APOGEE OF THE SECOND EMPIRE
The Empress has to her credit the creation of Biarritz, which developed
from a little Basque village into the French Brighton, and became a seat
of the imperial Court. The Villa Eugénie was a square, unadorned
building, standing on a slope leading to the sea, with a glorious
lookout over the waters of the Bay of Biscay. Felix Whitehurst, who was
at Biarritz in 1867, the palmy year of the Empire, noted the curious
fact that the fee-simple of the bit of waste land on which the imperial
villa was built was acquired by the Emperor for £12; and that just
beyond the valley, to the east, there was a model farm, worked by “Louis
Napoleon, proprietor, rentier, and Emperor.”[39]
The Court led a primitive life in what, a few years previously, had been
no more than an insignificant little sardine fishing village, unknown to
the great world even by name. The first thing the _Daily Telegraph’s_
sparkling Paris correspondent saw on his arrival was a compact crowd
following the Emperor and Empress, who were strolling up the High
Street. His Majesty wore a low two-inch-crowned white hat with a broad
brim. It was not Biarritz, but St. Jean-de-Luz, which was “very nearly
the scene of a catastrophe which would have plunged all Europe into
mourning,” as a result of the Empress (who was a good sailor and also a
good swimmer) cruising in a small steamer in a very heavy sea. The
Empress and the Prince Imperial had to get into a small boat to land.
The boat struck on a rock, nearly capsized, and began to fill. The
Empress was up to her waist in water, and the little Prince (then only
eleven) almost out of his depth. The pilot lost his head, jumped into
the water, and was drowned. The Sovereign and her son (according to
other chroniclers) were carried through the boiling surf on the backs of
sailors. How the Emperor learnt of the mishap has not been told; but he
arrived at St. Jean-de-Luz, eight miles from Biarritz, “as fast as
horses could bring him.” There was mild scolding all round, but the
soft-hearted Emperor was too thankful at finding his loved ones in
safety to use harsh language to anybody.
Among the visitors at Villa Eugénie at that time was Baron Goltz, then
Prussian Ambassador to France; and Mr. Whitehurst notes that “the great
cloudy German Question” was even then “the incubus of Europe.”
It was in the autumn of 1867 that Lord Lyons became H.B.M. Ambassador to
France. Mr. George Sheffield, who enjoyed exceptional popularity for
many years, was His Excellency’s Private Secretary, and Mr. Falconer
Atlee the Keeper of the Archives and Consul. Other members of the
ambassadorial staff were the Hon. Julian Fane (another favourite in
social and diplomatic circles), Mr. Adams, Mr. Clay Ker-Seymour, and Mr.
Hildyard. All through 1867 “the Emperor was in the best possible
health.”
At the beginning of 1867 the “tout Paris” was talking about the
conversion of the Duc de Morny’s widow (a Troubetzkoï) to Catholicism,
previous to her marriage with the Duc de Sesto, who, it was said, had
been violently épris of Mlle. Eugénie de Montijo, and who died in 1910.
At the “Italian” concert given at the Tuileries in March “the Emperor
and Empress went over to speak to all the artistes, the Empress talking
to Mme. Adelina Patti during most of the interval.”
The one house in Paris where “everybody” met at this period appears to
have been the Austrian Embassy; naturally so, for did not “the
Metternichs” dominate everybody, the Sovereigns included, malgré eux? In
that same “Exhibition” year Mme. Conneau was the “star” at one of
Princesse Mathilde’s “great” receptions. The charming wife of the
Emperor’s doctor was regarded in Paris as “the finest amateur singer in
Europe”; their son was the constant companion of the Prince Imperial. At
the opera Patti was singing in Verdi’s “Joan of Arc,” and Prince
Napoleon was selling his works of art at the Hôtel des Ventes.
All the élite of the British world of sport went over to see the race
for the Grand Prix in 1868, and the Emperor, the Empress, and the Prince
Imperial applauded the gagnant, The Earl, owned by the “plunging”
Marquis of Hastings. The winner was led in, amidst great excitement, by
Mr. Padwick, a notoriety of the period, who is not forgotten by a few
veterans like Mr. Chaplin and Lord Coventry. The Prince Imperial wore
his hat on one side, and the Empress made him put it straight.
