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[Illustration: QUEEN AMELIE OF PORTUGAL]
THEIR MAJESTIES AS I KNEW THEM
Personal Reminiscences of the Kings and Queens of Europe
by
XAVIER PAOLI
Translated into English by A. Teixeira De Mattos
Illustrated
New York
Sturgis & Walton Company
1911
All rights reserved
Copyright 1911
By Sturgis & Walton Company
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1911
[Illustration: M. XAVIER PAOLI]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
I THE EMPEROR AND EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA 3
II KING ALFONSO XIII 41
III THE SHAH OF PERSIA 81
IV THE TSAR NICHOLAS II AND THE TSARITSA ALEXANDRA FEODOROVNA 127
V THE KING AND QUEEN OF ITALY 165
VI GEORGE I, KING OF THE HELLENES 199
VII QUEEN WILHELMINA OF THE NETHERLANDS 229
VIII THE LATE KING OF THE BELGIANS 259
IX THE ENGLISH ROYAL FAMILY 301
X THE KING OF CAMBODIA AND HIS DANCING-GIRLS 329
INTRODUCTION
M. XAVIER PAOLI
THE "CHAMBERLAIN" OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC AND THE FRIEND OF SOVEREIGNS
It was in 1903, and the King of England was making his first official
journey in France since succeeding Queen Victoria on the throne of
Great Britain. In the court of the British Embassy in Paris, where the
sovereign had taken up his residence, a group of journalists, pencil
and notebook in hand, was crowding importunate, full of questions,
around a vivacious little gentleman, very precisely dressed in black,
wearing the red rosette of the Legion of Honour in the buttonhole of
his silk-faced frock coat. An impressive silk hat, slightly tipped,
sheltered a head of abundant wavy white hair, strikingly in contrast
with the man's still youthful appearance; at the utmost he seemed to be
hardly fifty years old.
His aristocratic bearing might have been that of a diplomat of the
Empire or a Tuscan aristocrat. The sensitive features of his finely
oval face--the straight, delicately formed nose, the piercing eyes,
now bright with shrewd humour, now soft with gentle sympathy--all spoke
the judicial mind, the penetrating observation, which could scrutinise
the most secret thoughts, recognise the slightest shades of feeling.
Calmly, manfully, smilingly, with courtesy, the little gentleman
sustained the assault of the reporters and warded off their indiscreet
curiosity.
"What did the King say to M. Loubet?"
"Gentlemen, the King has told me none of his secrets."
"Did he not come for the purpose of completing a treaty of military
alliance with us, and is he not to have this evening an important
interview with the Minister of Foreign Affairs?"
"His Majesty had a very comfortable journey, is in the best of spirits,
and appears to be delighted to be in Paris."
"But--"
"His Majesty brought with him his little griffon dog, and immediately
on arriving he asked for port wine and sandwiches."
"I beg--"
"I may even say that the King will go to hear Sarah Bernhardt this
evening, and that at the present moment he is busy with his secretary
looking over the voluminous mail which has just arrived from London.
In fact--"
"Pardon me--is it true that yesterday you arrested some suspected
anarchists?"
"Anarchists? What are they?" And with these words the little gentleman
still smiling turned away, to the discomfiture of the journalists,
while certain English and French officers who, full of excitement, were
crossing the great court, saluted him with courteous deference.
This little gentleman, whom I then saw for the first time, was M.
Xavier Paoli.
When the time comes for writing the history of the Third French
Republic--not its political history, which is already sufficiently well
known, but the other, its picturesque, anecdotic, private history, that
which must be sought behind the scenes of a government, and shows the
little causes which often produced the great effects--when that history
comes to be written, it is certain that a long chapter and perhaps the
most interesting, will be devoted to M. Paoli.
He is, in fact, a unique and singular character, a personage "apart,"
extraordinarily attractive, somewhat disconcerting, but wonderfully
interesting in the group of French functionaries who have rendered real
and precious service to their country. His official title was until
very recently, and had been for twenty-five years, that of Special
Commissioner of Railways for the Ministry of the Interior. This title,
somewhat commonplace, is in itself intentionally obscure, tells nothing
of the man or his office. The old proverb says: "The habit does not
make the monk," and it may here be added that the title does not always
designate the function. Attached to the political police, but in no
respect appearing like a policeman, a sort of Sherlock Holmes, but a
very high and particular ideal of Sherlock Holmes until now unknown,
M. Paoli's three-fold and delicate mission was to watch over the
foreign sovereigns and princes who for the past twenty-five years had
been coming to France incognito, to facilitate their relations with
the government, and on the whole, to quote M. Paoli's own words "to
make their stay among us as pleasant as possible." "The guardian of
Kings," as the King of Greece one day called him, was at the same time
a keen diplomat. He, in fact, personified and filled an office which,
notwithstanding its paradoxical aspect, proved to be of incontestible
utility: he was the Grand Chamberlain of the Republic, accredited to
its imperial and royal guests.
How was he brought to take up this important and difficult duty? How
did he come to have all the necessary qualities to perform it, as he
did, with equally remarkable facility, ease and tact? Psychology makes
answer that motives must be sought in the origin, the early experience
and subsequent career of the personality with whom we are concerned.
