Eugénie’s Marriage to Louis Napoleon
As a child, Eugénie was seldom seen without a knot of violets in her
hair or in her belt; and when the scorching summer sun of Spain made
these blossoms scarce, a shepherd boy was commissioned to bring them to
her from the heights of the Sierra Nevada. Even when older, she still
wore her favorite flowers on all occasions, for a gipsy had foretold
that her fortune “would flourish with the violet.” So on that memorable
evening toward the end of the thirties, when at a Spanish watering-place
Napoleon and Eugénie (she, then, almost a child) saw each other for the
first time, she wore a wreath of violets in her hair.
“I shall never forget,” said an eye-witness of the scene, “the way in
which the Prince gazed at the young Countess when she was presented to
him.”
The acquaintance was renewed some years later during a winter residence
in London (1847-48), and it was only natural that these two, brought
together by chance, should be attracted to one another. Both were of
noble rank; both had a longing for fame and splendor; both were
unfaltering in the pursuit of their ambitions; both were rich in hopes,
yet poor in worldly possessions; and though full of courage and faith in
the future, both were in reality adventurers. They were soon on terms of
intimacy, and Louis Napoleon could no doubt have won the hand of Eugénie
at that time. But his future was still uncertain. He was poor and
heavily in debt, with the reputation of leading a dissipated life; and
although she returned his love, she was prudent enough to renounce for
the time being the opportunity of becoming a princess. Convinced that
her lover’s aspiring dreams would be realized, however, and wishing to
have a claim on his gratitude as well as his affections, she wrote him
as follows, on their parting:—
“You want to go to Paris to begin the struggle for power; to become
consul, president, dictator. But suppose these goals are attained, will
you stop there? Will that satisfy your ambition? Without a doubt you
will aim yet higher, and then how troublesome you would find a wife! An
Emperor must keep the place beside him for an Empress. Should your plans
fail, on the other hand, should France not offer what you expect, then
and only then, come back to me and I will give you an answer to your
proposal. Do not forget there is one heart ready to recompense you for
any troubles—for all disappointed hopes.”
On the news of the Revolution of February and Louis Philippe’s flight,
Napoleon hastened to Paris. At the first election for a constitutional
National Assembly (April, 1848) his cause met with little support. Not
until the supplementary election did the Prince’s adherents appear as a
party, but once in the field they spared no pains to win the victory.
Bonapartist proclamations were distributed throughout Paris; and in the
course of eight days no less than six of the principal organs of the
press came out for him openly. Results showed the progress made by the
party even in this short time, for the Prince was chosen representative
of the capital of France; and similar faith was shown in him by three
other Departments. His election aroused long and heated debates in the
National Assembly, and his friends began to fear for his safety if he
remained in Paris. Returning to London, therefore, he sent a letter to
the legislature, stating that in consideration of the hostile attitude
toward him taken by the executive power, he felt it his duty to renounce
an honor it believed him to have won by fraud.
This politic withdrawal, together with the unceasing efforts of his
friends, served to influence public opinion still more in his favor. At
the new election following the June uprising the people of Paris chose
Napoleon for the second time as their representative, and after an exile
of thirty years, he hastened back to the capital to take his place in
the Assembly, from which a few months later (December 20) he was
elevated to the Presidency of the Republic.
About the time of Napoleon’s departure Eugénie and her mother also left
London, spending that summer at Spa and the following winter in
Brussels, surrounded as usual by a swarm of admirers. But all this time,
while the Prince was swiftly and surely approaching the throne of
France, Eugénie’s eyes were firmly fixed on Paris. With eager gaze she
watched the rising of Napoleon’s star, and shortly before the Empire was
proclaimed, the Spanish Countesses appeared in the capital. At last
Louis Napoleon was made Emperor. More than eight million Frenchmen had
voted for the restoration of the dynasty, and on the first of December,
1852, the Senate, the legislative body, and the Council of State paid
him homage at St. Cloud. Although formally assuming the title for the
first time on this occasion, he had in reality ruled as absolute
sovereign since the _Coup d’État_ (December 2-5, 1851). His entry into
Paris as Emperor, amid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of trumpets,
and the shouts of the multitude, was merely the crowning of a work
shrewdly planned and cleverly executed, denounced by his enemies as a
crime and glorified by his friends as a heroic achievement.
