The distribution of prizes for the Exposition took place last Thursday at
the Palais de l'Industrie. It was a magnificent affair and a very hot one.
You may imagine what the heat and glare must have been at two o'clock in
the afternoon on a hot July day. I was glad that I was not old and
wrinkled, for every imperfection shone with magnified intensity.
There was a vast platform erected in the middle of the building, which was
covered with a red carpet, and over which hung an enormous canopy of red
velvet and curtains of velvet with the eagle of Napoleon. The Emperor and
Empress sat, of course, in the center, and on each side were the foreign
sovereigns; behind them were their suites and the Imperial family. The
diplomatic corps had their places on the right of the tribune.
The gentlemen, splendid in their gala uniforms, were covered with
decorations, and all the ladies present were _in grande toilette_ and
low-necked, and displayed every jewel they possessed.
The building, huge as it was, was packed full, every available seat
occupied.
The Prince Imperial distributed the prizes. He looked very dignified when
he handed the victors their different medals, accompanying each gift with
his sweet and winning smile.
When Count Zichy, of Hungary, mounted the steps of the throne to receive
his medal (he got a prize for his Hungarian wines) there was a general
murmur of admiration, and I must say that he did look gorgeous in his
national costume, which is a most striking one. He had on all his famous
turquoises. His mantle and coat underneath, and everything except his top-
boots, were encrusted with turquoises, some of them as big as hen's eggs.
They say, when he appears on a gala occasion in his country, his horse's
trappings and saddle are covered with turquoises.
The Sultan sat on the right of the Empress. You never saw anything half as
splendid! A shopful of jewelry could not compare to him. He had a
_collier_ of pearls which might have made a Cleopatra green with jealousy.
He had an enormous diamond which held the high aigrette in place on his
fez and the Great Mogul (I was so told) fastened on his breast. His
costume was magnificent, and his sabre--which I suppose has cut off a head
or so--was a blaze of jewels. He was the _point de mire_ of all eyes;
especially when the rays of the sun caught the rays of his diamonds he
blazed like the sun itself. The sun did all it could in the way of blazing
that day. I know that I never felt anything like the heat in that gigantic
hot-house, the sun pouring through each pane of glass and nothing to
protect one against it. I felt like an exotic flower unfolding its petals.
It was a very pretty little scene, and I think that every one was
impressed when the Prince Imperial went toward the King of Holland to hand
him a medal (probably for Dutch cheese). The tall, stately King rose from
his seat, and on receiving it bowed deeply with great ceremony. The Prince
made a respectful and graceful bow in response, then the King stooped down
and kissed his cheek.
I was tremendously interested when the American exhibitors came forward;
there were many of them, quite a procession. They looked very
distinguished in their simple dress-coats, without any decorations. I was
so glad.
When it was all over it was delightful to get out into the fresh air, even
if we had to stand and wait patiently about like Mary's little lamb until
the carriage did appear, for we had either to wait or to worm our way,
risking horses' tails and hoofs through the surging crowd of bedecked men
and women, who were all clamoring for their servants and carriages.
The coachmen were swearing and shouting as only French coachmen can do on
such occasions as this. The line of carriages reached almost the whole way
down the Champs Élysées. We finally did find ours, and I was glad to seat
myself in it. I had had the forethought to put my hat and mantle in, as we
intended to drive out to Petit Val for dinner. I put my hat over my tiara
and my mantle on my bare shoulders, and enjoyed driving through the shady
streets.
Prince Metternich came out here the other day, I had not seen him since
the tragic death of Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. I never would have
believed that he could be so affected as he seemed to be by this. He cried
like a baby when he told us of the Emperor's last days, of his courage and
fortitude. It seems that, just as he was going to be shot, he went to each
of the men and gave them a twenty-franc gold piece, and said, "I beg you
to shoot straight at my heart."
How dreadful it must have been!
Prince Metternich was most indignant at Rochefort, and says he can never
forgive him because, in an article in _La Lanterne_, he called the royal
martyr "the Archdupe." Auber said:
"You must not forget that Rochefort would rather sell his soul than lose
an occasion to make a clever remark."
"Yes, I know," moaned the Prince. "But how can one be so cruel?"
"C'est un mauvais drôle," Auber answered (don't think Auber meant that
Rochefort was droll; on the contrary, this is a neat way that the French
have of calling a man the _worst kind of a scamp_), and added,
"Rochefort's brains are made of _pétards_," which is the French for
firecrackers.
Auber told many anecdotes. I fancy he wanted to cheer Prince Metternich up
a little. One of them was that, on taking leave of the Emperor, the Shah
had said:
"Sire, your Paris is wonderful, your palaces splendid, and your horses
magnificent, but," waving his hand toward the mature but noble _dames
d'honneur_ with an expression of disapproval, "you must change all
that." Imagine what their feelings would have been had they heard him.