“Perhaps,” says Mr. Whitehurst, “the Empress thought
[Illustration:
The Emperor Alexander II. The King of Prussia.
The Emperor of Austria.
Ismail Pasha, Khedive of Egypt. Leopold II.
GUESTS OF THE EMPEROR AND EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH IN THE “GREAT YEAR,”
1867.
_Portraits of the period by Franck. Reproduced from “Les Souverains
à Paris,” by Adrien Marx. Paris: E. Dentu, 1868._
_To face p. 72._]
wearing it on one side was too much like Lord Hastings.”
Lord Lyons (a bachelor) was not credited with overmuch hospitality
during his tenure of the Paris Embassy, but in the June of 1868 he
surprised people by giving dinners two or three times a week.
At one of the State balls at the Tuileries in “Lord Hastings’ year” an
Englishman was heard to remark at the top of his voice: “I say, this is
d----d bad wine! Not so good as Pinard’s!”[40] Whitehurst was a very
minute recorder of events. He observed among the guests--4,000 or
5,000--“Mrs. Moulton, a great American beauty, and a fine musician; and
the Comtesse de Fernandina, glittering in a sort of silver cloud.” Also
that “Napoleon III. was with his relative, the Duchess of Hamilton, née
Princesse de Bade. They stopped to speak to Mme. De Arcos,[41] Irish,
but married to a Spaniard. In the corner was the ne plus ultra of Paris
fashion.” And there were to be seen Mmes. de Gallifet, de Pourtalès, and
de Sagan, and Princesse de Metternich, who “sat in judgment on Paris
society,” and “out of whose mouths came the dreaded sentence.”
The military review in the Bois de Boulogne on June 6 transcended in
glitter and colour all other spectacles witnessed in Paris since the
elevation of the Prince-President to the imperial throne. “Grand succès!
Enthousiasme énorme!” Thoughtless people, attracted to the Bois merely
by curiosity, shed tears. Adrien Marx himself, “with his own eyes,” saw
these impressionable folk overcome by their emotion. One must have had
“a heart with the famous ‘triple envelope of brass’ not to have felt
feverish and overwhelmed by the deepest national sentiment at such a
scene. Quel coup d’œil!”
This parade of 60,000 troops was in honour of the Emperor Alexander II.
and King William of Prussia. They were in the imperial tribune, by the
side of the Empress Eugénie, “in all the radiance of her beauty.” There,
too, was the Prince Imperial, aged eleven, regarding the crowd, drunk
with joy, with his look of former days--that look at once sweet and
naïf. Behind the Empress were the imperial and royal Princesses and all
the Palace ladies. Other tribunes were reserved for all the dignitaries,
illustrious persons, and the grandes dames that Paris could boast. The
general wear for the ladies was light-hued taffetas, garnished with
white guipures. This, for the moment, was the “livrée de la femme
distinguée.”
The success of the day was made by the artillery of the guard. The other
plaudits were for the chasseurs, zouaves, guides, and cuirassiers.
Marshal Canrobert was in command, and he was “much moved,” reminding
some of the chroniclers of “dramatic authors on the night of a
première.” Was he not also presenting to the public (“and what a
public!”) an important piece? Not a piece “à femmes,” but a piece “à
soixante mille hommes.”
After inspecting the massed troops, the Sovereigns and their brilliant
staff rode into the centre of the parade-ground and faced the tribunes.
Then came the great movement of the day. Thirty thousand cavalry,
ranged in one line, galloped at breakneck speed to within five yards of
their Majesties, halted, and shouted in unison, “Vive l’Empereur!”
cleaving the air with their gleaming sabres.