Like the great Napoleon, for whom he has always felt a touching
adoration, M. Paoli is a Corsican. He was born in 1835 at La Porta,
a picturesque little town perched like an eagle's nest on the crest
of a hill on the eastern slope of the island, overlooking the sea,
with the Island of Elba and the coast of Tuscany in the distance. His
ancestor was that celebrated and fiery General Paoli, who at the close
of the previous century stirred up a patriotic agitation in Corsica;
on his mother's side he was a descendant of Marshal Sebastiani, who
was ambassador and minister of Foreign Affairs in the reign of Louis
Philippe. From his earliest youth, Xavier Paoli, like all Corsicans was
passionately interested in politics. In 1859 a decree of the Emperor
Napoleon III, who greatly esteemed this honourable and popular family,
nominated young Paoli mayor of La Porta. According to custom the young
official went to Ajaccio to pay his respects to the Prefect. This high
functionary, on perceiving him, could not conceal his surprise.
"I am much pleased to make your acquaintance, young man," he said,
"but I had supposed that your father would come himself."
"The trouble is that my father has been dead for several years."
"What! He has not just now been nominated mayor of La Porta?"
"No, Mr. Prefect, it was I."
He was only twenty-five years old.
Two years later, being elected Councillor General of his canton, he
united the two functions, giving to his fellow citizens an example
of precocious administrative ability and a keen appreciation of the
interests of his constituents. Local politics, however, "does not
feed its men" as the proverb says, especially when like M. Paoli, the
politician is thoroughly disinterested. The Paoli family had long been
engaged in the oil trade, but the business which once brought in a
comfortable livelihood had been declining, having been carried on with
less perseverance and attention than formerly. Young Paoli perceived
that he must not count upon the family business to make his fortune; in
fact, politics were swallowing up his modest revenue. He, therefore,
resolved to alter his plan of life, to leave the island where he had
achieved a precocious popularity, where he was esteemed and beloved.
His friends in Paris proposed to obtain for him an under-prefecture,
but he preferred a simple post of Police Magistrate at 1800 francs, to
the great scandal of his family, who considered him to have lowered
himself on entering the police service.
"Let me alone," replied M. Paoli, "I feel that my future is at stake,
and that I shall be safer in being inconspicuous."
And, in fact, when, four years later, the Empire fell, it was due to
the modesty of M. Paoli's position that he was not involved in the
fall. At the time he was police commissary in the railway station at
Modena on the Italian frontier, and he had the tact to make himself so
useful to the new Prefect that although he by no means paid court to
the new government, like so many others, the latter was glad to confirm
him in his functions. The Modena station was an important outpost of
observation and inspection on the great European highway, princes
incognito, statesmen on their travels, Italian anarchists leaving their
country on some mysterious mission--all passed that way. Not one of
them escaped M. Paoli's vigilant eye. This humble position afforded
him the opportunity to show his great qualifications of perspicacity
and tact. He was sent to Nice, and other cosmopolitan centres, where
all classes and peoples meet and mingle; before long he was called to
Paris. It was at this juncture, and thanks to Queen Victoria, that his
mission as "Guardian of Kings" became clear.
The French Republic was at that time by no means "persona grata" at
foreign courts. The daughter of the Commune of 1871, her cap still
vaguely besmirched, her acts problematical, they were all afraid of
her, hardly daring to receive or to visit her. And yet some line of
conduct must be adopted: it was not possible always to keep under ban
the lovely land of France.
A little King of no importance--I think it was the King of
Wurtemburg--was the first to risk himself among us. He was M. Paoli's
first client.
When at last the Queen of England, upon the advice of her physicians,
decided to exchange the chill banks of the Thames for the sunny
gardens of the Côte d'Azur, it was to M. Paoli that the government
of the Republic intrusted the duty of doing the honours of the
French territory and assuring her safety during her sojourn among
us. He acquitted himself of this delicate task with such success as
immediately gained the confidence of the venerable Queen to such
an extent that she desired her ambassador to write to the French
Minister of Foreign Affairs that thenceforth she wished that no other
functionary than M. Paoli should watch over her during her visits to
France. Each year, therefore, she found him faithful to his charge,
awaiting her arrival either at Cherbourg or Calais.
From this time, M. Paoli became the indispensable personage for all
the sovereigns and princes who undertook to visit our country, and
therefore indispensable to the Republican government, who found in
M. Paoli a perfect intermediary between itself and them. During
twenty-five years he successively escorted to our watering places and
seashore resorts fifteen emperors or kings, half a dozen empresses and
queens, and countless numbers of princes of the blood, grand dukes and
other princely globe trotters. He was admitted to their confidences,
understood their impressions. To most of them, who continually saw our
ministers appear and disappear, and who each time they came received
the homage of new personages, M. Paoli personified the Republic which,
with whatever petty quarrels and changes of officials, was always
calm and smiling to its guests in the drawing-room. France, indeed,
profited by the precious friendship which M. Paoli won for himself. "He
is a model functionary, he has made the Republic beloved by Kings,"
exclaimed M. Félix Faure one day in my presence. And I remember another
striking reflection of the regretted President.
