Queen Victoria in Paris -- The beginning of the era of
middle-class excursions -- English visitors before that -- The
British tourist of 1855 -- The real revenge of Waterloo -- The
Englishman's French and the Frenchman's English -- The opening of
the Exhibition -- The lord mayor and aldermen in Paris -- The
King of Portugal -- All these considered so much "small fry" --
Napoleon III. goes to Boulogne to welcome the Queen -- The royal
yacht is delayed -- The French hotel proprietor the greatest
artist in fleecing -- The Italian, the Swiss, the German, mere
bunglers in comparison -- Napoleon III. before the arrival of the
Queen -- Pondering the past -- Arrival of the Queen -- The Queen
lands, followed by Prince Albert and the royal children -- The
Emperor rides by the side of her carriage -- Comments of the
population -- An old salt on the situation -- An old soldier's
retort -- The general feeling -- Arrival in Paris -- The
Parisians' reception of the Queen -- A description of the route
-- The apartments of the Queen at St. Cloud -- How the Queen
spent Sunday -- Visits the art section of the Exhibition on
Monday -- Ingres and Horace Vernet presented to her --
Frenchmen's ignorance of English art in those days -- English and
French art critics -- The Queen takes a carriage drive through
Paris -- Not a single cry of "Vive l'Angleterre!" a great many of
"Vive la Reine" -- England making a cats-paw of France --
Deception at the Elysee-Bourbon -- "Les Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr"
at St. Cloud -- Alexandre Dumas would have liked to see the Queen
-- Visit to Versailles -- State-performances at the Opera -- Ball
at the Hotel de Ville -- The Queen's dancing -- Canrobert on "the
Queen's dancing and her soldiers' fighting" -- Another visit to
the Exhibition -- Beranger misses seeing the Queen -- "I am not
going to see the Queen, but the woman" -- A review in the
Champ-de-Mars -- A visit to Napoleon's tomb -- Jerome's absence
on the plea of illness -- Marshal Vaillant's reply to the Emperor
when the latter invites him to take Jerome's place -- His
comments on the receptions given by the Emperor to foreign
sovereigns -- Fetes at Versailles -- Homeward.
Magnificent as were the quasi-private entertainments at Compiegne, and
the more public ones at the Tuileries, they were as nothing to the
series of fetes on the occasion of Queen Victoria's visit to Paris, in
1855. For nearly three months before, the capital had assumed the aspect
of a fair. The Exposition Universelle of '55 virtually inaugurated the
era of "middle-class excursions," which since then have assumed such
colossal proportions, especially with regard to the English. Previous to
this the development of railways had naturally brought many of our
countrymen to Paris, but they were of a different class from those who
now invaded the French metropolis. They were either men of business
bent on business, though not averse to enjoying themselves in the
intervals, or else belonging or pretending to belong to "the upper ten,"
and travelling more or less _en grand seigneurs_. They came singly, and
left their cards at the Embassy, etc. The new visitors came in groups,
though not necessarily acquainted or travelling with one another; they
knew nothing of the Hotel Meurice and the Hotel Bristol or their
traditions; they crowded the Palais-Royal and its cheap restaurants, and
had, so to speak, no French at their command. Notwithstanding the
exclamation of the Frenchman when he saw the statue of Wellington
opposite Apsley House, it was then, and then only, that the _revanche_
of Waterloo began. It has lasted ever since. It was '55 that marked the
appearance in the shop-windows of small cards bearing the words,
"English spoken here." Hitherto the English visitor to Paris was
commonly supposed to have had a French tutor or governess, and though
the French he or she did speak was somewhat trying to the ear, it was
heavenly music compared to the English the Parisian shopkeeper now held
it incumbent upon himself to "trot out" for the benefit of his
customers, or that of the guide or valet de place, legions of whom
infested the streets.