With the King of Prussia were the Crown Prince, Count von Bismarck,
General Baron von Moltke, Major-General Count von Goltz, and many
personages less known to fame. The Tsar was accompanied by the
Tsarevitch (the late Emperor Alexander III.); another of his sons, the
Grand Duke Vladimir; Prince Basil Dolgorouki, Count Adlerberg, Count
Schouvaloff (in later years Ambassador in London), the French Generals
Lebœuf and Fave, and Baron de Bourgoing.[42]
After a day’s interval came the “bal des Souverains” at the Hôtel de
Ville. Thanks to the magnificent Haussmann, this entertainment eclipsed
the raoût offered in 1855 to Queen Victoria. The 10,000 invités agreed
that such a spectacle was not to be witnessed twice in a century. “The
féeries of the Hosteins and the Marc-Fourniers, with their surprises,
their silks, their spangles, their velvets, their gold, their
electricity, and their mise-en-scène, will henceforward leave us cold,
dissatisfied, and eclipsed. Place yourself before a candle after you
have looked at the sun!”
By three o’clock in the morning many of the ladies, exhausted, sat, or
otherwise reposed, on the great stairs, waiting for their carriages,
some of which, ordered for 2 a.m., could not be got until seven. When
the sweepers, with their brooms, came in to “tidy up,” they found the
carpets hidden by masses of faded flowers and crushed imitation pearls,
mingled with which were scraps of lace, tulle, and muslin. This fête
cost the municipality £36,000, and the opposition papers lashed
themselves into a state of frenzy at the waste of public money.
More magnificent even than the entertainment at the Hôtel de Ville was
the Tuileries ball on June 10. M. Marx candidly confessed that “only the
pen which wrote the ‘Arabian Nights’ could have adequately described the
spectacle.” Had he attempted the task, he would have been repeating
himself; besides, he had exhausted all his finest phrases, and his stock
of adjectives had given out. At the Hôtel de Ville it was a crowd; at
the Tuileries there were only 600 guests, and everything “went upon
wheels.” The success of the fêtes to the foreign Sovereigns at the
Tuileries was asserted to be due to the “high solicitude” and the
“incessant surveillance” displayed by the Empress, then in her
forty-first year, and determined that the imperial and royal guests
should take away with them the most favourable impression and the
pleasantest recollection of the Court of the “parvenu” Emperor and the
lady who was ungraciously spoken of by her detractors as “the Spanish
woman.”
When the King of Prussia and the Crown Prince visited the imperial
stables in 1867, they found 360 horses and 150 carriages. The royal
couple were greeted by General Henry and Comte Davilliers, Grand Écuyer
and Premier Écuyer, surrounded by an army of piqueurs, coachmen,
postilions, grooms, estafettes, and others of the personnel, all wearing
their State liveries. The horse-boxes were in carved oak; the name of
each animal might be read in a medallion at the head of its stall, and
surmounted by an imperial crown. Everything was on the grand scale: the
straw beds claimed admiration; on the bituminous floor were modelled
eagles with outspread wings; the chains and other garniture of the boxes
and mangers were of brass and steel, and “shone like carbuncles.” The
light fell obliquely on the satin coats of the horses, and on the
troughs and fountains.
As the Prussian Sovereign and his only son (the consort of our Princess
Royal) passed through the imperial écuries, they saw, standing stiffly
and solemnly, piqueurs, postilions, and coachmen, in their buckskin
breeches, patent-leather boots, embroidered coats and waistcoats. The
green overcoats gleamed with gold braid. King and Prince admired the
coachmen, with their plumed tricornes, powdered hair, and “respectable
corpulence,” as the celebrated chroniqueur, Adrien Marx, described it.
“I believe,” he said, “their grave air and their imposing appearance
vanished when they descended from their seats; but there is nothing in
that. When they are on their feet they maintain a special attitude, the
majesty and chic of which are observable in their prominent
‘corporations.’ Buffon said: ‘Le style, c’est l’homme;’ he might have
added: ‘Le ventre, c’est le cocher.’”
