THE FOREIGN LEGION; AND SOME GREAT LADIES
A legion of foreigners awaited the establishment of the Second Empire to
swoop down upon Paris and make it their happy hunting-ground. These
invaders came from all countries; the majority, perhaps, from the South
American Republics, the lands then flowing in milk and honey, as
typified by gold and silver. They were called “Exotics,” and Paris was
swamped by “l’Exotisme.” For countenancing these parasites, these
nobodies, with their riches and their low moral code, three ladies were
blamed--the Empress Eugénie, the Princesse de Metternich, and the
Comtesse de Castiglione: a Spaniard, an Austrian, and an Italian.
In this vulgar crowd were Princes and Princesses, some, at least, of
whom, had conferred these titles upon themselves; a few were of princely
rank, but these were not the wealthiest. “Paradoxical as it may appear,
Exoticism was Parisian in its essence.”[68] The women were superb, “with
lips amorously red and facile; the girls had wicked eyes and undulating
forms; the faces of the men were sufficiently bronzed to give a
suggestion of dramatic adventures aforetime. The Exotic ladies, with all
the assurance of a ribald gang raiding a town, gave themselves great
airs”; but their hauteur did not prevent them from opening their arms.
Parisians at first held aloof from these besiegers, smelling
disgustingly of money; but the revolt did not last long, and it was
followed by new expressions of amiability. Brazilians, Armenians, and
Turks--new and unknown meteors--came, and in a fit of remorse for their
previous disdain Paris society flocked to the abodes of the new-comers,
clamouring for champagne and sandwiches.
The spiteful talk of society, and also a natural instinct, threw
the Empress among this cosmopolitan society, which only asked to be
officially received. The salons of the Tuileries overflowed with
people who felt themselves all the more at their ease because
nobody troubled about their antecedents or their morality.
To the Empress Exoticism was like a palliative for the disdainful
attitude of Royalist society, and it seemed as if she surrounded
herself by these crazy people, who transformed the Palace into a
sort of Babel, to revenge herself for the aloofness of the
Royalists. Thus she was surrounded by a throng of women throwing
glances all round, and sometimes their lips--women with hoydenish
ways, eccentric tastes, feverish desires, amorous and tempting
laughs, like an assembly of foreign and French Sultanas, whose
nationality and difference of blood disappeared in the supreme
object, pleasure. In the chroniques these women were qualified by
the word “Cocodettes”; in history they are classified as “Femmes de
l’Empire.”
The latter have left a special reputation. They remain as the
absolute representation of an epoch of voluptuous aspirations, of
pleasures of the flesh, of feverish passions. The men were merely
“supers.”
The greater part of the responsibility fell upon the women. The
sensualism which filtered through their bodies, the thrills of
passion which animated their bosoms, captured men. In those days
they loved readily and madly.
Young men, dominated by the intoxication of the flesh which stole
into their brains, forgot the things of the heart; the “male”
replaced the “man.” They had not to look far for their ecstasies,
when women concealed their souls to show their beautiful limbs. It
was an orgy--a perfumed, coquettish, gracious orgy, all the more
seductive because it was veiled, because it was full of caresses;
élégance was everything.
Some of these women, overcome by a thirst for orgies and by the
vertigo impelling them to seek the unknown, roamed the boulevards
by night in quest of an adventure, or betook themselves to the
Opéra masked balls, finishing their Odyssey in a cabinet
particulier.... Roman history was fashionable under the Empire, and
people played at being Romans.
Others, of a more poetical temperament--perhaps less ardent,
certainly more sober outwardly--found pleasure in intrigues with
clerics. Louis XV. abbés are not rare in Paris, and more than one
priestly hand could write interesting memoirs. These men who live
with Christ have a magnetic influence over some women. They do not
understand the ordinary priest--the priest of the people. They want
to find in their priest a man of fashion; he must have a perfumed
stole, just as they demand, at the altar, a gold or an ivory
crucifix to kiss. Were it of wood it would kill their unreasoning
faith, and they would fly from it; a plain, severely-cut soutane
would be a terrible blow to their senses.
There were certainly radiant and pure women who passed serenely
through this cohue. Protected by their virtue--or, what is better,
for virtue is relative, protected by some chaste dream, some
wifely or motherly love--there were some who emerged immaculate
from this whirlwind. Like those hastily-scribbled messages which
shipwrecked sailors put in a bottle and confide to the waves, these
women, after being shaken by the storm of passion which growled
around them, returned to the hearth, to the conjugal bed, with all
their grace and all their charm of female purity; and to the mad
shouts of the mondains, to the sterile hymn of the fevered throng,
they answered with the sweet and simple murmur of the song of songs
of fruitful and infinite love.