The Exhibition was opened on the 15th of May, but Queen Victoria was not
expected until the middle of August. Meanwhile, the Parisians were
treated to a sight of the Lord Mayor--Sir F. Moon, I believe--and the
aldermen, who came in the beginning of June, and who were magnificently
entertained by the Paris municipality, a deputation of which went as far
as Boulogne to welcome them. Still, it was very evident that neither
their visit nor that of the King of Portugal and his brother was to tax
the ingenuity of upholsterers, carpenters, and caterers, or of the
Parisians themselves in the matter of decoration; the watchword had
apparently been given from the highest quarters to reserve their
greatest efforts for what Napoleon up till then considered "the most
glorious event of his reign." The Emperor, though he had gone to join
the Empress, who was by this time known to be enceinte, at Eaux-Bonnes
and Biarritz, returned to Paris at the end of July, and for more than a
fortnight occupied himself personally and incessantly with the smallest
details of the Queen's visit, the whole of the programme of which was
settled by him.
I was one of the few privileged persons who travelled down to Boulogne
with Louis-Napoleon, on Friday, the 17th of August, 1855. When we got to
our destination, the yacht was not in sight, but we were already
informed that, owing to its heavy tonnage, it would not be able to enter
the harbour except at high tide, which would not be until 1 p.m., on
Saturday. Shortly after that hour the vessel, accompanied by its
flotilla, appeared in the offing; but the Queen remained on board, and
we had to enjoy ourselves as best we could, which was not difficult,
seeing that the whole of the town was absolutely in the streets, and
that the latter were decidedly preferable to the stuffy attics at the
hotels, for which we were charged the moderate sum of forty francs each.
Uneventful as my life has been, it is only worth recording by reason of
the celebrity of the persons with whom I have come in contact;
nevertheless, I have travelled a good deal, and been present at a great
many festive gatherings both in England and on the Continent. Commend me
to the French hotel-proprietor for fleecing you in cold blood. The Swiss
and the Italians, no mean masters of the art, are not in it with him;
and as for the Germans, they are mere 'prentices compared with him. The
Italian despoils you, like his countryman of operatic fame, Fra-Diavolo;
the Swiss, like an English highwayman of the good old sort; the German,
like a beggar who picks your pocket while you are looking in your purse
for a coin to give him; the Frenchman, like the money-lender who is "not
working for himself, but for a hard-hearted, relentless principal."
On the Saturday, the Emperor was astir betimes, and went to the camp
occupied by the troops under the command of Marshal Baraguey-d'Hilliers.
Louis-Napoleon's countenance was at all times difficult to read; I
repeat, his eyes, like those of others, may have been "the windows of
his soul," but their blinds were down most of the time. It was only at
rare intervals that the impenetrable features were lighted up by a gleam
from within, that the head, which generally inclined to the right,
became erect. On that morning, the face was even a greater blank than
usual. And yet that day, even to the fatalist he was, must have seemed a
wonderful one; for the blind goddess of fortune, the "lucky star" in
which he trusted, had never rewarded a mortal as she had rewarded him. A
few years previously, during one of his presidential journeys, he had
been hailed with enthusiasm at Strasburg, the city in which the scene
of one of his bitterest fiascos had been laid. The contrast between
those two days was startling indeed: on the one, he was hurried into a
post-chaise as a prisoner to be taken to Paris, with an almost certain
terrible fate overhanging him; on the other, he was greeted as the
saviour of France, the Imperial Crown was within his grasp. But,
startling as was this contrast, it could but have been mild compared to
that which must have presented itself to his mind that autumn morning at
Boulogne, when, a few hours later, the legions--his legions--took up
their positions from Wimereux on the right to Porsel on the left, to do
homage to the sovereign of a country which had been the most
irreconcilable foe of the founder of his house; on the very heights at
the foot of which he himself had failed to rouse the French to
enthusiasm; on the very spot where he had become the laughing-stock of
the world by his performance with that unfortunate tame eagle.