The Emperor had twelve saddle-horses: Walter Scott, Buckingham, Hero,
Roncevaux, Alesia, Merveille, Carlo, Marathon, Marignan, Perceval,
Stentor, and Marco. “Walter Scott” in particular captivated King
William; he found another object for admiration in the gala carriage,
all gold without and satin lining within, which had not been brought
out since the Exhibition of 1855. Alongside was a tiny carriage,
splendidly decorated, belonging to the Prince Imperial. In the sellerie
was a gorgeous saddle with blue velvet fringe and silver monograms on
either side; this was preserved as a historic souvenir: it had been used
by the Emperor when he was Prince-President of the Republic. His
riding-school was remarkable in many ways--_e.g._, its eight enormous
sculptured pillars supporting the Salle des États, in which 10,000
people used to pack themselves to witness the opening of the Chambers,
and its gently-sloping staircase with double banisters. Up and down this
wonderful structure the horses walked unaffrightedly. The centre was
ornamented with flowers, and a fountain discharged its waters through
the jaws of two bronze dogs lying on marble pedestals. King William
would not leave until he had formally called upon the Fleurys (who had a
suite of rooms in the Cour Caulaincourt), and had complimented the
charming wife of the Grand Écuyer in that amiable fashion which made him
so popular at the imperial Court. The King gave the “Black Eagle” to the
Marquis de Morestier, Marshal Canrobert, and Marshal Regnault de
Saint-Jean d’Angely; but it was remembered that he did not decorate any
of the personnel of the Prussian Embassy.
At the apogee of the Empire!
Imperialism appears to be firmly rooted. Paris is the social centre of
the civilized world. The “petit Prince” has already become the popular
idol. Amongst the gay throng in front of Tortoni’s, the modish
café-restaurant of the period, may be seen some of the makers of the
Empire. The tall, handsome man--so like the Emperor--is the Comte de
Morny, presently to be created Duke. The half-brother of Napoleon III.
is talking, in his eager, airy fashion, to Prince de Metternich, the
Austrian Ambassador of those days, husband of Princesse Pauline.
The renowned publicist, Émile de Girardin, hat in hand, is telling the
ladies in a carriage the last bit of boulevard gossip, the newest mot,
the freshest scandal. There is the burly figure of Aurélien Scholl, one
of the cleverest of the chroniqueurs and tellers of diverting stories;
and close by is the enterprising Comte de Nieuwerkerke, of whom
Princesse Mathilde made so much. Seated at one of the little tables is
the great Auber, in the full flush of his fame--a grave-faced,
white-haired man of huge frame and enormous head, the kindly friend and
encourager of all the young composers of his time. Théophile Gautier is
here, too, and Arsène Houssaye, who, like Scholl, has always a witty
story to tell.
A notable group is composed of the Marquis de Massa, the author of so
many bagatelles which enlivened the imperial Court at Compiègne, General
the Marquis de Galiffet, and the Duc de Grammont-Caderousse.
The Turf has its representatives in Charles Lafitte (“Major Fridolin”),
the banker, and the Comte de Lagrange; and in a corner, under the awning
of Tortoni’s, is Isabelle, the flower-girl, of whom the Emperor and
Empress now and then buy a cluster of roses or violets.
The immortal Meyerbeer, and, at the opposite pole, the equally immortal
Jacques Offenbach; Victorien Sardou, the brothers E. and J. de
Goncourt; the littérateur Jules Sandeau, the playwright Octave Feuillet,
the actresses Déjazet and Augustine Brohan, sister of the incomparable
Madeleine--all are here on the perron of Tortoni’s in the golden days of
the Empire.
We will assist (in 1868) at the “Sortie de l’Opéra,” the old house in
the Rue Le Peletier. “Hamlet” has been given for the first time, with
Christine Nilsson as Ophelia. Here are that extraordinary Duke of
Brunswick (whose eccentric will was in dispute for so many years), the
Prince de Sagan, Prince Murat, Marshal Canrobert, Emile Ollivier, Henri
Rochefort, Baron Haussmann (who made Paris what it is), Léon Gambetta,
Paul Déroulède, the Duc de Mouchy (whose marriage with Princesse Anna
Murat was arranged by Napoleon III.), Comte Edmond de Pourtalès, M.