But there is another side to the medal. In those Second Empire days it
was not a case of the abject degradation of a society which, rotting,
engulfs itself. All these men, all these women, these Don Juans and
these Ninons de l’Enclos’, had healthy blood in their veins, and fire
under the skin. They bore themselves proudly. The men were brave; the
women were beautiful--some intelligent. There were women who exercised a
sovereign rule over the arts and politics. There were salons which had
at their head some feminine aristocratic personality; others, swayed by
some radiant bourgeoise beauty. With their slender fingers, bourgeoises
or patricians, they led the grand farandole of the lazy. They sought out
the poets, the artists, who work in the shade. A smile, a flower taken
from a palpitating corsage, for a sketch; a kiss--more still,
sometimes--for a sonnet. “With very little alteration, I would write
this page, if it had to be rewritten, just as it is given here.”[69]
Among these ladies, two especially--“Exotics”--are noted by M. de Lano
as having preoccupied the Empress by their actions in various ways--the
Princesse de Metternich and the Comtesse de Castiglione. The first of
these was apparently the Empress’s friend; the second openly hostile to
her Majesty, posing to her face as her rival, at one time the
Sovereign’s successful rival. “On one side [that of the Austrian
Princess] was an affection which, perhaps, still continues; on the
other, a hatred which ended only in death.”
Among the foreigners of distinction received at the Imperial Court
in 1861-62 were the members of some leading Mexican families, who
found in Paris a haven of refuge. The Empress, as a Spaniard,
welcomed these visitors and condoled with them when the intended
expedition was no longer a secret. They saw in her the liberator of
their country. In the minds of the Sovereigns there was already the
germ of an idea of offering Austria, in revenge for the loss of her
Italian possessions, an Empire for one of her Archdukes.
Very reserved at the outset concerning an eventuality flattering to
the House of Austria, but which might result in illusions, the
Prince de Metternich studied the question during a visit to Vienna
and discussed it with his Emperor, who appeared to be not
unfavourable to the plans of Napoleon III. Metternich wrote to the
Empress Eugénie expressing his enthusiasm for her personally, and
on his return to France co-operated zealously in an expedition for
which some have asserted the Empress was wholly responsible.
From the year in which she first appeared in Paris as the wife of the
Austrian Ambassador, Mme. de Metternich aroused criticism. “She gave us
the impression,” says M. de Lano, “of one who had set herself the task
of publicly discrediting the imperial Court by her eccentricities, her
lightness, and the equivocal style of dress which she made fashionable
at the Tuileries. Her influence had not a favourable effect on the
destinies and the undertakings of Napoleon III. and his consort; and if
this were the place to inquire into the sincerity of the sentiments
professed by the Prince and Princess for the Emperor and Empress, one
might be disposed to ask if the Ambassador and his wife did not from the
first enact a comedy--the comedy of friendship--the better to aid in the
downfall of a man whom, au fond, they could not love.”
Irreproachable as a wife, the Princess brought “trouble, and almost
indecency,” to the Court of the Tuileries. The Empress saw only with the
Princess’s eyes, and heard only with that lady’s ears. The Court ought
to have been able to reply to the raillery of foreign Courts by an
absolute correctness; but the Princess made the Tuileries a sort of
school-boy’s playground. Mme. de Metternich took lessons of the
café-concert singer, Thérèsa,[70] took her to the Tuileries, and gave
“imitations” of her at the Palace, to the dismay of some, whom these
displays saddened, and to the amusement of not a few feather-headed
folk. Entirely owing to the influence of the Princess, Thérèsa was made
acceptable to--at all events, was accepted by--some of the aristocrats
of the old Faubourg, and one night, at a ball given by the Duchesse de
Galliera, the Princess presented her café-concert friend to the
Duchess’s guests, who waxed indignant.
As Thérèsa came forward to sing, a young lady, Mlle. de L----,
rose, and, going up to the Duc d’H----, a very witty man, said: “Do
you think, Monsieur le Duc, that the moment has come when a young
girl should retire?” He smiled, and, pointing to Mgr. Chigi (the
Papal Nuncio), who did not withdraw at the appearance of the comic
singer, said: “Why should _you_ retire, mademoiselle? Where the
Nuncio is to be seen, I suppose a young lady is in no danger!”
When the incident was reported to Mme. de Metternich, she said: “Ah!
these old heads upon young shoulders! It seems that I have rather upset
them!” She not only coped with the suggestive “cancan,” but one evening,
in a charade, appeared as, and in the dress of, a cabman.
M. de Lano affirms that “these incohérences, these insane manifestations
of a decadent society, pleased the Empress, who encouraged and
authorized them with the unconsciousness of a pretty woman, intoxicated
by unforeseen happiness and her unhoped-for royalty.” The intimacy with
the Empress, resulting from Mme. de Metternich’s “originality”--which
perhaps was studied and calculating--doubtless made her the clever
collaboratrice of her husband in his ambassadorial labours, enabling
her, it was said, to snatch precious secrets from one[71] who regarded
her as a devoted friend. “This, apparently, is the explanation of those
checks so often sustained by the Emperor and his Ministers in their
negotiations with foreign diplomatists.”
Enemies abroad, intriguing ladies at the imperial palaces, an Emperor
“using himself up” by his indiscriminate “affairs,” an unsuspecting and
too-good-natured Empress--what were all these but precursors of
ultimate dynastic ruin?
It was the Princesse de Metternich who, after the Empress had been
singing the praises of Marie Antoinette, said: “Je voudrais bien être
votre Princesse de Lamballe”--a doubtful compliment, if all that has
been recorded of that lady can be believed.
