prise d’armes sont-ils répandus?
—Anne parle aussi peu qu’il écrit, allez à sa rencontre, mon frère, pendant que je vais le saluer avec la tête de son neveu, dit le
cardinal en donnant l’ordre d’aller chercher Robertet.
—Vieilleville! cria le duc au maréchal qui vint, le connétable a l’audace de se présenter en armes, si je vais à sa rencontre, répondez-vous de maintenir la ville?
—Dès que vous sortirez, les bourgeois prendront les armes. Et qui peut savoir le résultat d’une affaire entre des cavaliers et des bourgeois au milieu de ces rues étroites? répondit le maréchal.
—Monseigneur, dit Robertet en montant précipitamment l’escalier, le chancelier est aux portes et veut entrer, doit-on lui ouvrir?
—Ouvrez, répondit le cardinal de Lorraine. Connétable et chancelier ensemble, ils seraient trop dangereux, il faut les séparer. Nous avons été rudement joués par la reine-mère dans le choix de L’Hospital pour cette charge.
Robertet fit un signe de tête à un capitaine qui attendait une réponse au bas de l’escalier, et se retourna vivement pour écouter les ordres du cardinal.
—Monseigneur, je prends la liberté, dit-il en faisant encore un effort, de représenter que la sentence doit être approuvée par le roi en son conseil. Si vous violez la loi pour un prince du sang, on ne la respectera ni pour un cardinal, ni pour un duc de Guise.
—Pinard t’a dérangé, Robertet, dit sévèrement le cardinal. Ne sais-tu pas que le roi a signé l’arrêt, le jour où il est sorti pour nous le laisser exécuter!
—Quoique vous me demandiez à peu près ma tête en me commettant à cet office, qui sera d’ailleurs exécuté par le prévôt de la ville, j’y vais, monseigneur.
Le Grand-Maître entendit ce débat sans sourciller; mais il prit son frère par le bras et l’emmena dans un coin de la salle.
—Certes, lui dit-il, les héritiers de Charlemagne ont le droit de reprendre une couronne qui fut usurpée par Hugues Capet sur leur maison; mais le peuvent-ils? La poire n’est pas mûre. Notre neveu se meurt, et toute la cour est chez le roi de Navarre.
—Le cœur a failli au roi. Sans cela, le Béarnais eût été dagué, reprit le cardinal, et nous aurions eu bon marché de tous les enfants.
—Nous sommes mal placés ici, dit le duc. La sédition de la ville serait appuyée par les États. L’Hospital, que nous avons tant protégé, et à l’élévation duquel a résisté la reine Catherine, est aujourd’hui contre nous, et nous avons besoin de la justice. La reinemère est soutenue par trop de monde aujourd’hui, pour que nous puissions la renvoyer... D’ailleurs, encore trois princes!
—Elle n’est plus mère, elle est toute reine, dit le cardinal; aussi, selon moi, serait-ce le moment d’en finir avec elle. De l’énergie et encore de l’énergie! voilà mon ordonnance.
Après ce mot, le cardinal rentra dans la chambre du roi, suivi du Grand-Maître. Ce prêtre alla droit à Catherine.
—Les papiers de La Sague, secrétaire du prince de Condé, vous ont été communiqués, vous savez que les Bourbons veulent détrôner vos enfants? lui dit il.
—Je sais tout cela, répondit l’Italienne.
—Hé! bien, voulez-vous faire arrêter le roi de Navarre?
—Il y a, dit-elle, un lieutenant-général du royaume.
En ce moment, François II se plaignit de douleurs violentes à l’oreille et se mit à geindre d’un ton lamentable. Le médecin quitta la cheminée où il se chauffait et vint examiner l’état de la tête.
—Hé! bien, monsieur? dit le Grand-Maître en s’adressant au premier médecin.
—Je n’ose prendre sur moi d’appliquer un cataplasme pour attirer les humeurs. Maître Ambroise a promis de sauver le roi par une opération, je la contrarierais.
—Remettons à demain, dit froidement Catherine, et que tous les médecins y soient, car vous savez les calomnies auxquelles donne lieu la mort des princes.
Elle alla baiser la main de son fils et se retira.
—Avec quelle tranquillité cette audacieuse fille de marchand parle de la mort du dauphin empoisonné par Montecuculli, un Florentin de sa suite! s’écria la reine Marie Stuart.
—Marie! cria le petit roi, mon grand-père n’a jamais mis son innocence en doute!...
—Peut-on empêcher cette femme de venir demain? dit la reine à ses deux oncles à voix basse.
—Que deviendrions-nous, si le roi mourait? répondit le cardinal, Catherine nous ferait rouler tous dans sa tombe.
Ainsi la question fut nettement posée pendant cette nuit entre Catherine de Médicis et la maison de Lorraine. L’arrivée du chancelier et celle du connétable indiquaient une révolte, la matinée du lendemain allait donc être décisive.