As he came out of the hotel of the Empress of Austria where he had been
visiting at Cap Martin, some one asked him what had been the subject
of his interview with the sovereign.
"The Empress, gentlemen, spoke of nothing except of M. Paoli, whose
courtesy and tact she praised without reserve."
What tribute could have been more flattering, indeed, than the
invitation which he received from Queen Victoria to be present at her
jubilee, and to accept the hospitality of Buckingham Palace? And after
her death the royal family begged him to be present at her obsequies,
and during all the sad solemnities treated him as a faithful and
devoted friend.
And finally, what finer recognition of the "Protector of Sovereigns"
than the remark of the King of England--then the Prince of Wales--when
in the railway station of Brussels he was fired upon by the young
anarchist Sipido--"If Paoli had been here," he said, "the rascal would
have been arrested before he could use his weapon."
In fact, M. Paoli was always able to shield his clients from painful
surprises and dramatic dangers. His art was always to appear ignorant
of the fact that there were anarchists in the world, while at the same
time keeping them constantly under the strictest watch. I believe that
he was popular even among them, and that their esteem for this just and
good man was so great that they would not, for anything in the world,
have caused him--annoyance!
It is a curious fact that he never carried a weapon. The King of Siam
was greatly disconcerted when he learned that M. Paoli had been charged
to protect him during his visit to France in 1896.
"But where are your pistols and your poniards?" he would ask him every
few minutes.
M. Paoli appears to cherish no vanity on account of the august
interest with which he has been honoured, and the important part which
during twenty-five years he has performed with as much intelligence
as precision. He is still the affable and simple man which he always
was. He may be the most decorated functionary in France--he possesses
forty-two foreign decorations--but these seem to make him neither
prouder nor happier. His only joy is to live quietly in his retreat,
among his memories. His very modest apartment is a museum such as has
no equal, harbouring all the sovereigns of yesterday and of to-day.
Alphonso XIII and his young wife are in company with the royal pair of
Italy, the Emperor of Russia seems to be conversing with the Emperor of
Austria, the Queen of Saxony receives the salutation of the King of the
Bulgarians, while listening to the poems which the Queen of Roumania
appears to be reciting to her. The aged King Christian is smiling upon
his innumerable grandchildren, the Prince of Wales is talking with his
son, the Shah of Persia gazes upon the Bey of Tunis; and dominating all
these crowned heads, the good Queen Victoria smiling from her golden
frame, looks happily around upon all her family. To these photographs,
each with its precious autograph, are added most touching testimonials
of affection and esteem, letters entirely written by sovereign hands,
jewels of inestimable price, the gifts of august clients. M. Paoli is
in fact the only Frenchman who can at one time wear a cravat pin given
by the Emperor of Austria, a watch offered by the King of Greece, a
chain presented by Queen Victoria, a cane from the King of Sweden, a
cigarette holder from the Emperor of Russia, a match box from the King
of England, and--I cease, for the list would be interminable.
As may easily be perceived, the "Guardian of Kings" has often been
asked to write his memoirs. One cannot have been intimate with
sovereigns for twenty-five years and not have a whole book--many
volumes, indeed--of impressions and memories in the brain. But
precisely because he has been the travelling companion of illustrious
guests of the nation, he has believed himself bound to absolute silence
and a perhaps excessive discretion.
Happily, arguments have at last prevailed over these exaggerated
scruples. M. Paoli has come to perceive that by relating his personal
recollections, he would be making a useful contribution to the history
of our time, correcting many errors which have slipped voluntarily or
involuntarily into accounts of certain contemporary sovereigns.
M. Paoli has therefore yielded to persuasion, and has committed
to writing the story of his many journeys in the company of
Kings, reviving his memories of former days. I have been happy in
collaborating with this interesting and charming man, and I hope that
our readers may enjoy as happy hours in reading these memories as I
myself have enjoyed in hearing them related to me.
RENE LARA.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Queen Amelie of Portugal _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
M. Xavier Paoli v
The Empress of Austria 15
The Emperor and Empress of Austria 30
The King of Spain, Princess Henry of Battenberg, Princess
Victoria Eugenia and M. Paoli 47
The King and Queen of Spain and Baby 62
The Shah of Persia 95
The Shah leaving the Élyseé Palace 110
The Emperor and Empress of Russia and the Grand
Duke Alexis 127
The Empress of Russia and the Grand Duchess Marie 142
The King and Queen of Italy 175
The King and Queen of Italy and the Crown Prince 190
King George of Greece in the Streets of Paris 206
Queen Wilhelmina 232
King Leopold II 271
Princess Clémentine 286
King Edward VII 303
King Edward arriving at the Élyseé Palace 318
King Edward on the way to Church 318
The King of Cambodia 328
King Sisowath's Dancers before the President at the
Élyseé Palace 344
THEIR MAJESTIES AS I KNEW THEM
I
THE EMPEROR AND EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA
1.
The infinitely fascinating and melancholy image of the Empress
Elizabeth of Austria represents a special type among all the royal and
imperial majesties to whose persons I have been attached during their
different stays in France; and this both on account of her life, which
was one long romance, and of her death, which was a tragedy.