Princesse Pauline de Metternich is[72] the daughter of Comte Sandor, a
Hungarian grand seigneur, and granddaughter of the celebrated President
of the Congress of Vienna. In the sixties she was as much a Parisienne
as a grande dame, and she had the courage of her opinions. Needless to
say, she was severely criticized. She had her own method of answering
her assailants, one of whom she sought out and thus addressed: “Sir, in
what you have publicly printed about me you have absolutely lied, for
you know that I am incapable of acting in the manner you have
described.”
She was one of Worth’s principal clients, and not only superintended the
making of her own robes at the great man’s atelier (it would be profane
to call it a “shop”), but gave him hints and advice. The late M.
Aurélien Scholl, in one of his most mordant articles, audaciously
asserted that the celebrated couturier of the Rue de la Paix--whom
Scholl described as a “faune de la toilette”--had dared, when “trying
on” one of the Princess’s toilettes, to “lay his mercenary hands on the
bust of this patrician.” The Princess resented the expression, and
Scholl, to allay her anger, wrote, and sent her, a poem of thirty-six
lines, beginning:
“Si je vous demandai, Madame la Princesse,
Un pardon que le ciel n’a jamais refusé,
Pourriez-vous me trouver seulement bien osé
Après l’aveu loyal de ma grande détresse?
Laissez plutôt tomber, ainsi qu’une déesse,
De vos yeux si hautains un regard apaisé!”
The Marquis de Massa thinks this poetical apology “le plus galant du
monde, as they say at the Comédie Française.” The story goes--and it was
repeated by the Marquis shortly before his death in October, 1910--that
at the first performance of “Tannhäuser” at the Paris Opéra (March 14,
1861) the Princess was so exasperated at the derision with which the
work was received that she broke her fan.[73] Let us hear Princesse de
Metternich’s own version of how Wagner’s great work came to be
represented in Paris in 1861:
As I had been told on all sides that no work by Wagner would ever
be performed in France, and least of all in Paris, I hesitated
before taking any steps to secure a representation of “Tannhäuser.”
One day, however, an unexpected opportunity occurred of realizing
my idea. At a ball at the Tuileries the Emperor honoured me with a
somewhat long conversation. We talked about the Opéra, and I could
not help expressing my regret that the répertoire was so seldom
varied, not extending beyond “Guillaume Tell,” the “Huguenots,” or
the “Favorite.”
“Why,” I asked the Emperor, “is it not possible to perform in Paris
new works such as are produced at the Austrian and German
opera-houses?” And I said to myself, “Now or never is the moment
to mention Wagner and ‘Tannhäuser.’” I made up my mind to do so
without delay. I said, “I have a great request to make to your
Majesty.”
“A request à propos of the Opéra!” exclaimed the Emperor,
surprised.
“Yes, Sire, à propos of an opera which, above all others, I should
like to see represented here. It would be the happiness of my
life.”
“And what is this marvellous opera?” asked the Emperor.
“It is by Richard Wagner, Sire, one of the greatest of living
composers. It is called ‘Tannhäuser’; it is done at Vienna, and,
although it is not admired by everybody, connaisseurs regard it as
a chef-d’œuvre.”
“‘Tannhäuser!’ Richard Wagner!” said the Emperor, stroking his
moustache in the well-known way. “I have never heard either of this
opera or of the composer. And you think it is really a fine work?”
I replied affirmatively, whereupon the Emperor, turning towards the
Grand Chamberlain, Comte Bacciochi, who superintended the imperial
theatres, said, in his simple fashion: “You hear, Bacciochi? Mme.
la Princesse de Metternich is interested in an opera called
‘Tannhäuser,’ by one Richard Wagner; she would like to see it
represented here. Have it produced.”
That is how “Tannhäuser” came to be performed in Paris.
* * * * *
While preparations were being made for introducing the composer of
“Tannhäuser” to the Parisians in 1861, Liszt happened to be staying
in the French capital. The Emperor and the Empress Eugénie had
heard that the Abbé was amongst them, and they expressed to
Princesse de Metternich their desire to see and hear him. I was
asked to bring him to the Tuileries, and Liszt received an
invitation in due form. After dinner Liszt came in, and charmed
everybody by his playing--notably of one of Schubert’s waltzes. The
next day the Emperor charged my husband to present the Cross of the
Légion d’Honneur to Liszt, and to thank him on behalf of the
Emperor and Empress for the delight he had given them.
On Sunday, March 12, 1861, the eve of the première, Wagner wrote to the
great cantatrice, Marie Sass, whom he addressed “Mlle. Marie Sax”:
Ma très sainte Elisabeth!
Ne savez-vous pas que l’on refuse même à la cour des places,
puisqu’il n’y a plus?
Croyez-moi, je suis déchiré de tous cotés et prêt à me jeter dans
l’eau!
Envoyez pourtant demain matin pour voir s’il y avez [_sic_]
possibilité de vous procurer _une_ place. Je ne parle pas de plus.
Pardonnez et soyez bonne à votre très dévoué.