Thiers, M. Mirès (the financier), Prince Joseph Poniatowski, the Vicomte
d’Harcourt (once French Ambassador to our Court), the Duc de Bisaccia
(later Duc de Doudeauville), the Marquis de Caux (Mme. Patti’s first
husband, leader of the Empress’s cotillons), Chevalier Nigra (the
Italian Ambassador), Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, the Duc de FitzJames,
Comte Walewski, the Duc de Crussol, Comte Paul Demidoff, M. de
Villemessant (founder of the _Figaro_), and innumerable others--all
people with histories.
The King of Holland (father of “Citron”) condescended to “beat the
asphalte” not seldom, and to mingle with the gay throng at Tortoni’s,
the Café Anglais, the Maison d’Or, and the other modish resorts. He
married, firstly, Princess Sophia of Würtemburg, whose mother was Queen
Catherine of Würtemburg, wife of King Jérôme. The Queen of Holland was
consequently cousin-german of “Plon-Plon” and his sister Princesse
Mathilde. The King was most lavish to his numerous favourites, but his
wife was kept so short of money that when she went abroad--on a visit to
France, for instance--she was accompanied only by an elderly lady as
badly off as her royal mistress. The Queen was the friend of the Emperor
and Empress. William III. would squander thousands on the Paris
actresses and opera-singers, and refuse his wife sufficient guilders to
buy a new dress; her cherry-coloured silk gown became legendary, for she
endeavoured to impart a new aspect to it by substituting black lace for
white, and vice versâ.
The monarch was much criticized for his intrigue with Mme. Musard, whose
husband gave popular concerts during the brightest days of the Second
Empire on the site of what is now the “Jardin de Paris.” Mme. Musard was
as well known by the boulevardiers and flâneurs as the Empress herself,
and more talked about, while the complacent husband was accorded the
customary amount of chaff. When congratulated on the improvement in his
finances, Musard, with self-satisfied air, replied that it had pleased
Providence to remove from this sublunary sphere a wealthy relative, who
had left him a nice little sum. Unfortunately, Musard had quite
forgotten to keep up his pleasant deception by putting a mourning band
on his hat, so that the explanation of his good fortune was received
with a general wink. But presently the pony-chaise which Musard had
started shortly after his wife’s acquaintance with the King of Holland
gave place to a phaeton and a pair of horses, worth 800 guineas, while
madame’s magnificent turn-out made the great ladies green with envy. The
former head-groom of a milord anglais had charge of the stables;
everything was done in perfect style. There was a house in town and a
château, whose grounds and flower-gardens ran down to the Seine.
To find a parallel to so much magnificence one had to recall the days of
Louis Quatorze and Mme. de Montespan, of Louis Quinze and the Du Barry.
Paris society was greatly intriguée to know the precise locality of the
Pactolus from whence so much gold flowed, but it remained in blissful
ignorance for many a month. While his legitimate spouse was vegetating
in watery Holland, this King who dragged his ermine robes through the
mire with such complete indifference to what the Mrs. Grundys of Paris
and The Hague might say was receiving the lady at a charming cottage in
a secluded spot, suggestive of Rosamund’s bower. The excellent chef
d’orchestre used to accompany his wife to the frontier, give her a
marital embrace, and then return to his beloved Paris pour s’amuser. Not
the least curious and instructive part of the story is the fact that the
subjects of this monarch who took for his model no less a god than Eros
looked on with amused complacence, and only the Queen suffered. There
was another lady whom William of Holland held in the highest
admiration--Mlle. Abingdon, “of the Paris theatres”; she, however, did
not appreciate His Majesty to the extent that she might have done, and
one day, when the King wanted her to read to him by the hour, she said
she would “call her mother, who was a much better reader than herself.”
Mme. Musard died at the age of forty, blind and insane; but the roi
galant lived to marry a charming young wife, the sister of H.R.H. the
Duchess of Albany.
In the autumn of 1857 Mr. Allsop arrived in Paris. He spoke French
perfectly; his Italian was singularly pure; he surprised people by
declaring that he was an Englishman--Mr. Allsop. When he “descended” at
a highly respectable hotel it was observed that among his luggage was a
small box, rather heavy. The servants were to take it very carefully to
his room; they were on no account to shake it or drop it. (Mr. Allsop
had not allowed this precious box to be handled by the railway porters.