Hers was a strong, sad soul; and she disappeared suddenly, as in a
dream of terror. She hovers round my memory crowned with the halo of
unhappiness.
The first time that I saw her was at Geneva; and I cannot recall
this detail without emotion, for it was at Geneva that she was to
die under the assassin's dagger. At the end of August, 1895, the
Government received notice from the French Embassy in Vienna that the
Empress was about to visit Aix-les-Bains in Savoy. She was to travel
from her palace of Miramar through Italy and Switzerland; and, as
usual, I received my formal letter of appointment from the Ministry
of the Interior, instructing me to go and meet the Empress at the
International railway-station at Geneva.
I confess that, when I stepped into the train, I experienced a keen
sense of curiosity at the thought that I was soon to find myself in the
presence of the lady who was already surrounded by an atmosphere of
legend and who was known as "the wandering empress."
I had been told numerous more or less veracious stories of her restless
and romantic life; I had heard that she talked little, that she smiled
but rarely and that she always seemed to be pursuing a distant dream.
My first impression, however, when I saw her alighting from her
carriage on the Geneva platform, was very different from that which I
was prepared to receive. The Empress, at that time, was fifty-eight
years of age. She looked like a girl, she had the figure of a girl,
with a girl's lightness and grace of movement.
Tall and slender, with a touch of stiffness in her bearing, she had
a rather fresh-coloured face, deep, dark and extraordinarily bright
eyes and a wealth of chestnut hair. I realised later that she owed her
vivacious colouring to the long walks which she was in the constant
habit of taking. She wore a smartly-cut black tailor-made dress, which
accentuated her slimness. The beauty of her figure was a matter of
which she was frankly vain; she weighed herself every day.
I was also struck by the smallness of her hands, the musical intonation
of her voice and the purity with which she expressed herself in French,
although she pronounced it with a slightly guttural accent.
One disappointment, however, awaited me; my reception was icy cold. In
spite of the experience which I had acquired during the exercise of my
special functions, it left me none the less disconcerted. My feeling of
discomfort was still further increased when, on reaching Aix-les-Bains,
General Berzeviczy, whom I had asked for an interview in order to
arrange for the organisation of my department, answered drily:
"We sha'n't want anybody."
These four words, beyond a doubt, constituted a formal dismissal, an
invitation, both plain and succinct, to take the first train back to
Paris. My position became one of singular embarrassment. Invested with
a confidential mission, I was beginning by inspiring distrust precisely
in those to whom this mission was addressed; charged to watch and
remove "suspects," I myself appeared to be the most suspected of all!
Nevertheless, I resolved that I would not be denied. I organised my
service without the knowledge of our guests. Every morning, I returned
to see General Berzeviczy. Avoiding any allusion to the real object
of my visit, I did my best to overcome his coldness. The general was
a very kind man at heart and a charming talker. I therefore told him
the gossip of the day, the news from Paris, the tittle-tattle of
Aix. I advised excursions, pointed out the curiosities worth seeing,
conscientiously fulfilled my part as a Baedeker, and, when I carelessly
questioned the general concerning the Empress's intentions as to the
employment of her day, he forgot himself to the extent of telling me.
This was all that I wanted to know.
In a week's time we were the best of friends. The Empress had
condescended to appreciate my frankness in daily covering the table
with newspapers and reviews. She gradually became accustomed to seeing
me appear just in time to forestall her wishes. The game was won; and,
when, later, curious to know the cause of what appeared to me to have
been a misunderstanding, I asked General Berzeviczy to explain the
reason of his disconcerting reception, he replied:
"It was simply because, when we go abroad, they generally send us
officials who, under the pretext of protecting us, terrorise us. They
appear to us like Banquo's ghost, with doleful faces and shifting eyes;
they see assassins everywhere; they poison and embitter our holidays.
That is why you appeared so suspicious to us at first."
"And now?"
"Now," he answered with a smile, "the experiment has been made. You
have fortunately broken with an ugly tradition. In your case, we forget
the official, and remember only the friend."
2.
In the course of the three visits which the Empress Elizabeth paid to
France between 1895 and 1898, I had every opportunity of studying, in
the intimacy of its daily life, that little wandering court swayed
by the melancholy and fascinating figure of its sovereign. She led
an active and solitary existence. Rising, winter and summer, at five
o'clock, she began by taking a warm bath in distilled water, followed
by electric massage, after which, even though it were still dark, she
would go out into the air.
Clad in a black serge gown, ultra-simple in character, she walked at
a smart pace along the paths of the garden, or, if it were raining,
perambulated the long passages which run out of the halls or "lounges"
of most hotels. Sometimes she would venture on the roads and look for
a fine point of view--by preference, the top of a rock--from which she
loved to watch the sunrise.
She returned at seven o'clock and breakfasted lightly on a cup of tea
with a single biscuit. She then disappeared into her apartments and
devoted two hours to her toilet.