RICHARD WAGNER.
This highly-born and highly-educated woman was, in the opinion of many,
the evil genius of the imperial Court, while her husband took no pains
to conceal the fact that he “adored” the Empress. A merry lady was
Pauline de Metternich in those days, as this story will show. It was at
Fontainebleau, and the pretty butterflies of the Court were dying of
ennui, when Mme. de Metternich proposed that they should go for a walk
in the neighbourhood with shortened skirts. The suggestion found general
favour, with the Empress as well as with the ladies by whom she was
surrounded. While the majority were arraying themselves in abbreviated
drapery, it occurred to one of the suite that the spectacle of the
Empress of the French rambling along the country roads in a frock
barely covering her knees would be a rather pitiful one, and she
ventured to remonstrate with Mme. de Metternich for proposing it.
The “fashionable monkey” was, as may be supposed, equal to the occasion,
and, with much naïveté, replied: “What harm can there possibly be in the
Empress dressing as we do, and going for a walk with us?”
“There may not be much harm in it, perhaps,” observed the remonstrating
lady; “but it strikes me that it is unsuitable for a Sovereign. _We_
might venture out in short skirts, but not the Empress--decidedly not.”
She added: “And, besides, my dear Pauline, pray tell me this: Would you
advise your own Sovereign, at Vienna, to dress herself up in such a
style?”
“Oh,” was Mme. de Metternich’s answer, “that would be quite a different
matter. I certainly should not advise the Empress Elisabeth to go out in
short skirts; but you must remember that _my_ Empress is a real
Princess, a _real_ Empress, while yours, ma chère, is Mlle. de Montijo!”
Some probably regarded this as clever; others may have deemed it
impertinent, if not impudent, and doubtless among these latter was
included the Empress Elisabeth, who often manifested her friendly
feeling for her sister-Sovereign. Let us, however, be perfectly just and
fair to the Austrian Ambassadress. She was admittedly more than a little
méchante; but it should not be forgotten that she induced some of the
most brilliant and beautiful women of the time to attend the Empress’s
Court, and that but for her the Palace might never have seen within its
walls such grandes dames as the Princesse de Sagan, the Comtesse de
Pourtalès, the Comtesse de Beaumont, Mme. de Canisy, e tutti quanti. If
she was as “ugly as a monkey,” she was at least, “spirituelle comme un
démon et bonne comme un ange,” the most radiant star of the
constellation of pretty women which graced the Tuileries.
Thérèsa, who was dubbed, very irreverently, “the music-hall Patti,”
interpreted what later were styled “les chansons rosses,” and Mme. de
Metternich was blamed, not altogether unjustly, for having introduced
into the salons a singer and reciter of impertinent “comic” effusions
only to be heard in the cafés-concerts. By most people Thérèsa’s ditties
were regarded as highly diverting; others considered them “impossible,”
and calculated to lower the public taste.
Mme. de Metternich’s presence in Paris certainly gave an impetus to the
reviving fashionable movement. On all sides there were receptions and
other entertainments, to the complete satisfaction of the tradespeople.
Among the frequenters of the official salons were to be found many young
men from the Government offices who were something more than good
dancers. Many of them had a future; some attained success, and some came
to the ground when their fortunes appeared to be brightest. One of these
latter was young Soubeyran, who reached a high position under M. Achille
Fould, Minister of Finance. He was a grandson of Savary, Duc de Rovigo,
and experienced all the vicissitudes of fortune. Luckily he had a wife
(daughter of the Marquis de Saint-Aulaire) who remained devoted to him
in his darkest hours. Before he became almost the greatest financier
during the reign of Napoleon III., Soubeyran (who, in many respects,
was a man of the Albert Grant type, although, unlike the English
speculator, he was “born”) had joined the Crédit Foncier as
Deputy-Governor, his chief being M. Frémy. The latter retired, and
Soubeyran stepped into his shoes. Unfortunately for himself, Soubeyran
embroiled the Crédit Foncier so deeply in the affairs of the Egyptian
Debt that the Government removed him from his position, and ordered him
to pay his successors 40,000,000 francs, although later it was
recognized that Soubeyran’s methods were highly beneficial to the
country! Soubeyran, whose figure remains legendary in the world of la
haute finance, was not, however, even then, completely “broke.” He
started afresh, founded two large banks, and lived in sumptuous style;
then he involved himself in dealings in the Italian rente, and fell,
never to rise again, dragging down with him all who had believed in his
“star.”
It was a moment in the reign when the Bourse and the great banks joined
in a vast development of commercial undertakings, among them the
magasins of the “Louvre,” inaugurated in 1855, and viewed rather
sceptically by some of the leading financiers, who did not rush to
invest their capital in the huge drapery business of MM. Hériot and
Chauchart.[74] They had been employés, without any other advantages but
those accruing from exceptional intelligence and untiring industry, and
they found their patrons among the tout Paris of the Second Empire. Of
course, the success of Hériot and Chauchart led to imitators of their
methods, and ere many years had elapsed there arose similar immense
“stores”--“Lafayette,” “Dufayel,” the “Printemps,” and others. It was in
the reign of Napoleon III. that the “Bon Marché” sprang up in what had
been one of the quietest quarters of Paris.[75] The Emperor saw with
supreme satisfaction the creation and rapid progress of these
establishments, the success of which spelt ever-increasing national
prosperity.