And yet, I repeat, not a gleam of pride or joy lighted up the
Sphinx-like mask. To see this man standing there unmoved amidst the
highest honours the world had to bestow, one could not help thinking of
Voltaire's condemnation of fatalism as the guiding principal of life:
"If perchance fatalism be the true doctrine, I would sooner be without
such a cruel truth."
A regiment of lancers and one of dragoons lined the route from the
landing-stage to the railway station, for in those days the trains did
not stop alongside the boats; while on the bridge crossing the Liane,
three hundred sappers, bearded like the Pard, shouldering their axes,
wearing their white leathern aprons, stood in serried ranks, three deep.
The Queen's yacht had been timed to enter the harbour at one, but it was
within a minute or so of two before it was moored amidst the salutes
from the forts. The Emperor, who had been on horseback the whole of the
morning--who, in fact, preferred that means of locomotion on all
important occasions, as it showed him off to greater advantage,--had
been standing by the side of his charger. He crossed the gangway,
beautifully upholstered in purple velvet and carpet to match, at once,
and, after having kissed her hand, offered her his arm to assist her in
landing, Prince Albert and the royal children coming immediately behind
the Imperial host and his principal guest. A magnificent roomy barouche,
capable of holding six persons and lined with white satin, but only
drawn by two horses--such horses! for in that respect Napoleon had
spent his time to advantage in England,--stood waiting to convey the
Royal family. The Emperor himself, though, mounted his horse once more,
and took his place by the right of the carriage, the left being taken by
Marshal Baraguey-d'Hilliers. The head of the procession started amidst
tremendous cheers from the crowd, but we who came on behind heard some
curious comments upon this popular manifestation. Knowing that there
would be a considerable delay in getting the train off, I walked instead
of driving. I was accompanied by Lord ----, who was never averse to
having his little joke. "He bien, mon ami," he said to an old
weather-beaten sailor, who was short of his left leg--"he bien, mon ami,
nous voila reconcilies."
"Oui, oui, je t'en fiche," was the answer; "mais puisqu'ils en sont a se
faire des m'amours, ils devaient bien me rendre ma jambe que j'ai perdue
dans leurs querelles."
"Imbecile," remarked an old soldier-looking man, who, though old, was
evidently younger than the first speaker, and who was short of an arm,
"ta jambe ne t'irait pas plus que mon bras; c'etait ta jambe de garcon."
"C'est vrai," nodded the other philosophically; "tout de meme, c'est
drole que nous nous soyons battus comme des chiens," pointing across the
Channel in the direction of England, "pour en arriver a cela. Si le
vieux (Napoleon I.) revenait, il serait rudement colere." And I may say
at once that, notwithstanding the friendly attitude throughout of the
rural as well as of the Parisian populations, that was the underlying
sentiment. "Waterloo est arrange, non pas venge," said a Parisian; "il
parait qu'il y a des accommodements avec les rois, aussi bien qu'avec le
ciel."
As a matter of course, we did not leave Boulogne much before three--the
original arrangement had been for half-past one,--and when we reached
Paris it was dark, too early for the illuminations which had been
projected along the line of boulevards from the recently open Boulevard
de Strasbourg to the Madeleine, not so much as a feature in the
programme of reception, as in honour of the Queen generally. On the
other hand, there was not sufficient daylight for the crowds to
distinguish the sovereign's features, and a corresponding disappointment
was the result. The lighted carriage lamps did not improve matters much.
But the Parisians--to their credit be it said--knowing that Queen
Victoria had expressed her wish to be conveyed to St. Cloud in an open
carriage, instead of the closed State one used on such occasions, took
note of the intention, and acknowledged it with ringing cheers. Victor
Hugo has said that the Parisian loves to show his teeth--he must either
be laughing or growling; and at the best of times it is an ungrateful
task to analyse too thoroughly such manifestations of enthusiasm. There
are always as many reasons why nations should hate as love each other.