The magnificent entertainments given by the Prince-President in the
Élysée Palace, and the yet more splendid ones that followed at the
Tuileries after he became Emperor, had been presided over with tact and
grace by his cousin Mathilde, daughter of the ex-King of Westphalia.
Fifteen or sixteen years before, during a visit which Mathilde de
Montfort had paid to Arenenberg, the residence of Queen Hortense, there
had been some talk of a marriage between her and Louis Napoleon.
Hortense, who loved her niece with all a mother’s tenderness, had looked
forward with joy to a union so suitable in every respect, and it had
been agreed upon in a family council of Bonapartes. But the Prince’s
first premature attempt to secure his uncle’s throne put an end to the
plan, and Mathilde was married, in 1841, to the millionaire Prince of
San Donato, Anatole Demidoff. After a few years of childless and unhappy
marriage they separated, the Princess retiring to a villa near Paris,
whence she was summoned to the capital by her cousin when he became
President. The youthful lovers had each led a stormy life since their
last meeting, and the romantic attachment that had drawn them together
at Arenenberg had long since evaporated. In its place a firm and quiet
friendship had arisen, and for the second time Napoleon thought
seriously of marrying his cousin. It was the dearest wish of all the
Bonapartes; but again fate intervened, this time by the Church’s refusal
to annul the Princess’s marriage with Demidoff. The Prince-President
found himself forced therefore to seek elsewhere for a bride.
He sued in vain for the hand of a Russian Princess, and was refused in
turn by a sister of the King of Spain, and the Portuguese Duchess of
Braganza. However alluring may have been the chance of becoming
sovereign of France, these princesses had little desire to trust their
fate in the hands of an adventurer. Well-meaning friends next drew his
attention to the poor but beautiful Carola de Wasa, a cousin of King
Gustavus the Fourth of Sweden, afterwards Queen of Saxony. An envoy was
sent to negotiate preliminaries, and her family requested time for
consideration; but the Princess, who was most unfavorably impressed with
Napoleon’s portrait, protested with tears against the proposed marriage.
Beside himself at these repeated rebuffs, the Prince swore to win the
daughter of some royal house if forced to do it sword-in-hand, and
continued in his quest. Through his friend Lord Malmesbury, he urged
Queen Victoria to arrange an alliance between himself and her cousin,
Princess Adelaide; and though some objections were raised by the Queen
and Prince Consort, the matter was still under consideration when, on
January 19, 1853, the world was amazed by the following paragraph which
appeared in _La Patrie_, the semi-official organ of Paris, and was
copied without comment in all the other journals:
“According to reliable report, a happy event, calculated to strengthen
His Majesty’s Government and ensure the future of his dynasty, is soon
to take place. It is said that the Emperor is about to be married to
Mlle. de Montijo de Teba. Official announcement of the approaching
marriage will be made to the Legislature on Thursday, the
twenty-second of January. The Countess belongs to one of the noblest
families of Spain. She is a sister of the Duchess of Alva and is noted
for her wit and cleverness, as well as her remarkable beauty.”
Needless to say, Eugénie had gone to Paris solely for the purpose of
meeting Napoleon, and after her arrival she had waited patiently for an
opportunity of obtaining access to him. Introduced by Rothschild and his
daughter, and accompanied by the Spanish Prince Camerata, she finally
made her appearance in the court circle for the first time at Compiègne
in 1852. It was at one of the hunts given by the Prince-President; and
the grace and skill with which she managed her fiery Andalusian excited
the admiration of all present. Napoleon himself was completely
fascinated. Their former meetings at once recurred to him with a rush of
youthful memories, and for the rest of the day he scarcely left her
side. Nor did it end here; after the court had returned to Paris the
Countess and her mother were never permitted to miss an entertainment at
the Tuileries or the Élysée.
