At the Tuileries the Prince de Joinville passes his time doing all
sorts of wild things. One day he turned on all the taps and flooded the
apartments. Another day he cut all the bell ropes. A sign that he is
bored and does not know what to do with himself.
And what bores these poor princes most is to receive and talk to people
ceremoniously. This is almost a daily obligation. They call it--for
princes have their slang--“performing the function.” The Duke de
Montpensier is the only one who performs it gracefully. One day the
Duchess d’Orleans asked him the reason. He replied: “It amuses me.”
He is twenty years old, he is beginning.
When the marriage of M. de Montpensier with the Infanta was published,
the King of the Belgians was sulky with the Tuileries. He is an Orleans,
but he is a Coburg. It was as though his left hand had smitten his right
cheek.
The wedding over, while the young couple were making their way from
Madrid to Paris, King Leopold arrived at Saint Cloud, where King Louis
Philippe was staying. The King of the Belgians wore an air of coldness
and severity. Louis Philippe, after dinner, took him aside into a recess
of the Queen’s drawing-room, and they conversed for fully an hour.
Leopold’s face preserved its thoughtful and *English* expression.
However at the conclusion of the conversation, Louis Philippe said to
him:
“See Guizot.”
“He is precisely the man I do not want to see.”
“See him,” urged the King. “We will resume this conversation when you
have done so.”
The next day M. Guizot waited upon King Leopold. He had with him an
enormous portfolio filled with papers. The King received him. His manner
was cold in the extreme. Both were reserved. It is probable that M.
Guizot communicated to the King of the Belgians all the documents
relative to the marriage and all the diplomatic papers. No one knows
what passed between them. What is certain is that when M. Guizot left
the King’s room Leopold’s air was gracious, though sad, and that he
was heard to say to the Minister as he took leave of him: “I came here
greatly dissatisfied with you. I shall go away satisfied. You have,
in fact, in this affair acquired a new title to my esteem and to our
gratitude. I intended to scold you; I thank you.”
These were the King’s own words.
The Prince de Joinville’s deafness increases. Sometimes it saddens him,
sometimes he makes light of it. One day he said to me: “Speak louder, I
am as deaf as a post.” On another occasion he bent towards me and said
with a laugh:
“_J’abaisse le pavillion de l’oreille._”
“It is the only one your highness will ever lower,” I replied.
M. de Joinville is of somewhat queer disposition. Now he is joyous to
the point of folly, anon gloomy as a hypochondriac. He is silent for
three days at a time, or his bursts of laughter are heard in the very
attics of the Tuileries. When he is on a voyage he rises at four o’clock
in the morning, wakes everybody up and performs his duties as a
sailor conscientiously. It is as though he were to win his epaulettes
afterwards.
He loves France and feels all that touches her. This explains his fits
of moodiness. Since he cannot talk as he wants to, he keeps his thoughts
to himself, and this sours him, He has spoken more than once, however,
and bravely. He was not listened to and he was not heeded. “They needn’t
talk about me,” he said to me one day, “it is they who are deaf!”
Unlike the late Duke d’Orleans, he has no princely coquettishness, which
is such a victorious grace, and has no desire to appear agreeable. He
rarely seeks to please individuals. He loves the nation, the country,
his profession, the sea. His manner is frank, he has a taste for noisy
pleasures, a fine appearance, a handsome face, with a kind heart, and
a few feats of arms to his credit that have been exaggerated; he is
popular.
M. de Nemours is just the contrary. At court they say: “There is
something unlucky about the Duke de Nemours.”
M. de Montpensier has the good sense to love, to esteem and to honour
profoundly the Duchess d’Orleans.
The other day there was a masked and costumed ball, but only for the
family and the intimate court circle--the princesses and ladies of
honour. M. de Joinville appeared all in rags, in complete Chicard
costume. He was extravagantly gay and danced a thousand unheard-of
dances. These capers, prohibited elsewhere, rendered the Queen
thoughtful. “Wherever did he learn all this?” she asked, and added:
“What naughty dances! Fie!” Then she murmured: “How graceful he is!”