The sentiment, as expressed by the sailor and soldier alluded to just
now, did exist--of that I feel sure; but amidst the truly fairy
spectacle then presented to the masses that crowded the streets, it may
have been forgotten for the moment.
For, in spite of the gathering darkness, the scene was almost unique. I
have only seen another one like it, namely, when the troops returned
from the Franco-Austrian War; and people much older than I declared that
the next best one was that on the occasion of the return of the Bourbons
in 1814.
Though the new northern station, erected on the site of the old, had
been virtually finished for more than a twelvemonth, the approaches to
it were, if not altogether magnificent projects, little more than
magnificent mazes, stone and mortar Phoenixes, in the act of rising, not
risen, from Brobdignagian dust-heaps, and altogether unfit for any kind
of spectacular procession. Consequently, it had been decided to connect
the northern with the eastern line immediately after entering the
fortifications. The Strasbourg Station did not labour under the same
disadvantages; the boulevard of that name stretched uninterruptedly as
far as the Boulevard St. Denis, although, as yet, there were few houses
on it. I have seen a good many displays of bunting in my time; I have
seen Turin and Florence and Rome beflagged and decorated on the
occasions of popular rejoicings; I have seen historical processions in
the university towns of Utrecht and Leyden; I have seen triumphal
entries in Brussels; I was in London on Thanksgiving day, but I have
never beheld anything to compare with the wedged masses of people along
the whole of the route, as far as the Bois de Boulogne, on that Saturday
afternoon. The whole of the suburban population had, as it were, flocked
into Paris. The regulars lined one side of the whole length of the
Boulevards, the National Guards the other. And there was not a single
house from the station to the southernmost corner of the Rue Royale
that had not its emblems, its trophies, its inscriptions of "welcome."
With that inborn taste which distinguishes the Parisians, the decorator
had ceased trying to gild the gold and to paint the lily at that point,
and had left the magnificent perspective to produce its own effect--a
few Venetian masts along the Avenue de Champs-Elysees and nothing more.
Among the notable features of the decorations in the main artery of
Paris was the magnificent triumphal arch, erected by the management of
the Opera between the Rue de Richelieu and what is now the Rue Drouot.
It rose to the fourth stories of the adjacent houses, and looked, not a
temporary structure, but a monument intended to stand the wear and tear
of ages. No description could convey an idea of its grandeur. The inside
was draped throughout with bee-bespangled purple, the top was decorated
with immense eagles, seemingly in full flight, and holding between their
talons proportionately large scutcheons, bearing the interlaced
monograms of the Imperial hosts and the Royal guests. In front of the
Passage de l'Opera stood an allegorical statue, on a very beautiful
pedestal draped with flags; and further on, at the back of the
Opera-Comique, which really should have been its front,[75] an obelisk,
the base of which was a correct representation, in miniature, of the
Palais de l'Industrie (the then Exhibition Building). By the Madeleine a
battalion of the National Guards had erected, at their own cost, two
more allegorical statues, France and England. A deputation from the
National Guards had also presented her Majesty with a magnificent
bouquet on alighting from the train.
[Footnote 75: In 1782, when Heurtier, the architect, submitted
his plan of the building which was intended for the Italian
singing-actors, the latter offered a determined opposition to
the idea of the theatre facing the Boulevards, lest they should
be confounded with the small theatres on the Boulevard du
Temple and in the direction of the present Boulevard des
Filles-du-Calvaire. This extraordinary vanity was lampooned on
all sides, and especially in a _quatrain_, which I forbear to
quote even in French.--EDITOR.]
By a very delicate attention, the private apartments of the Queen had,
in many ways, been made to look as much as possible like those at
Windsor Castle; and where this transformation was found impossible by
reason of their style of decoration--such as, for instance, in the
former boudoir of Marie-Antoinette,--the mural paintings and those of
the ceiling had been restored by two renowned artists. In addition to
this, the most valuable pictures had been borrowed from the Louvre to
enhance the splendour of the reception and dining rooms, while none but
crack regiments in full dress were told off for duty.