Her second meal was taken at eleven and consisted of a cup of clear
soup, an egg and one or two glasses of meat-juice, extracted every
morning out of several pounds of fillet of beef by means of a special
apparatus which accompanied her on her travels. She also tasted a light
dish or two, with a preference for sweets. Immediately after lunch, she
went out again, accompanied, this time, by her Greek reader.
This Greek reader was a very important person. He formed one of the
suite on every journey. Selected from among the young scholars of the
University of Athens, and often appointed by the Greek Government, he
was changed year by year. I, for my part, have known three different
readers. Their duties consisted in talking with the Empress in the
Greek language, ancient and modern, both of which she spoke with equal
facility.
This might have appeared to be a quaint fancy, but it was explained as
soon as the Empress's mental condition was better understood. Haunted
by a melancholy past, romantic by temperament and poetic by instinct,
she had sought a refuge in literature and the arts. Greece personified
in her imagination the land of beauty which her dreams incessantly
evoked; she had a passionate love for antiquity, loved its artists and
its poets; she wanted to be able, everywhere and at all times, when the
obsession of her sorrowful memories became too intense, to escape from
the pitiless phantoms that pursued her and in some way to isolate her
thoughts from the realities of life. The scholarly conversation of the
young Greek _savant_ made this effort easier for her; in the varied and
picturesque surroundings which her æsthetic tastes demanded, she took
Homer and Plato for her companions; and thus to the delight of the eyes
was added the most delicate satisfaction of the mind.
The Greek reader, therefore, was the faithful participator in her
afternoon walks, which lasted until dusk, and the Empress often covered
a distance of fifteen to twenty miles on end. For twenty years, she
had obstinately refused to allow herself to be photographed; she
dreaded the professional indiscretion of amateur photographers;
and no sooner did she perceive a camera aimed in her direction than
she quickly unfurled a black feather fan and modestly concealed her
face, leaving nothing visible above the feathers but her great, wide,
never-to-be-forgotten eyes, which had retained all the splendour and
fire of her youth.
The young Greek's duties, however, were not confined to talking to the
Empress on her walks. Sometimes the reader would read. Carrying a book
which she had selected beforehand, he read a few chapters to her during
the rests by the roadside, on the mountain-tops, or at the deserted
edge of the sea. Later, he added the daily budget of cuttings from the
newspapers and reviews which I prepared for Her Majesty, knowing the
interest which she took in the current events of the day.
He also carried on his arm a dark garment--a skirt, in short. The
Empress had the habit, in the course of her long walks, of changing
the skirt in which she had started for one of a lighter material. It
was a question of health and comfort. This little change of attire was
effected in the most primitive fashion. The Empress would disappear
behind a rock or a tree, while the reader, accustomed to this rapid and
discreet proceeding, waited in the road, taking care to look the other
way. The Empress handed him the skirt which she had cast off; and the
walk was resumed.
On returning to the hotel, she made a frugal dinner, consisting
sometimes merely of a bowl of iced milk and some raw eggs washed down
with a glass of Tokay, an almost savage dietary to which she had forced
herself in order to preserve the slimness of figure which she prized
so highly. She took all her meals alone, in a private room, and seldom
passed the evening with her suite. Its members hardly ever set eyes on
her; sometimes the lady-in-waiting spent day after day without so much
as seeing her imperial mistress.
Of the different places in France which Her Majesty visited, the one
which she loved above all others was Cap Martin, the promontory which
separates the Bay of Monaco from that of Mentone. She came here for
three years in succession and returned to it each time with an equal
pleasure. The softness of the climate, the wild beauty of the views,
the splendour of the luxurious vegetation and the poetic solitude of
the pine-forests and orange-groves, reminded her of her property of
Achilleon in the island of Corfu and of her palace of Miramar on the
shores of the Adriatic. She selected as her residence the enormous
hotel that stands at the end of the point, among the tall pines, the
fields of rosemary, the clusters of myrtle and arbutus.
The furniture of the imperial apartments was marked by extreme
simplicity, combined with perfect taste, most of the pieces being of
English workmanship. Her bed-room was just the ordinary hotel bed-room,
with a brass bedstead surmounted by a mosquito net, a mahogany
dressing-table and a few etchings hanging on the walls. On the other
hand, the management had placed beside the bed, at her request, a
system of electric bells distinguished by their colours--white, yellow,
green and blue, which enabled her to summon that person of her suite
whose presence she required, without having to disturb any of the
others.
In addition to the ground floor, one other room was reserved for her on
every Sunday during her visits. This was the billiard-room, which on
that day was transformed into a chapel. When the Empress came to the
Cap Martin Hôtel for the first time, she inquired after a church, for
she was very religious. There was none in the immediate neighbourhood;
to hear mass one had to go to the village of Roquebrune, the parish
to which Cap Martin belongs. The Empress then decided to improvise
a chapel in the hotel itself and, for this purpose, selected the
billiard-room, to which she could repair without attracting attention.