The flattering attentions paid to Mlle. Montijo by the sovereign could
not remain long unnoticed or unremarked. It was now merely a question of
improving the moment. No opportunity for bringing herself to his notice
or of displaying her charms to the best advantage was neglected, and far
outshining, as she did, all the women of Napoleon’s circle at that time,
Eugénie soon succeeded in arousing his old passion for her. His warm and
ardent devotion was such a contrast to his usual calm self-possession
that the whole court was astonished, although no one dreamed that the
affair would end in marriage. It is doubtful whether the Emperor himself
had any such idea in the beginning, having resolved in his days of
poverty and exile to wed none but a royal princess. He only went so far
as to intimate to Eugénie that he would esteem himself happy in being
her lover.
But she was no longer the innocent girl of sixteen, cherishing a
romantic passion for an Alva and deeming no sacrifice too great for her
love. Genuine as her affection doubtless was for Louis Napoleon, she
would make no sacrifices without gaining something in return. At the
height of his power and fame the man who had brought about a revolution
and made himself sole ruler of France by his shrewdness and resolution
seemed in her eyes the ideal of manly courage and heroism; yet none the
less, the hot-blooded Andalusian showed herself in this case as cold as
ice. Her experience of life had taught her that denial was the surest
means of stimulating a passion. The Emperor was not easily caught,
however. He despatched a confidential friend to the Countess de Montijo,
not to ask for her daughter’s hand, but to make it clear to the shrewd
woman of the world that Eugénie could not count on being Empress.
Reasons of state prevented his placing the crown on the head of his
beloved, although such an event might not be an impossibility should he
be free to follow his desires in the future. But the Countess, like her
daughter, being well aware of the surest means of attaining her end,
made short work of the Emperor’s envoy. Repeated attempts at persuasion
proved equally fruitless, and Eugénie finally sent Napoleon, with her
respectful greetings, the message: “Cæsar’s wife should be above
suspicion.”
[Illustration: _EMPRESS EUGÉNIE_]
Goaded on by this reserve, the Emperor could no longer restrain himself,
and the Countess’s persistent refusals furnished him a welcome excuse
for broaching the plan of a marriage with her. It met with violent
opposition from all his relatives and friends, who did all in their
power to dissuade him from it, imploring him to choose, in default of a
royal princess, at least some French lady of rank or lineage known to
the people. To divert him from his purpose a marriage was proposed with
the Polish Princess Czartoryska. But completely absorbed by his passion
for Eugénie their opposition only served to fan the flame, and at last,
to end the painful subject, he asked one of his court ladies, the
Princess Lieven, whether he should choose the Princess Czartoryska or
Mlle. de Montijo. To which she cleverly replied, “If you leave it to me,
Sire, I prefer the Cachucha to the Mazurka”—an answer which Napoleon
accepted as the voice of fate. At the earliest opportunity he sent a
formal request to the Countess Montijo for the hand of her daughter, and
was of course welcomed by both with open arms.
The news of the betrothal excited endless wonder but little
satisfaction. There was almost a panic in the Bourse, that political
barometer, and the Emperor’s intimate friends and family went about with
gloomy faces. The proposed marriage was openly opposed in the
ministerial council and regarded with great disfavor by the general
public; in short, only three persons were really pleased—Eugénie, her
mother, and Napoleon. As for the first, her wildest hopes were at last
to be realized. From doubtful obscurity she was to rise to loftiest
heights. Providence had chosen her for this position and she bowed to
its decree. The week that intervened between the betrothal and the
wedding ceremonies slipped by in an intoxication of happiness. She was
greeted on all sides with respect and adulation, and overwhelmed with
protestations of devotion from the courtiers. The proudest nobles of
France paid homage to her. Her enemies were silent, while Napoleon’s
friends who had been most bitterly opposed to the match now fawned upon
her, greedy for favors from their future Empress.