Of the “fast” set--composed of men of all ages--the most conspicuous was
the Duc de Grammont-Caderousse.[76] A fair-complexioned man, of average
height, with small moustache and reddish whiskers, small head, and an
abnormally long neck, circled by a straight collar, his high
cheek-bones, sunken face, slightly rouged, and cavernous voice,
evidenced the existence of phthisis. There were few more
brilliant talkers even among the men of letters whose society he
affected--Aurélien Scholl, Théodore Barrière, d’Anatole de la Forge,
Jules Noriac, and Alphonse Cayron, to name only a few. Despite the
English cut of his clothes, he was a Frenchman to his finger-tips. Some
of the achievements of the notable viveur whom the Duchesse de Persigny
christened “le Duc Darling” may be summarized. He had much to do with
the bringing-out of Hortense Schneider, the creator of the principal
character in Offenbach’s “La Grande Duchesse de Gérolstein.” He jumped
his horse over a dining-table covered with Sèvres--a freak which cost
him a small fortune. “Rigolboche,” the notorious dancer of the “cancan,”
won the considerable bet which he made with her that she would not, in
broad daylight, cross the boulevard from the Café Anglais to the Maison
Dorée in Nature’s own garb. “He lit his cigar on La Marche steeplechase
course with an English thousand-pound bank-note (which he had just won),
because the rustling of the crisp paper grated on his nerves. He gave
Cora Pearl[77] the famous silver bath-tub, filled it with magnums of
champagne, and then got into it before the amazed company. A few hours
before his death he gave a farewell supper-party, made his friends very
drunk, and then, very quietly and without a struggle, expired before
they had time to get sober. Had Caderousse been properly brought up he
might have made a name for himself, but he frittered away his existence
and died, as he had lived, like a clever clown. He had the best opinion
of himself, or, when Paul Demidoff[78] once asked him to take the head
of the table at a dinner-party, he would not have replied: ‘The head of
the table is wherever De Grammont-Caderousse sits.’”[79]
It was only when the Second Empire began to dazzle the world--the new as
well as the old--that the foreign colony of Paris assumed importance.
During the previous quarter of a century the société étrangère consisted
mainly of rich bachelors, English and Russian, like the Marquis of
Hertford, Lord Seymour, Prince Mentschikoff, and Comte Rostopchine.
There were, however, a few distinguished ladies, the most notable being
the two Russians--the Princesse de Lieven,
[Illustration: MRS. RONALDS.
One of their Majesties’ guests at the Palace of the Tuileries.
_A private photograph, lent for this work by Mrs. Ronalds._
_To face p. 52._]
who inspired Guizot, and Mme. Swetchine, the goddess of M. de Falloux.
In those pre-Bonapartist days the Parisians also welcomed several
Spanish families--the Aguados in particular--who soon became
naturalized.
With the advent of Napoleon III. and his consort came the first of the
foreign contingent--Spaniards, naturally, drawn to Paris by the Empress,
whose compatriots saw with real pleasure Mme. de Montijo’s peerless
daughter on the imperial throne and in the éclat of her marvellous
good-fortune. In the salons now began to be seen a number of these fair
foreigners--young women who, as De Morny gallantly said, “all had
beautiful eyes, even the ugliest of them.” Prominent among the most
beautiful were the Empress’s sister, the Duchesse d’Albe; the Duchesse
de Frias, the Duchesse de Rivas, and Mme. Alfonso de Aldama (whose
daughter married the Emperor’s equerry, the Comte de Castelbajac). The
Spanish division was later reinforced by Queen Isabella, who,
physically, was the greatest woman in Europe, but not enjoying a
monopoly of all the virtues; the Duchesse de la Torre and her two
daughters, the Marquise de Guadalmina, and Mme. De Arcos (Spanish only
by marriage--Irish by birth).
The young Spanish ladies left in Paris the happiest souvenirs. They were
gay, laughter-loving, and très honnêtes, despite--or perhaps on account
of--their Southern expansiveness. They got up parties and organized
“tertulias,” now with French gentlemen, and now with their compatriots
of the epoch--MM. Alvarez de Toledo, the Marquis de Guadalcazar,
Calderon, and jolly old Diego, the joy of Paris for more than thirty
years.
The Italians rivalled the Spaniards by their beauty as well as by their
entrain. There were the Comtesse de Castiglione, Princesse Belgiojoso,
the Duchesse Riario-Storza, the Comtesse Marcello, the Duchesse de
Bojano, to name only a few of the best known.
There were many reasons why the advent of the Second Empire coincided
with the reign of the foreigner in Paris between 1853 and 1870. Firstly,
the Faubourg Saint-Germain would have no intercourse with the new
régime. The Empress, as we have seen, welcomed with open arms the
Spanish aristocrats. Thus the ladies from beyond the mountains found
themselves in the centre of the social whirlpool, and to this point
naturally gravitated other of the foreign invaders. It was this
attractive cosmopolitanism which inspired the amusing boutade of Meilhac
and Halévy in their (and Offenbach’s) “Vie Parisienne”: “You are a
foreigner--so am I. Then, as _compatriots_, let us,” etc.