The day after the Queen's arrival being Sunday, the entertainment after
dinner consisted solely of a private concert; on the Monday the Queen
visited the Fine Arts' Section of the Exhibition, which was located in a
separate building at the top of the Avenue Montaigne, and connected with
the main structure by beautifully laid-out gardens. The Queen spent
several hours among the modern masterpieces of all nations, and two
French artists had the honour of being presented. I will not be certain
of the names, because I was not there, but, as far as I can remember,
they were Ingres and Horace Vernet.
While on the subject of art, I cannot help digressing for a moment. I
may take it that in 1855 a good many Englishmen of the better middle
classes, though not exactly amateurs or connoisseurs of pictures, were
acquainted with the names, if not with the works, of the French masters
of the modern school. Well, in that same year, the English school burst
upon the corresponding classes in France like a revelation--nay, I may
go further still, and unhesitatingly affirm that not a few critics, and
those of the best, shared the astonishment of the non-professional
multitude. They had heard of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Gainsborough,
perhaps of Turner, but Constable and Moreland, Wilkie and Webster,
Mulready, and the rest of the younger school, were simply so many names.
But when the critics did become aware of their existence, their
criticisms were simply a delightful series of essays, guiding the most
ignorant to a due appreciation of those Englishmen's talents, not
stinting praise, but by no means withholding blame, instinctively
focussing merits and defects in a few brilliant paragraphs, which
detected the painter's intention and conception as well as his execution
both from a technical, as well as dramatic, graphic, and pictorial point
of view; which showed, not only the influence of general surroundings,
but dissected the result of individual tendencies. Many a time since,
when wading through the adipose as well as verbose columns dealing with
similar subjects in English newspapers, have I longed for the literary
fleshpots of France, which contained and contain real nourishing
substance, not the fatty degeneration of an ignoramus's brain, and, what
is worse, of an ignoramus who speaks in numbers from a less valid
reason than Pope's; for the most repellant peculiarity of these
effusions are the numbers. It would seem that these would-be critics,
having no more than the ordinary auctioneer's intellect, endeavour as
much as possible to assimilate their effusions to a catalogue. They are
an abomination to the man who can write, though he may know nothing
about painting, and to the man who knows about painting and cannot
write. The pictorial art of England must indeed be a hardy plant to have
survived the approval and the disapproval of these barbarians.
To come back to the Queen, who, after leaving the Palais de l'Industrie,
drove to several points of interest in Paris, notably to la
Sainte-Chapelle. The route taken was by the Rue de Rivoli and the
Pont-Neuf; the return journey was effected by the Pont-aux-Changes and
the eastern end of the same street, which had only been opened recently,
as far as the Place de la Bastille. Then, and then only, her Majesty
caught sight of the Boulevards in the whole of their extent. The
decorations of the previous day but one had not been touched, and the
crowds were simply one tightly wedged-in mass of humanity. A
journalistic friend had procured me a _permis de circuler_--in other
words, "a police pass,"--and I made the way from the Boulevard
Beaumarchais to Tortoni on foot. It may be interesting to those who are
always prating about the friendship between England and France to know
that I heard not a single cry of "Vive l'Angleterre!" On the other hand,
I heard a great many of "Vive la Reine!" Even the unthinking crowd,
though yielding to the excitement of the moment, seemed to distinguish
between the country and her ruler. I am not commenting upon this: I am
merely stating a fact. Probably it is not England's fault that she has
not been able to inspire the French nation as a whole with anything like
a friendly feeling, but it is as well to point it out. During the whole
of the Crimean War, nine out of every ten educated Frenchmen openly
asserted that France had been made a cat's-paw by England, that the
alliance was one forced upon the nation by Napoleon from dynastic and
personal, rather than from patriotic and national, motives; there were
some who, at the moment of the Queen's visit, had the candour to say
that this, and this only, would be France's reward for the blood and
money spent in the struggle. At the same time, it is but fair to state
that these very men spoke both with admiration and respect of England's
sovereign.