Mme. de Joinville was dressed as a bargee and affected the manner of a
street gamin. She likes to go to those places that the court detests the
most, *the theatres and concerts of the boulevards*.
The other day she greatly shocked Mme. de Hall, the wife of an admiral,
who is a Protestant and Puritan, by asking her: “Madame, have you seen
the “Closerie des Genêts”?”
The Prince de Joinville had imagined a nuisance that exasperated the
Queen. He procured an old barrel organ somewhere, and would enter her
apartments playing it and singing in a hoarse, grating voice. The Queen
laughed at first. But it lasted a quarter of an hour, half an hour.
“Joinville, stop it!” He continued to grind away. “Joinville, go away!”
The prince, driven out of one door, entered by another with his organ,
his songs and his hoarseness. Finally the Queen fled to the King’s
apartments.
The Duchess d’Aumale did not speak French very fluently; but as soon as
she began to speak Italian, the Italian of Naples, she thrilled like a
fish that falls back into the water, and gesticulated with Neapolitan
verve. “Put your hands in your pockets,” the Duke d’Aumale would say to
her. “I shall have to have your hands tied. Why do you gesticulate like
that?”
“I didn’t notice it,” the princess would reply.
“That is true, she doesn’t notice it,” said the Prince to me one day.
“You wouldn’t believe it, but my mother, who is so dignified, so cold,
so reserved when she is speaking French, begins gesticulating like
Punchinello when by chance she speaks Neapolitan.”
The Duke de Montpensier salutes passers-by graciously and gaily. The
Duke d’Aumale does not salute more often than he is compelled to; at
Neuilly they say he is afraid of ruffling his hair. The Duke de
Nemours manifests less eagerness than the Duke de Montpensier and
less negligence than the Duke d’Aumale; moreover, women say that when
saluting them he looks at them in a most embarrassing way.
Donizetti’s “Elixir of Love” was performed at court on February 5, 1847,
by the Italian singers, the Persiani, Mario, Tagliafico. Ronconi acted
(acted is the word, for he acted very well) the role of Dulcamara,
usually represented by Lablache. It was in the matter of size, but
not of talent, a giant in the place of a dwarf. The decoration of the
theatre at the Tuileries was then still the same as it had been in the
time of the Empire--designs in gold on a grey background, the ensemble
being cold and pale.
There were few pretty women present. Mme. Cuvillier-Floury was the
prettiest; Mme. V. H. the most handsome. The men were in uniform or
full evening dress. Two officers of the Empire were conspicuous in their
uniforms of that period. Count Dutaillis, a one-armed soldier of the
Empire, wore the old uniform of a general of division, embroidered
with oak leaves to the facings. The big straight collar reached to his
occiput; his star of the Legion of Honour was all dented; his embroidery
was rusty and dull. Count de Lagrange, an old beau, wore a white
spangled waistcoat, black silk breeches, white, or rather pink,
stockings; shoes with buckles on them, a sword at his side, a black
dress coat, and a peer’s hat with white plumes in it. Count Dutaillis
was a greater success than Count de Lagrange. The one recalled Monaco
and Trenitz; the other recalled Wagram.
M. Thiers, who the previous day had made a somewhat poor speech, carried
opposition to the point of wearing a black cravat.
The Duchess de Montpensier, who had attained her fifteenth birthday
eight days before, wore a large crown of diamonds and looked very
pretty. M. de Joinville was absent. The three other princes were there
in lieutenant-general’s uniform with the star and grand cordon of the
Legion of Honour. M. de Montpensier alone wore the order of the Golden
Fleece.
Mme. Ronconi, a handsome person, but of a wild and savage beauty, was in
a small box on the stage, in rear of the proscenium. She attracted much
attention.
There was no applause, which chilled the singers and everybody else.
Five minutes before the piece terminated the King began to pack up. He
folded his programme and put it in his pocket, then he wiped the glasses
of his opera-glass, closed it up carefully, looked round for the case
which he had laid on his chair, placed the glass in it and adjusted
the hooks very scrupulously. There was a good deal of character in his
methodical manner.