Another reason--and the principal one--was the facility for getting
about by the multiplication of means of locomotion. If a new railway was
to be inaugurated the Emperor was always ready to preside at the
ceremony, and to make one of his telling speeches, abounding in happy
phrases, and glorifying French genius and French enterprise. It was
steam which acted as the great conductor of the foreigner to the Paris
of the Second Empire--steam which linked France with, first, North, and
then South, America. In 1852, when, until December, Louis Napoleon was
only Prince-President, Paris did not contain a dozen American residents.
The first American ladies seen in Paris salons when the new reign began
were Miss Ridgway and Miss Moulton. Then came Mrs. Post and her
daughters; Mrs. Moulton, whose daughter married Count Hatzfeldt; Mrs.
Ronalds and her sister, Miss Josephine Carter, both beautiful; Mrs.
Pilié, one of whose daughters became the Marquise de Chasseloup-Laubat;
Mrs. Carroll, who found in the Comte de Kergorlay a husband for one of
her daughters; Mrs. Davis, two of whose daughters married Frenchmen;
Mrs. Payne, whose daughter became Mme. Ferdinand Bischoffsheim; Miss
Beckwith; and Miss Polk, who married General Baron de Charette, the
redoubtable leader of the Papal Zouaves.[80]
While Princesse de Metternich had a monopoly of notoriety, there were
four ladies who enjoyed greater social triumphs than any others--a
charming quartet, who shed lustre on the imperial Court, and were immune
from the barbed shafts of the satirists, which is not to say that they
escaped the attentions of the gossip-mongers. They were Jeanne de
Tallyerand-Périgord, Princesse de Sagan; the Marquise de Galliffet,
Princesse de Martignes; Mélanie, Comtesse de Pourtalès; and the Marquise
de Canisy.[81] In the lives of each there is material for a chapter.
Mme. de Sagan was dubbed in her monde “Canaillette”; Mme. de Galliffet,
“Cochonette”; and Mme. de Pourtalès, “Chiffonette.” The Junoesque Mme.
de Canisy had no such enigmatical “fond-name.” These ladies figure in
the chronique as among what was known as the Prince of Wales’s coterie,
which included a few others who do not call for particular mention.
One of the most noted speculators of the epoch was Baron Seillière,
father of the Princesse de Sagan. Her husband was the eldest son and
heir of the Duc de Valençay; the great Talleyrand, Bishop of Autun, was
of this family. If the Princess lacked beauty, she had exceptional
intellectual gifts, and was prized for the staunchness of her
friendships and her never-failing good nature. It was not her brilliant
mental equipment that attracted the Prince; she had a very large dowry,
or she might never have been presented by De Sagan with his hand, his
heart (or what remained of it), and his title. The De Sagans’ princely
abode, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, had belonged to an Englishman--Mr.
Hope, the banker, whose London residence was converted into the Junior
Athenæum Club, from whose upper rooms the Crystal Palace is visible.
The Princesse de Sagan used to assemble her relations and friends round
her hospitable table every Sunday. Although she sprang from the wealthy
middle class, Madame la Princesse, by her marriage, was immediately
accorded a place in the forefront of the aristocracy, and she was one of
the most notable figures at the Court of the Tuileries. One would have
thought she had been born, if not in the actual purple, at all events
very near it. They said of her that her husband, grand seigneur as he
was to the finger-tips, developed her instincts, and that “she formed
herself in his school.”
The immense wealth which this fascinating woman brought her husband
enabled them to outshine the great majority of even the richest members
of the French aristocracy. Her magnificent toilettes were the envy of
all the women--the De Sagans’ horses and carriages excelled those of
everybody else. The purple liveries, braided in gold, were singled out
for special admiration by the crowd at Longchamp, where the Prince of
Wales was seen fairly often. I have heard that the stables were not
inferior to those of the Emperor. The luxe of the De Sagans’ residence
was amazing. Very few, if any, royal palaces could show anything equal
to it. There were said to be twelve hundred silver plates and dishes,
and everything else was on a similarly regal scale.
A striking feature of the De Sagans’ hotel was the principal staircase,
suggestive of the grand escalier at the Royal Palace at Madrid. The
marble steps, covered with rich Aubusson carpeting; the cushions on the
balustrades; the beautifully-decorated salons on the first floor; the
bibelots of every kind; the white-and-gold adornments of the apartments;
the galerie des glaces, scarcely less beautiful than the mirrored
corridors at Versailles; the immense dining-room in which a hundred
guests were often entertained; the rez-de-chaussée reserved for the use
of the family; the park-like garden stretching over an immense area of
the Faubourg Saint-Germain--how often did not our Prince see and admire
all these!
