The only year that we gave ourselves any trouble was during the Boulanger craze.  W. went about a great deal and I often went with him.  The weather was beautiful and we rode all over the country.  We were astounded at the progress “Boulangism” had made in our quiet villages.  Wherever we went—­in the cafes, in the auberges, in the grocer’s shop—­there was a picture of Boulanger prancing on his black horse.

We stopped one day at a miserable little cottage, not far from our place, where a workman had had a horrible accident—­been caught in the machine of one of the sugar mills.  Almost all the men in the village worked in W.’s woods and had always voted—­as one man—­for him or his friends.  When we went into the poor little dark room, with literally nothing in it but the bed, a table, and some chairs, the first thing we saw was the well-known picture of Boulanger, on the mantelpiece.  We talked a little to the man and his wife (the poor fellow was suffering terribly), and then W. said, “I am surprised to see that picture.  Do you know General Boulanger?  Have you ever seen him?” The man’s face quite lighted up as he looked at the picture, and he answered:  “Non, Monsieur, je ne l’ai jamais vu—­mais il est crane celui-la,” and that was all that he could ever get out of him—­“il est crane.”  I don’t know exactly what he meant.  I don’t think he knew himself, but he was quite excited when he spoke of the hero.

Boulanger’s campaign was very cleverly done.  His agents distributed papers, pictures and money most liberally.  One of the curious features of that episode was the quantity of money that was given.  Gold flowed freely in to the General’s coffers from all parts of France; great names, grandes dames, giving largely and openly to the cause—­a great deal sent anonymously and a great deal in very small sums.

Boulanger lived in our street, and I was astounded one day when I met him (I did not know him) riding—­always with a man on each side of him.  Almost every one took off his hat to him, and there were a few faint cries of “Vive Boulanger,” proceeding chiefly from the painters and masons who were building a house just opposite ours.

Certainly for a short time he had the game in his hands—­could, I think, have carried the country, but when the moment to act arrived, his nerve failed him.  It is difficult to understand what made his great popularity.  Politics had not been satisfactory.  The President—­Grevy—­had resigned under unfortunate circumstances.  There had been a succession of weak and inefficient cabinets, and there was a vague feeling of unrest in the country.  Boulanger seemed to promise something better.  He was a soldier (which always appeals to the French), young and dashing, surrounded by clever unscrupulous people of all classes.  Almost all the young element of both parties, Radical and Conservative (few of the moderate Republicans), had rallied to his programme—­“Revision