He had placed it in the rack over his head, and he carried it to the cab
upon his arrival at the Northern Station.) Presently Mr. Allsop’s groom
arrived at the hotel, and with the groom a horse, which the owner rode
daily in the Bois. Mr. Allsop remained at the hotel a short time, then
left it for an appartement.
Mr. Allsop, although a studious, grave man, mingled in the gay life of
the capital. One night he went to a masked ball at the Opéra. Two
ladies--femmes du monde--prompted by curiosity to see what this sort of
thing was like, had gone to the theatre, somewhat imprudently,
unescorted. They watched the scene from their box for a while; then,
finding it “slow,” left the loge, and were about to make a tour of the
great salle, when they became the subjects of much “chaff,” humorous and
good-tempered, but sadly lacking in refinement. At an embarrassing
moment two men--gentlemen--intervened, and so grateful were the ladies,
that after a moment’s hesitation--for form’s sake--they accepted the
strangers’ invitation to sup at a neighbouring restaurant. That the two
men had not known each other previously was additionally piquant. The
names of the quartette were divulged at the supper-table: Mr. Allsop, M.
Poplu (fashionable journalist), Mme. de Guersac, Mme. de Lubernay.
The ladies, and even M. Poplu, did not quite know what to make of Mr.
Allsop. That he was a gentleman they felt certain. There was a great
charm about his conversation. His manners were refined, and the
ladies--Mme. de Guersac in particular--admitted that he had “a way” with
him well calculated to win favour with women of sentiment. When the talk
was led by M. Poplu in the direction of the Tuileries and its august
occupants, Mr. Allsop was much interested, just as any other intelligent
and travelled Englishman would have been. M. Poplu was very sarcastic
and epigrammatic at the expense of the Emperor. Mme. de Guersac allowed
it to be understood that her knowledge of the imperial couple was not
derived from books, from the chroniques, or from salon gossip. Mr.
Allsop and M. Poplu realized that this beautiful woman was “on terms”
with “the pale Emperor,” as they had begun to call him.
A result of this very gay supper-party after the Opéra ball was that
Mme. de Guersac and Mr. Allsop became great friends, and that
the latter learnt many facts--mingled, perhaps, with not a little
fiction--concerning life at the Tuileries. The winter weeks passed very
pleasantly for these two congenial spirits, thanks partly to M. de
Guersac being somewhere abroad. On January 13 Mme. de Guersac casually
told Mr. Allsop that on the next evening the Sovereigns were going to
the Opéra. It was an event--a performance for the benefit of M.
Massol,[43] and Ristori was appearing. Mr. Allsop remarked that the news
had not been given in any of the journals which he had read. Mme. de
Guersac rejoined that it was a titbit of information which she had given
him.
The news leaked out on the following day, and long before eight o’clock
the thoroughfares near the Opéra were thronged. Just as the carriage
containing the Emperor and Empress approached the entrance to the
theatre an explosion threw the crowd into a panic; it was followed by
another, and by a third. Three bombs had been thrown, and they had
wrought havoc. A hundred and fifty people were more or less seriously
injured. The imperial carriage was partly smashed; one of the horses was
killed outright, and another was apparently lifeless. The Emperor
escaped with a very slight scratch on one eye. The Empress’s dress was
spotted with blood. The coachman and three footmen were badly maimed.
One of the twelve Lancers of the Guard forming the escort was killed;
all the other troopers suffered from the explosions.
The door on the right-hand side of the imperial carriage opened,
and the crowd saw a gentleman in evening dress get out. He seemed
to be in some pain; he looked rather frightened; his face was as
white as wax. His features were convulsed, the eyes those of a man
waking from a nightmare, wondering if his nocturnal visions were
real or imaginary; while his hat, almost crushed out of shape, and
on the back of his head, gave him a ridiculous appearance. This
mixture of two different characters imprinted on his physiognomy
made him look like a tragical clown, affected by a sincere chagrin
and ready to shed real tears. It was Pierrot haunted by a spectre;
it was His Imperial Majesty Napoleon III., Emperor of the French.