The Princess had been the spoilt child of her wealthy father, who
indulged her every caprice and humoured her every whim. Her jewels were
the world’s talk at the time I am speaking of--and after. During one of
her visits to London she made up her mind to appear at some great
gathering in all her diamonds, and a telegram to Paris brought over one
of the secretaries of her father (Baron Seillière) laden with the gems!
Needless to describe the sensation which these bewildering stones,
valued at many thousands of pounds, made in London.
Before very long the Prince and the Princess were living apart. Of the
Prince and Baron Hirsch[82] this story is told by a friend of mine who
was in the Bonapartist set during the reign.
The Prince de Sagan was offered by Baron Hirsch the liberal fee of
£40,000 to go to Constantinople and conduct a business “deal.” Needless
to say, the Prince closed with the tempting offer at once. The news soon
reached the ears of the Princess, for, as M. de Blowitz very wittily
said, “In Paris the fish talk--in Berlin the parrots are dumb.” Mme. de
Sagan was furious, and, bursting in upon her husband at his bachelor’s
“diggings” near the Petit Club (his favourite cercle), angrily
exclaimed: “Is what I have heard true, Boson?” “What, ma chère?”
innocently inquired the dandy. “That you are going to sell your
name--going to be the commission agent and tout of that Jew Hirsch for
some speculation of his in Turkey? Is it true?” “Hélas, ma chère, it is
only too true. As I have but little money, and can hardly make both ends
meet on what you allow me, I am forced to take advantage of any
opportunity which arises to add to my scanty store.” “Oh, you are going
to Turkey for the sake of the money which that Hirsch gives you?” “Of
course; why else should I take the trouble of going all the way to
Constantinople about this wretched railway business, dont je m’en fiche
comme de l’année quarante?” (Which I care no more for than for the year
forty.) “Well, then,” continued the Princess, now somewhat mollified,
“if you got the same amount as that which Hirsch offers you, you would
give up all idea of going?” “Ma foi, oui,” smiled the Prince. “Will you
promise?” asked “Canaillette,” suspiciously. “Yes, I will promise.” “How
much did Hirsch say he would give you?” “Oh, a bagatelle to you, but a
large sum to me--a million francs.” “Indeed! Well, I will send you a
cheque for the million this afternoon, on condition that you give up
this absurd, degrading trip to Turkey. Is it a bargain?” The Prince,
much amused at his wife’s earnestness, kissed her hand, thanked her, and
accepted the terms. That afternoon De Sagan received Madame’s promised
cheque, and the next morning saw him with one for a similar amount in
his pocket from Baron Hirsch on his way to Constantinople!
To Mme. de Sagan we owe this epigram: “A husband can only hope to be a
hero in his wife’s eyes for two months--the month before he is married,
and the month after his death.”
Frank Seillière, brother of the Princesse de Sagan, married Mlle. Diane
de Galliffet, of whose mother, the Marquise (the wife of the famous
General), a few words must now be said.
The Marquise de Galliffet was half English, her father, M. Lafitte, the
banker (“Major Fridolin,” of Turf celebrity), having married an English
lady. The blonde Marquise was truly beautiful--“as beautiful as the
Empress,” some enthusiasts vowed; “blonde comme les blès,” as my friend
“Sornette” wrote of her “in the days that were earlier.” “Her few
faults,” he asserted, “for all of which she was most bitterly punished,
proceeded from her tenderness of heart. The beautiful and dainty
Marquise could not find it in that sweet little cardiac arrangement
which I suppose she called her heart to say ‘No’ to anybody who did not
ask too audacious a favour, the result being that her generosity was
abused.”
The Marquise was in great favour with the Empress, and the Emperor spoke
of her in the most rapturous, but perfectly respectful, terms. Her
nickname, “Cochonette,” to which she never objected, is said to have
been conferred upon her because she was supposed to pay less attention
to soap and water than she might have done. De Grammont-Caderousse
(according to “Sornette,” the all-knowing and ever-humorous) used to
tell this story of Mme. de Galliffet:
Her husband,[83] having reason to believe that his wife did not
care over-much for soap and water, played upon her a practical joke
in order to satisfy himself whether his suspicions were or were not
well founded. One night, after they had returned from a ball at the
Tuileries, he went into his wife’s dressing room, and, lighting a
cigarette, began to talk over the events at the Palace before
retiring to his own rooms. He found Madame taking off her jewels
and (like the Empress) throwing them about on the carpet, for her
maids to pick up in the morning. After a brief talk, the Marquis
kissed his wife’s hand and retired for the night. On the following
morning he came in again, and asked the Marquise to let him take a
ruby bracelet to Boucheron’s to be reset, as they had previously
arranged he should do. The Marquise told one of her maids to bring
the bracelet, but, after a long search in all the rooms, the jewel
[Illustration: THE COMTESSE EDMOND DE POURTALÈS.
The Author is indebted to the Comtesse for the loan of this beautiful
portrait.
_Le Jeune, L. Joliot Succr., Paris._
_To face p. 160._]
was not to be found. “You must have been robbed,” said the Marquis;
“but never mind--I must get you another like it.”
A week or so later he again entered his wife’s room in the morning,
and nonchalantly inquired if the ruby bracelet had been found.