At three o'clock there was a brilliant reception at the Elysee, when the
members of the corps diplomatique accredited to the Tuileries were
presented to the Queen. Shortly after five her Majesty returned to
Saint-Cloud, where, in the evening, the actors of the Comedie-Francaise
gave, at the Queen's special request, a performance of "Les Demoiselles
de Saint-Cyr." She had seen the piece in London, and been so pleased
with it that she wished to see it again. Though I was on very intimate
terms with Dumas, we had not met for several weeks, which was not
wonderful, seeing that I was frequently appealed to by the son himself
for news of his father. "What has become of him? He might be at the
antipodes for all I see of him," said Alexandre II. about a dozen times
a year. However, two or three days after the performance at Saint-Cloud,
I ran against him in the Chaussee d'Antin. "Well, you ought to be
pleased," I said; "it appears that not only has the Queen asked to see
your piece, which she had already seen in London, but that she enjoyed
it even much better the second than the first time."
"C'est comme son auteur," he replied: "plus on le connait, plus on
l'aime. Je sais pourtant bien ce qui l'aurait amusee meme d'avantage que
de voir ma piece, c'eut ete de me voir moi-meme, et franchement, ca
m'aurait amuse aussi."
"Then why did not you ask for an audience? I am certain it would have
been granted," I remarked, because I felt convinced that her Majesty
would have been only too pleased to confer an honour upon such a man.
"En effet, j'y ai pense," came the reply; "une femme aussi remarquable
et qui deviendra probablement la plus grande femme du siecle aurait du
se rencontrer avec le plus grand homme en France, mais j'ai eu peur
qu'on ne me traite comme Madame de Stael traitat Saint-Simon. C'est
dommage, parcequ'elle s'en ira sans avoir vu ce qu'il y de mieux dans
notre pays, Alexandre, Roi du Monde romanesque, Dumas l'ignorant." Then
he roared with laughter and went away.[76]
[Footnote 76: Alexandre Dumas referred to a story in connection
with the Comte de Saint-Simon and Madame de Stael which is not
very generally known. One day the head of the new sect went to
see the authoress of "Corinne." "Madame," he said, "vous etes
la femme la plus remarquable en France; moi, je suis l'homme le
plus remarquable. Si nous nous arrangions a vivre quelques mois
ensemble, nous aurions peut-etre l'enfant le plus remarquable
sur la terre." Madame de Stael politely declined the honour. As
for the epithet of "l'ignorant" which Dumas was fond of
applying to himself, it arose from the fact of Dumas, the
celebrated professor of chemistry, being spoken of as "Dumas le
savant." "Done," laughed the novelist, "je suis Dumas
l'ignorant."--EDITOR.]
On Tuesday, the 21st, the Queen went to Versailles to inspect the
picture-galleries established there by Louis-Philippe, and, in the
evening, she was present at a gala-performance at the Opera. Next day,
she paid a second visit to the Palais de l'Industrie, but to the
industrial section only. In the evening, there was a performance of "Le
Fils de Famille" ("The Queen's Shilling"). On the 23rd, she spent
several hours at the Louvre; after which, at night, she attended the
ball given in her honour by the Municipality of Paris. I shall not
attempt to describe that entertainment, the decorations and flowers of
which alone cost three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The whole had
been arranged under the superintendence of Ballard, the architect of the
Halles Centrales. But I remember one little incident which caused a
flutter of surprise among the court ladies, who, even at that time, had
already left off dancing in the pretty old-fashioned way, and merely
walked through their quadrilles. The royal matron of thirty-five, with a
goodly family growing up around her, executed every step as her dancing
master had taught her, and with none of the listlessness that was
supposed to be the "correct thing." I was standing close to Canrobert,
who had been recalled to resume his functions near the Emperor. After
watching the Queen for a minute or so, he turned round to the lady on
his arm. "Pardi, elle danse comme ses soldats se battent, 'en veux-tu,
en voila;' et corrects jusqu'a la fin." There never was a greater
admirer of the English soldier than Canrobert. The splendour of that
fete at the Hotel-de-Ville has only been surpassed once, in 1867, when
the civic fathers entertained a whole batch of sovereigns.