But the Emperor, courageous and cool, subdued his emotion. He had
always been calm in moments of danger, and now he did not raise a
cry of alarm, nor utter imprecations, nor hasten his movements. The
bystanders nearest to him scarcely noticed a slight feverishness in
the gesture which he made in taking the Empress’s hand, and the
tremor in his voice when he said to her soothingly: “Come, Eugénie,
get out of the carriage.”
She alighted comparatively quickly. She, too, was livid. The diadem
which encircled her golden hair was all awry, looking as if it had
been struck by someone’s fist. “Ah, mon Dieu, it is horrible! What
has happened, Louis?”
“This blood upon thee!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Art thou injured?”
A long red stream trickled down her pink dress and over her white
gloves.
“No, I don’t feel anything,” she answered. “It is not my blood; it
must be the General’s.”[44]
The Emperor led his wife into the vestibule of the theatre, and
here the Sovereigns questioned each other with that sincerity which
even mutual incompatibility never completely banishes--sincerity
which, in hours of danger, springs from some unknown source.
“Why dost thou rub thy eye, Louis?” said the Empress. Then, closely
examining his face, she noticed a slight scratch on the Emperor’s
left eye. Reassured, she said: “It is nothing. But it might have
blinded thee. God has protected thee. Fortunately, before we came
out I offered a prayer to my patron saint and one to St.
Christopher.”
The Emperor thought the protection accorded them by the saints
would have been still more complete had the catastrophe been
prevented, but he said nothing; and having satisfied himself that
the Empress was unhurt, he assisted her to make the slight
readjustments of her toilette which were necessary to enable them
to appear in the imperial box without any visible indications of
the terrible ordeal they had undergone.[45]
Mr. Allsop was among the thousands who witnessed the explosions in the
Rue Le Peletier. He was also among the victims. He entered a pharmacy,
was duly attended to, returned to his lodgings, and went to bed. He had
his own reasons for determining to leave Paris for England the next day.
Full of this intention, he was endeavouring to get to sleep when he was
disturbed by a loud knocking at the door. Then his room was invaded by
the police, who unceremoniously hustled him into a waiting cab. And one
head that rolled into the basket was the head of Orsini, alias
Allsop.[46]
To the Republicans the Emperor remained in 1863 (the first year of the
“adventure” in Mexico) the “Sire de Framboisy.” They resolved never to
come to terms with him. The Sire de Framboisy was the hero of an inept
song, to which the stupidity of the police in 1859 had given a
semblance of actuality. The Sire de [or Lord of] Framboisy, on his
return to Paris from the wars, misses his wife. He searches for, and
ultimately finds, his errant spouse in doubtful company at a bal de
barrière. He addresses her:
“Corbleu, madame, que faites-vous ici?”
and she replies:
“J’y danse le cancan avec tous mes amis.”
When the Emperor returned to St. Cloud after the Italian campaign some
of the street “loafers” took to humming these two lines; the Censeur was
shocked, and ordered this “couplet à clef” to be cut out--a step which
had the natural result of increasing the popularity of the song.
The year 1860 (says M. James de Chambrier in his brilliant collection of
studies, “Entre l’Apogée et le Déclin”) finished under the double
aureole of the “political successes and military glories acquired for
the Second Empire as much by the personal action of Napoleon III. as by
the endurance and entrain of his armies.” The Syrian expedition had
liberated the Christians of the Lebanon. Lord John Russell[47] had
occupied himself less with the security of the Christians from Turkish
attacks than with the Emperor’s aims in Syria, and perhaps in Egypt. The
Porte gradually became more reasonable, and on June 9, 1861, signed the
Act by which the Lebanon, reorganized, had for its administrator a
Christian Governor. Six weeks later French and English were again
fighting side by side in China. By the end of October the war was over,
and the news of the success of Palikao[48] was “received with just
pride at the Tuileries.”
In November and December, 1860, the Empress was in Scotland--the result
of “scenes” with her consort at the Tuileries. She returned to Paris in
time to receive the usual New Year congratulations (January 1, 1861),
but her emotion overcame her as she stood by the side of the Emperor in
the salon, where the members of the Diplomatic Body and of the Household
had gathered to greet the Sovereigns.