“No,” replied the Marquise innocently, “of course not, or I should
have told you.” “Oh, ‘Cochonette,’” laughingly exclaimed the hero
of Puebla; then, taking her by the hand, he led her to the
washing-stand, which closed with a lid to keep out the dust.
Lifting the cover, he showed his bewildered spouse the bracelet
lying in the basin, where he had put it on the night he had gone
into her bedroom after the Tuileries ball! A week without a visit
to the hand-basin was (said Caderousse) proved against the Marquise
by this trick; for, had she lifted the cover, she would have found
her missing bracelet.
The imperial couple would have readily admitted, had they been asked,
that they had no better friend, and that France did not possess a more
patriotic soul, than the Comtesse de Pourtalès (who was born Mélanie de
Bussière), who was always most warmly welcomed by the Emperor and
Empress at the Tuileries entertainments, at the chasses and theatricals
at Compiègne, and wherever else their Majesties happened to be. In that
beautiful house in the Rue Tronchet, a museum and gallery of art
combined, were to be found many English who were in Paris in obedience
to the imperial invitation, the Prince of Wales not seldom being among
them. It was Mme. de Pourtalès who, upon her return to Paris from a
visit to Berlin, warned the Emperor and Empress of the high state of
efficiency of the German forces. But she only had her trouble for her
pains. The self-satisfied Generals made light of her forebodings of
evil. Only Colonel Stöffel listened to her sympathetically, for he,
better than anybody, knew how right she was. Who does not remember the
portrait of Mme. de Pourtalès, garbed à l’Alsacienne, which, when France
was humbled to the dust, evoked emotion all over the world? Who can
forget the practical help which she hastened to extend to the Empress
after her flight from the Tuileries?
At the amateur theatricals at Compiègne none of the ladies outshone the
Comtesse de Pourtalès. In the Marquis de Massa’s Revue de l’année 1867
she represented the River Seine, magnificently dressed, of course. A
phrase, sublime in its audacity, was put into her mouth, and was
delivered with such charming naïveté that the little theatre resounded
with peals of laughter. Prudhomme (Baron Lambert) exclaimed rapturously,
“Mais, quel superbe costume vous avez, belle dame!” a compliment to
which Mme. de Pourtalès had to reply, “Oh, j’en ai un beaucoup plus beau
_par-dessous_!” (I have a much more beautiful one _underneath_.)
In the last years of the reign there figured at the Court of the
Tuileries (and equally in the Royalist salons of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain), among the pléiade of dazzling forms, the Baronne
Alphonse de Rothschild.[84] The hôtel of the Baron and Baroness Alphonse
in the Rue St. Florentin, which had been acquired from the heirs of the
Prince de Talleyrand, was not only the rendezvous of the brilliant
society of the Second Empire and of the intransigeante aristocracy of
the ancien régime, but frequently opened its doors to foreign Princes,
who, with lesser mortals, were also entertained at the magnificent
château of Ferrières (a landmark in 1870-71) and at the fairy-like home
at Cannes. Like the other (Continental) Rothschilds, the Baron and
Baroness Alphonse liked to be surrounded by the artistic element. In
their Paris hôtel were to be seen the leading lights of literature,
science, and art. Of course, the Baron and Baroness were what is called
“keen” on every kind of sport, otherwise they would not have been
Rothschilds. Alexandre Dumas fils, calling on the Baroness Alphonse one
Monday afternoon, was met with the inquiry: “Well, Monsieur Dumas, were
you at the races yesterday?” “At the races, Madame la Baronne! Oh no; I
never go to them.” “Never go to the races!” exclaimed the Baroness,
surprised, if not horrified, at such an avowal; “then what on earth do
you do with yourself on Sundays?”[85]
Mme. de Courtval was well known to the Court coterie, as any intimate
friend of the Princesse de Sagan was bound to be. After dinner one
night, at her villa at Deauville, she and her guests sat down at the
whist-table. Presently there was a loud knocking and ringing at the door
of the villa, and, to the dismay of the servants, a much-whiskered and
moustached gentleman forced his way into the salon. Questioned as to his
right to intrude upon the privacy of Mme. de Courtval and her
guests--the Prince of Wales included--the stranger, in very aggressive
tones, replied, “I have the honour to be the Mayor of Deauville!” and,
unbuttoning his overcoat, he displayed to the stupefied party his scarf
of office. He apologized for having to discharge a painful duty, and
proceeded to say that the fair hostess, by permitting card-playing, had
converted her villa into a tripot, or gaming-house, and had brought
herself within the meshes of the law. The farce continued for some
little time, to the great amusement of “the Prince” and Mme. de Sagan,
who were the only members of the party in the secret. Then the whiskers
of “M. le Maire” fell off, and revealed the features of a gentleman who
was well known to the hostess and her friends. To complete the story, it
must be added that the joke which had so perturbed Mme. de Courtval and
most of her guests was due to the ingenuity of the Princesse de Sagan
and--the Prince of Wales!
I pass from the recital of these frivolities to the Tragic Year. We
shall see precisely how the Empress fulfilled the duties of the Regency,
and hear the conversations of the Sovereigns.