On the 24th, there was a third visit to the Exhibition, and I remember
eight magnificent carriages passing down the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.
They were, however, only drawn by two horses each. I was making my way
to the Champ de Mars, where a review was to be held in honour of her
Majesty, and had told the cab to wait in the Rue Beaujon, while I
stepped into the main road to have a look at the beautiful scene. The
moment the carriages were past I returned to the Rue Beaujon, and ran up
against Beranger, who was living there. The old man seemed in a great
hurry, which was rather surprising, because he was essentially
phlegmatic, and rarely put himself out for anything. So I asked him the
reason of his haste. "I want to see your queen," he replied. A year or
two before he had refused to go to the Tuileries to see the Empress, who
had sent for him; and the latter, who could be most charming when she
liked, had paid him a visit instead.
"I thought you did not trouble yourself much about royalty," I remarked.
"You refused to go and see the Empress, and you rush along to see the
Queen?"
"Non; je vais voir la femme: s'il y avait beaucoup de femmes comme elle,
je leur pardonnerais d'etre reines."
Her Majesty has never heard of this. It was the most magnificent and, at
the same time, most witty tribute to her private virtues. All this
happened many, many years ago. Since then I have often wondered why
Prince Albert, who, I feel certain, knew the worth of all these men as
well as he knew the merit of the litterateurs of his own country, did
not suggest to his august consort a reception such as she gave to the
corps diplomatique. It would have been a most original thing to do; the
recollection of it would have been more delightful even than the most
vivid recollections of that very wonderful week.
In those days, France was still looked upon as the first military power
in Europe. Her soldiers were probably not superior to those who fell in
the Franco-German war, but their prestige had not been questioned. They
were also more sightly than the ill-clad legions of the Third Republic,
so the review was a very splendid affair. At its termination, her
Majesty repaired to the Invalides, to the tomb of Napoleon, which,
though it had been begun, as I have incidentally stated, under the
premiership of M. Guizot in 1846-47, was not finished then, and only
officially inaugurated nearly six years afterwards.
My ticket for the review had been given to me by Marshal Vaillant, the
minister for war, and the only Marshal of the Second Empire with whom I
was, at that time, intimately acquainted; though I became on very
friendly terms with Marshals MacMahon and Lebrun subsequently.
I will devote, by-and-by, a few notes to this most original
soldier-figure--he was only a type in some respects; meanwhile, I may
mention here an anecdote, in connection with this visit of the Queen,
characteristic of the man. The governor of the Invalides was the late
King of Westphalia, Jerome Bonaparte. It was but natural that he should
have been chosen as the custodian of his brother's last resting-place.
It was equally natural that he should feel reluctant to meet at that
tomb the sovereign of a country which, he considered, had tortured that
brother to death. Consequently the last survivor of the elder
Bonapartes, the one who had also fought at Waterloo, foreseeing, as it
were, this pilgrimage on the part of her Majesty, had, a fortnight or so
before the date of her intended visit, gone to Havre, whither he had
been ordered by his doctor on account of his health, and whence he only
returned when the Queen of England had left France.