But the rites of the Church require that every room in which mass
is said should first be consecrated; and none save the bishop of
the diocese is qualified to perform the consecration. A ceremony of
this kind in an hotel and in a billiard-room would have been rather
embarrassing. The difficulty was overcome in a curious and unexpected
manner. There is an old rule, by virtue of which the great dignitaries
of the religious Order of Malta enjoy the privilege of consecrating any
room in which they drop their cloak. It was remembered that General
Berzeviczy, the Empress's chamberlain, occupied one of the highest
ranks in the knighthood of Malta. He was therefore asked to drop his
cloak in the billiard-room. Thenceforward, every Sunday morning, the
Empress's footman put up a portable altar in front of the tall oak
chimney-piece. He arranged a number of gilt chairs before it; and the
old rector of Roquebrune came and said mass, served by a little acolyte
to whom the lady-in-waiting handed a gold coin when he went away....
The Empress was extremely generous; and her generosity adopted the most
delicate forms. Herself so sad, she wished to see none but happy faces
ever about her. And so she always distributed lavish gratuities to all
who served her; and she succoured all the poor of the country-side.
Whenever, in the course of her walks, she saw some humble cottage
hidden in the mountain among the olive-trees, she entered it, talked to
the peasants, took the little children on her knees and, as she feared
lest the sudden offer of a sum of money might offend those whom she
was anxious to assist, she employed the most charming subterfuges. She
would ask leave to taste their fruit, paying for it royally ... or else
she bought several quarts of milk, or dozens of eggs, which she told
them to bring to the hotel next day.
She ended, of course, by knowing all the walks at Cap Martin and the
neighbourhood. She set out each morning with her faithful tramping
companion, the Greek reader. Sometimes, she would go along the rocks
on the shore, sometimes wend her way through the woods; sometimes she
would climb the steep hills, scrambling "up to the goats," as the herds
say.... She never mentioned the destination or the direction of her
excursions, a thing which troubled me greatly, notwithstanding that I
had had the whole district searched and explored beforehand. How was I
to look after her?
"Set your mind at ease, my dear M. Paoli," she used to say, laughing.
"Nothing will happen to me. What would you have them do to a poor
woman? Besides, we are no more than the petal of a poppy or a ripple on
the water!"
[Illustration: THE EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA]
Nevertheless, I was not easy, the more so as she obstinately refused to
let one of my men follow her, even at a distance. One evening, however,
having heard that some Italian navvies, who were at work on the Mentone
road, had spoken in threatening terms of the crowned heads who are in
the habit of visiting that part of the country, I begged the Empress to
be pleased not to go in that direction and was promptly snubbed for my
pains.
"More of your fears," she replied. "I repeat, I am not afraid of them
... and I make no promise."
I was determined. I redoubled my supervision and resolved to send one
of my Corsican detectives, fully armed, disguised and got up like a
navvy, with instructions to mix with the Italians who were breaking
stones on the road. He rigged himself out in a canvas jacket and a
pair of corduroy trousers and made up his face to perfection. Speaking
Italian fluently, he diverted all suspicion on the part of his mates,
who took him for a newly-arrived fellow-countryman of their own.
He was there, lynx-eyed, with ears pricked up, doing his best to break
a few stones, when suddenly a figure which he at once recognised
appeared at a turn in the road. The night was beginning to fall;
the Empress, accompanied by her reader, was on her way back to Cap
Martin. Bending over his heap of stones, the sham navvy waited rather
anxiously. When the Empress reached the group of road-makers, she
stopped, hesitated a moment and then, noticing my man, doubtless
because he looked the oldest, went up to him and said, in her kind way:
"Is that hard work you're doing, my good man?"
Not daring to raise his head, he stammered a few words in Italian.
"Don't you speak French?"
"_No, signora._"
"Have you any children?"
"_Si, signora._"
"Then take this for them," slipping a louis into his hand. "Tell them
that it comes from a lady who is very fond of children." And the
Empress walked away.
That same evening, seeing me at the hotel, she came up to me with
laughing eyes:
"Well, M. Paoli, you may scold me, if you like. I have been
disobedient. I went along the Mentone road to-day and I talked to a
navvy."
It was my faithful Corsican.
Sometimes she ventured beyond the radius of her usual walks. For
instance, one afternoon she sent for me on returning from a morning
excursion:
"M. Paoli, you must be my escort to-day. You shall take me to the
Casino at Monte Carlo; I have never been there. I must really, for
once in my life, see what a gambling-room is like."
Off we went--the Empress, Countess Sztaray, and myself. It was decided
that we should go by train. We climbed into a first-class carriage in
which two English ladies were already seated. The Empress, thoroughly
enjoying her _incognito_, sat down beside them. At Monte Carlo, we made
straight for the Casino and walked into the roulette-room. The august
visitor, who had slipped through the crowd of punters leaning over
the table, followed each roll of the ball with her eyes, looking as
pleased and astonished as a child with a new toy. Suddenly, she took a
five-franc piece from her hand-bag:
"Let me see if I have any luck," she said to us. "I believe in number
33."
She put the big coin on number 33 _en plein_. At the first spin of the
wheel, it lost. She put on another and lost again. The third time,
number 33 turned up. The croupier pushed 175 francs across to her with
his rake. She gathered it up, and then, turning gaily to us, said:
"Let us go away quickly. I have never won so much money in my life."
And she dragged us from the Casino.