Le lendemain, la reine-mère arriva la première. Elle ne trouva dans la chambre de son fils que la reine Marie Stuart, pâle et fatiguée, qui avait passé la nuit en prières auprès du lit. La duchesse de Guise avait tenu compagnie à la reine, et les filles d’honneur s’étaient relevées. Le jeune roi dormait. Ni le duc, ni le cardinal n’avaient encore paru. Le prêtre, plus hardi que le soldat, déploya, dit-on, dans cette dernière nuit, toute son énergie, sans pouvoir décider le duc à se faire roi. En face des États-Généraux assemblés, et menacé d’une bataille à livrer au connétable de Montmorency, le Balafré ne trouva pas les circonstances favorables; il refusa d’arrêter le roi de Navarre, la reine-mère, le chancelier, le cardinal de Tournon, les Gondi, Ruggieri et Birague, en objectant le soulèvement qui suivrait des mesures si violentes. Il subordonna les projets de son frère à la vie de François II.
Le plus profond silence régnait dans la chambre du roi. Catherine, accompagnée de madame de Fiesque, vint au bord du lit et contempla son fils d’un air dolent admirablement joué. Elle se mit son mouchoir sur les yeux et alla dans l’embrasure de la croisée, où madame de Fiesque lui apporta un siége. De là, ses yeux plongeaient sur la cour.
Il avait été convenu entre Catherine et le cardinal de Tournon, que si le connétable entrait heureusement en ville, le cardinal viendrait accompagné des deux Gondi, et qu’en cas de malheur, il serait seul. A neuf heures du matin, les deux princes lorrains, suivis de leurs gentilshommes qui restèrent dans le salon, se montrèrent chez le roi; le capitaine de service les avait avertis qu’Ambroise Paré venait d’y arriver avec Chapelain et trois autres médecins suscités par Catherine, qui tous trois haïssaient Ambroise.
Dans quelques instants, la grande salle du Bailliage offrit absolument le même aspect que la salle des gardes à Blois, le jour où le duc de Guise fut nommé lieutenant-général du royaume, et où Christophe fut mis à la torture, à cette différence près, qu’alors l’amour et la joie remplissaient la chambre royale, que les Guise triomphaient; tandis que le deuil et la mort y régnaient, et que les Lorrains sentaient le pouvoir leur glisser des mains. Les filles des deux reines étaient en deux camps à chaque coin de la grande cheminée, où brillait un énorme feu. La salle était pleine de courtisans. La nouvelle répandue, on ne sait par qui, d’une audacieuse conception d’Ambroise pour sauver les jours du roi, amenait tous les seigneurs qui avaient droit d’entrer à la cour.
L’escalier extérieur du Bailliage et la cour étaient pleins de groupes inquiets. L’échafaud dressé pour le prince en face du couvent des Récollets étonnait toute la noblesse. On causait à voix basse, et les discours offraient, comme à Blois, le même mélange de propos sérieux, frivoles, légers et graves. On commençait à prendre l’habitude des troubles, des brusques révolutions, des prises d’armes, des rébellions, des grands événements subits qui marquèrent la longue période pendant laquelle la maison de Valois s’éteignit, malgré les efforts de la reine Catherine. Il régnait un profond silence à une certaine distance autour de la porte de la chambre du roi, gardée par deux hallebardiers, par deux pages et par le capitaine de la garde écossaise. Antoine de Bourbon, emprisonné dans son hôtel, y apprit, en s’y voyant seul, les espérances de la cour, et fut accablé par la nouvelle des apprêts faits pendant la nuit pour l’exécution de son frère.
Devant la cheminée du Bailliage était l’une des plus belles et plus grandes figures de ce temps, le chancelier de L’Hospital, dans sa simarre rouge à retroussis d’hermine, couvert de son mortier, suivant le privilége de sa charge. Cet homme courageux, en voyant des factieux dans ses bienfaiteurs, avait épousé les intérêts de ses rois, représentés par la reine-mère; et, au risque de perdre la tête, il était allé se consulter avec le connétable, à Écouen; personne n’osait le tirer de la méditation où il était plongé. Robertet, le secrétaire d’État, deux maréchaux de France, Vieilleville et Saint-André, le garde-dessceaux, formaient un groupe devant le chancelier Les courtisans ne riaient pas précisément; mais leurs discours étaient malicieux, et surtout chez ceux qui ne tenaient pas pour les Guise.
Le cardinal avait enfin saisi l’Écossais Stuart, l’assassin du président Minard, et faisait commencer son procès à Tours. Il gardait également, dans le château de Blois et dans celui de Tours, un assez bon nombre de gentilshommes compromis, pour inspirer une sorte de terreur à la noblesse, qui ne se terrifiait point, et qui retrouvait dans la Réformation un appui pour cet amour de révolte inspiré par le sentiment de son égalité primitive avec le roi. Or, les prisonniers de Blois avaient trouvé moyen de s’évader, et, par une singulière fatalité, les prisonniers de Tours venaient d’imiter ceux de Blois.
—Madame, dit le cardinal de Châtillon à madame de Fiesque, si quelqu’un s’intéresse aux prisonniers de Tours, ils sont en grand danger.
En entendant cette phrase, le chancelier tourna la tête vers le groupe des filles de la reine-mère.
—Oui, le jeune Desvaux, l’écuyer du prince de Condé, qu’on retenait à Tours, vient d’ajouter une amère plaisanterie à sa fuite. Il a, dit-on, écrit à messieurs de Guise ce petit mot: «Nous avons appris l’évasion de vos prisonniers de Blois; nous en avons été si fâchés, que nous nous sommes mis à courir après eux; nous vous les ramènerons dès que nous les aurons arrêtés.»
Quoique la plaisanterie lui allât, le chancelier regarda monsieur de Châtillon d’un air sévère. On entendit en ce moment des voix