The deputy-governor of the Invalides was, perhaps, not considered
sufficiently important to do the honours to so illustrious a visitor,
and Marshal Vaillant was sounded whether he would undertake the
functions. He declined. "Je n'ai pas l'honneur, sire," he said,
"d'appartenir a votre illustre famille et personne sauf la famille d'un
grand homme a le droit d'oublier les souffrances que ses ennemis lui ont
infligees." He was an honest, upright soldier, abrupt and self-willed,
but kindly withal, and plainly perceived the faults of Louis-Napoleon's
policy and of his frequently misplaced generosity--above all, of his
system of conciliating the sovereigns of Europe by fetes and
entertainments. "Quand l'autre leur donnait des fetes et des
representations de theatre, c'etait chez eux, et pas chez nous, ils en
payaient les frais." More of him in a little while.
At the Queen's first visit to Versailles--the second took place on the
Saturday before she left--she had been deeply moved at the sight of the
picture representing her welcome at Eu by Louis-Philippe, to which
ceremony I alluded in one of my former notes. But even before this she
had expressed a wish to see the ruins of the Chateau de Neuilly, and the
commemorative chapel erected on the spot where the Duc d'Orleans met
with his fatal accident. "La femme qui est si fidele a ses vieilles
amities au milieu des nouvelles, surtout quand il s'agit de dynasties
rivales, comme en ce moment, et quand cette femme est une reine, cette
femme est une amie bien precieuse," said Jerome's son. Both the Emperor
and the Empress found that their cousin had spoken truly.
Saturday, the 25th, had been fixed for the fete at Versailles. In the
morning, the Queen went to the palace of Saint-Germain, which no English
sovereign had visited since James II. lived there. She returned to
Saint-Cloud, and thence to the magnificent abode of Louis XIV., which
she reached after dark--the Place d'Armes and the whole of the erstwhile
royal residence being brilliantly illuminated.
The Imperial and Royal party entered by the Marble Court, in the centre
of which the pedestal to the statue of Louis XIV. had been decorated
with the rarest flowers. The magnificent marble staircase had, however,
been laid with thick purple carpets, and the balustrades almost
disappeared beneath masses of exotics; it was the first time, if I
remember rightly, that I had seen mosses and ferns and foliage in such
profusion. The Cent Gardes and the Guides de l'Imperatrice were on duty,
the former on the staircase itself, the latter below, in the vestibule.
At the top, to the right and left, the private apartments of the Empress
had been arranged, the Queen occupied those formerly belonging to
Marie-Antoinette. I was enabled to see these a few days later; they were
the most perfect specimens of the decorative art that flourished under
Louis XVI. I have ever beheld. The boudoir was upholstered in light
blue, festoons of roses running along the walls, and priceless Dresden
groups distributed everywhere; the dressing-rooms were hung with pale
green, with garlands upon garlands of violets. The toilet service was of
Sevres, with medallions after Lancret and Watteau. The historical Salle
de l'Oeil-de-Boeuf, which preceded her Majesty's apartments, had been
transformed into a splendid reception-room for the use of the Imperial
hosts and all their Royal guests, for there were one or two foreign
princes besides, notably Prince Adalbert of Bavaria.
The ball was to take place in the famous Galerie des Glaces; the Empress
herself had presided at its transformation, which had been inspired by a
well-known print of "Une Fete sous Louis Quinze." More garlands of
roses, but this time drooping from the ceiling and connecting the forty
splendid lustres, which, together with the candelabra on the walls,
could not have contained less than three thousand wax candles. At each
of the four angles of the vast apartment a small orchestra had been
erected, but very high up, and surrounded by a network of gilt wire.
At the stroke of ten those wonderful gardens became all of a sudden
ablaze with rockets and Chinese candles; it was the beginning of the
fireworks, the principal piece of which represented Windsor Castle.
After this, the ball was opened by the Queen and the Emperor, the
Empress and Prince Albert; but though the example had been given, there
was very little dancing. I was a comparatively young man then, but I was
too busy feasting my eyes with the marvellous toilettes to pay much heed
to the seductive strains, which at other times would have set me
tripping. I fancy this was the case with most of the guests.
On the Monday the Queen left for home.