Whenever she went to Monte Carlo, she never failed to go and have
tea at Rumpelmayer, the famous Viennese confectioner's, for, as I
have already said, she adored pastry and sweets. The Rumpelmayer
establishments at Mentone, Nice and Monte Carlo were well aware of
the identity of their regular customer; but she had asked them not to
betray her _incognito_. When there were many people in the shop, she
would sit down at a little table near the counter; and nobody would
have suspected that the simple, comely lady in black, who talked so
familiarly with the girls in the pay-box and at the counter, was the
Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary.
3.
The Emperor joined the Empress on three occasions during her visits to
Cap Martin. The event naturally created a diversion in the monotony of
our sojourn. Though travelling _incognito_ as Count Hohenembs, he was
accompanied by a fairly numerous suite, whose presence brought a great
animation into our little colony. I had, of course, to redouble my
measures of protection and to send to Paris for an additional force of
detective-inspectors.
Francis Joseph generally spent a fortnight with his consort. I thus
had the opportunity of observing the touching affection which they
displayed to each other, in spite of the gossip of which certain
sections of the press have made themselves the complacent echo. Nothing
could be simpler or more charming than their meetings. As soon as the
train stopped at Mentone station, where the Empress went to wait its
arrival, accompanied by the members of her suite, the Austrian Consul,
the Prefect of the Alpes-Maritimes, the Mayor of Mentone and myself,
the Emperor sprang lightly to the platform and hastened, bare-headed,
to the Empress, whom he kissed on both cheeks. His expressive face,
framed in white whiskers, lit up with a kindly smile. He tucked the
Empress's arm under his own, and, with an exquisite courtesy, addressed
a few gracious words to each of us individually.
During the Emperor's stay, the Empress emerged for a little while
from her state of timid isolation. They walked or drove together and
received visits from the princes staying on the Côte d'Azur or passing
through, notably the Prince of Wales, the Archduke Regnier, the
Tsarevitch, the Prince of Monaco, the King and Queen of Saxony and the
Grand-duke Michael. Sometimes, they would call on the late Queen of
England, at that time installed at Cimiez, or on the Empress Eugénie,
their near neighbour. It was like a miniature copy of the Court of
Vienna, transferred to Cap Martin.
Francis Joseph, faithful to his habits, rose at five o'clock in the
morning and worked with his secretaries. At half-past six, he stopped
to take a cup of coffee and then closeted himself once more in his
study until ten. The wires were kept working almost incessantly between
Cap Martin and Vienna; as many as eighty telegrams have been known to
be dispatched and received in the space of a single morning. From ten
to twelve, the Emperor strolled in the gardens with the Empress.
Francis Joseph often had General Gebhardt, the Governor of Nice, to
dinner and generally took a keen interest in military affairs. When he
went to Mentone to return the visit which President Faure had paid him
at Cap Martin, the French Government sent a regiment of cuirassiers
from Lyons to salute him. The Emperor, struck by the men's fine
bearing, reviewed them and watched them march past.
It also occurred to me, during his stay in the south in the spring of
1896, to obtain an opportunity for His Imperial Majesty to witness a
sham fight planned by the 87th battalion of Alpine Chasseurs on the
height of Roquebrune. The manoeuvres opened one morning at dawn in
the marvellous circle of hills covered with olive-trees and topped by
the snowy summits of the Alps. For two hours, the Emperor followed
the incidents of the fight with close attention, not forgetting to
congratulate the officers warmly at the finish.
On the next day, he invited the officer in command of the battalion,
now General Baugillot, to luncheon. The major was a gallant soldier,
who was more accustomed to the language of the camp than to that of
courts, and he persisted in addressing the Emperor as "Sire" and
"Monsieur" by turns. Francis Joseph smiled, with great amusement. At
last, not knowing what to do, the major cried:
"I beg everybody's pardon! I am more used to mess-rooms than
drawing-rooms!"
The Emperor at once replied:
"Call me whatever you please. I much prefer a soldier to a courtier."
Cap Martin and Aix were not the only places visited by the Empress
of Austria. In the autumn of 1896 she was anxious to see Biarritz;
she returned there in the following year and I again had the honour
of accompanying her. The inclemency of the weather shortened the
stay which she had at first intended to make; and yet the rough and
picturesque poetry of the Basque coast had an undoubted attraction
for her. She spent her days, sometimes, on the steepest points of the
rocks, from which she would watch the tide for hours, often returning
soaked through with spray; at other times, she would roam about the
wild country that stretches to the foot of the Pyrenees, talking to the
Basque peasants and interesting herself in their work.
She had a mania for buying a cow in every district which she visited
for the first time. She chose it herself in the course of her walks and
had it sent to one of her farms in Hungary. As soon as she saw a cow
the colour of whose coat pleased her, she would accost the peasant, ask
the animal's price and tell him to take it to her hotel.
One day, near Biarritz, she saw a magnificent black cow, bought it
then and there, gave her name of Countess Hohenembs to its owner and
sent him to the hotel with her purchase. When he arrived, however, and
asked for Countess Hohenembs, the porter, who had not been prepared,
took him for a madman and tried to send him away. The peasant insisted,
explained what had happened and ended by learning that Countess
Hohenembs was no other than the Empress of Austria. An empress? But
then he had been cheated! And he began to lament and shout and protest
and lose his temper:
"If I had known it was a queen," he yelled, "I'd have asked more money!