The civil marriage was celebrated quietly on the twenty-ninth of
January; but the magnificence of the religious ceremony exceeded
anything that had been seen in France since the days of the great
Napoleon. From early morning a double row of troops lined the way from
the Tuileries to Notre Dame. All Paris was on the alert to catch at
least a glimpse of the spectacle. The railroads brought more than two
hundred thousand people into the capital from the provinces, and a
motley throng filled the streets, richly decorated with flags and
banners bearing the names of Napoleon and Eugénie, and gay with the
light _toilettes_ of the ladies, and the gold embroidered uniforms of
the soldiers glittering in the sun. Although midwinter, the sky was
clear and the air mild as spring. About half-past eleven, Eugénie
started from the Élysée for the Tuileries. Her mother was seated beside
her, and opposite them the master of ceremonies, Count Tascher de la
Pagerie. The natural beauty of the bride was enhanced still more by the
magnificent gown she wore, a gift from the city of Liége. It was of
white velvet with an overdress of costly lace woven in a pattern of
violets. A jewelled girdle encircled the waist, and on her head was the
diamond coronet worn by Marie Louise on her wedding day, attached to
which were the lace veil and a wreath of orange blossoms. As the
prospective Empress entered the gates of the Tuileries, Prince Napoleon
and the Princess Mathilde appeared at the foot of the staircase to
receive her, while trumpets sounded and the troops presented arms.
Precisely at noon a salute of a hundred and one guns from the Hôtel des
Invalides proclaimed that Their Majesties were entering their coach. A
huge vestibule had been erected in front of the Cathedral, adorned with
paintings representing the saints and olden kings and queens of France.
The church was brilliantly illuminated with thousands of wax tapers; and
as the imperial pair emerged from the vestibule, the trumpets again
sounded, all the bells of Paris rang out, the organ pealed, and the
whole assembly arose while the Archbishop of Paris advanced and stood
before Their Majesties. At the lower end of the church was a platform
occupied by five hundred musicians, and everywhere a mass of gilding and
floral decoration met the eye. Curtains embroidered with golden bees
covered the great windows. From the galleries fell velvet hangings
bearing the name of the Empress in raised embroidery. In the nave of the
church stood the throne; above it, supported by a huge golden eagle, a
canopy of red velvet bordered with ermine. The transepts, in which the
highest dignitaries of the Empire were seated, were lined with superb
paintings, and from the ceiling hung banners bearing the names of the
principal cities of France. The court officials stationed themselves on
one side, the ministers and deputies on the other, as the imperial pair
took their places under the canopy surrounded by princes, princesses,
ladies, and cavaliers.
About one o’clock the ceremony began. It was performed by the Archbishop
of Paris. The Archbishop of Versailles spread a silver bridal veil over
Their Majesties, who sank on their knees; and at the conclusion of the
ceremony, during the singing of the _Te Deum_, Abbé Legran handed to
them the imperial marriage contract. Shrouded in costly lace and
sparkling with jewels, a glittering coronet upon her head, Eugénie
passed out of the Cathedral, leaning on the arm of the Emperor and
preceded by the archbishops and all the clergy. She had reached the
summit of all her hopes. The world lay at her feet. Yet at this supreme
moment it was less a feeling of gratified ambition that filled her bosom
than one of humility and anxiety at the burden of responsibility laid
upon her shoulders. At the zenith of her fortunes, surrounded by pomp
and splendor, and greeted by the cheers of the populace, she was
suddenly seized with a foreboding of her coming fate. It may have been
owing to her overtaxed nerves or the excitement of these new
experiences, but as she came out of the Cathedral she seemed to see the
features of Marie Antoinette among the crowd. Wherever she looked this
face rose up before her, and with a sinking of the heart she began to
realize that all this coveted splendor might be indeed a heavy burden.