I must have a bigger price!"
The discussion lasted for two hours and I had to be called to put a
stop to it.
This was not the only amusing adventure that occurred during the
Empress's stay at Biarritz. One day, returning from an excursion to
Fuentarabia, she stood waiting for a train on the platform of the
little frontier station at Hendaye. The reader, who was with her, had
gone to ask a question of the station-master. The conversation seemed
never-ending and the train arrived. The Empress, losing patience,
called a porter:
"You see that gentleman in black?" she said. "Go and tell him to hurry,
or the train will leave without us."
The porter ran up to the reader and exclaimed:
"Hurry up, or your wife will go without you!"
The Empress, who rarely laughed, was greatly amused at this incident.
The strange form of neurasthenia from which she suffered, instead
of decreasing with time, seemed to become more persistent and more
painful as the years went on; and it ended by gradually impairing her
health. Not that the Empress had a definite illness--she simply felt an
infinite lassitude, a perpetual weariness, against which she tried to
struggle, with an uncommon display of energy, by pursuing her active
life in spite of it, her wandering life and her long daily walks.
She hated medicine and believed that a sound and simple plan of hygiene
was far preferable to any number of doctors' prescriptions. One day,
however, seeing her more tired than usual, I begged her permission
to present her with a few bottles of Vin Mariani, of the restorative
virtues of which I had had personal experience.
"If it gives you any satisfaction," she replied, with a smile, "I
accept. But you must let me, in return, send you some of our famous
Tokay, which is also a restorative and, moreover, very pleasant to
take."
A little while after, Count von Wolkenstein-Trosburg handed me, on
behalf of the Empress, a beautiful liqueur-case containing six little
bottles of Tokay; and I was talking of drinking it after my meals, like
an ordinary dessert-wine, when the count said:
"Do you know that this is a very costly gift? The wine comes direct
from the Emperor's estates. To give you an idea of what it is worth, I
may tell you that, recently, at a sale in Frankfort, six little bottles
fetched eleven thousand francs.... It stands quite alone."
I at once ceased to treat it as a common Madeira. The proprietor of
the hotel, hearing of the present which I had received, offered me
five thousand francs for the six bottles. I need hardly say that I
refused.... I have four bottles left and am keeping them.
Towards the end of the same year, 1897, when she was staying for
the second time at Biarritz, the Empress, feeling more restless and
melancholy than ever, resolved to make a cruise in the Mediterranean on
board her yacht _Miramar_. But she wished first to spend a few days in
Paris.
She had engaged a suite of rooms at an hotel in the Rue Castiglione and
naturally wanted to preserve the strictest _incognito_. Still, it was
known that she was in Paris; and the protection with which I surrounded
her was even more rigorous than before. She was out of doors from
morning till evening, went through the streets on foot to visit the
churches, monuments and museums and at four o'clock called regularly
at a dairy in the Rue de Surène, where she was served with a glass of
ass's milk, her favourite beverage, after which she returned to the
hotel.
One day, however, we had a great alarm; at seven o'clock she was not
yet back. I anxiously sent to her sisters, the Queen of Naples and the
Countess of Trani, to whom she occasionally paid surprise visits. She
was not there. To crown all, she had succeeded in eluding the vigilance
of the inspector who was charged to follow her at a certain distance.
We had lost the Empress in the midst of Paris! Picture our mortal
anxiety!
I was about to set out myself in search of her, when suddenly we saw
her very calmly appearing.
"I have been gazing at Notre Dame by moonlight," she said. "It was
lovely. And I came back on foot along the quays. I went among the crowd
and nobody took the least notice of me."
I remember that her Greek reader, at that time Mr. Barker, and her
secretary, Dr. Kromar, expressed a wish to see something of the
picturesque and characteristic side of Paris; and I took them one
evening to the central markets. When we had finished our visit, I
invited them, in accordance with the traditional habit, to come
and have a plate of _soupe à l'oignon_ in one of the little common
eating-houses in the neighbourhood. Delighted with this modest banquet,
they described their outing to the Empress next day and sang the
praises of our famous national broth, which she had never tasted.
"M. Paoli," she said enthusiastically, "I must know what _soupe
à l'oignon_ is like. Mr. Barker has given me a most tantalising
description."
"Nothing is easier. I will tell the people of the hotel to make you
some."
"Never! They will send me up a carefully-prepared soup which won't
taste in the least like yours. And I must have it served in the
identical crockery. I want all the local colour."
Here I must make a confession: as I had it at heart (it was a
question of patriotism, nothing less) that the Empress should not be
disappointed, I thought it more prudent to apply to the manager of the
hotel, who, kindly lending himself to my innocent fraud, prepared the
onion soup and sent to the nearest bazaar for a plate and soup-tureen
of the "local colour" in which the imperial traveller took so great
an interest. The illusion was perfect. The Empress thought the soup
excellent and the crockery delightfully picturesque; true, we had
chipped it about a little!