M. de Rambuteau was there. His latest “rambutisms” (the word was Alexis
de Saint-Priest’s) were recounted among the audience. It was said that
on the last day of the year M. de Rambuteau wrote on his card: “M.
de Rambuteau et Venus,” or as a variation: “M. de Rambuteau, Venus en
personne.”
Wednesday, February 24, the Duke de Nemours gave a concert at the
Tuileries. The singers were Mlle. Grisi, Mme. Persiani, a Mme. Corbari,
Mario, Lablache and Ronconi. M. Aubert, who conducted, did not put any
of his own music on the programme: Rossini, Mozart, and Donizetti, that
was all.
The guests arrived at half-past eight. The Duke de Nemours lives on
the first floor of the Pavilion de Marsan, over the apartments of the
Duchess d’Orleans. The guests waited in a first salon until the doors of
the grand salon were opened, the women seated, the men standing. As soon
as the prince and princess appeared the doors were thrown wide open and
everybody went in. This grand salon is a very fine room. The ceiling is
evidently of the time of Louis XIV. The wails are hung with green damask
striped with gold. The inner window curtains are of red damask. The
furniture is in green and gold damask. The ensemble is royal.
The King and Queen of the Belgians were at this concert. The Duke de
Nemours entered with the Queen, his sister, upon his arm, the King
giving his arm to the Duchess de Nemours. Mmes. d’Aumale and de
Montpensier followed. The Queen of the Belgians resembles the Queen of
the French, save in the matter of age. She wore a sky-blue toque, Mme.
d’Aumale a wreath of roses, Mme. de Montpensier a diadem of diamonds,
Mme. de Nemours her golden hair. The four princesses sat in high-backed
chairs opposite the piano; all the other women sat behind them; the men
were in the rear, filling the doorway and the first salon. The King of
the Belgians has a rather handsome and grave face, and a delicate and
agreeable smile; he was seated to the left of the princesses.
The Duke de Brogue sat on his left. Next to the Duke were Count Mole and
M. Dupin senior. M. de Salvandy, seeing an empty chair to the right of
the King, seated himself upon it. All five wore the red sash, including
M. Dupin. These four men about the King of the Belgians represented the
old military nobility, the parliamentary aristocracy, the pettifogging
bourgeoisie, and moonshine literature; that is to say, a little of what
France possesses that is illustrious, and a little of what she possesses
that is ridiculous.
MM. d’Aumale and de Montpensier were to the right in the recess of a
window with the Duke of Wurtemberg, whom they called their “brother
Alexander.” All the princes wore the grand cordon and star of Leopold
in honour of the King of the Belgians; MM. de Nemours and de Montpensier
also wore the Golden Fleece. The Fleece of M. de Montpensier was of
diamonds, and magnificent.
The Italian singers sang standing by the piano. When seated they
occupied chairs with wooden backs.
The Prince de Joinville was absent, as was also his wife. It was
said that lately he was the hero of a love affair. M. de Joinville is
prodigiously strong. I heard a big lackey behind me say: “I shouldn’t
care to receive a slap from him.” While he was strolling to his
rendezvous M. de Joinville thought he noticed that he was being
followed. He turned back, went up to the fellow and struck him.
After the first part of the concert MM. d’Aumale and de Montpensier came
into the other salon where I had taken refuge with Théophile Gautier,
and we chatted for fully an hour. The two princes spoke to me at length
about literary matters, about “Les Burgraves,” “Ruy Blas,” “Lucrèce
Borgia,” Mme. Halley, Mlle. Georges, and Frédérick Lemaitre. Also a good
deal about Spain, the royal wedding, bull-fights, hand-kissings,
and etiquette, that M. de Montpensier “detests.” “The Spaniards love
royalty,” he added, “and especially etiquette. In politics as in
religion they are bigots rather than believers. They were greatly
shocked during the wedding fetes because the Queen one day dared to
venture out afoot!”
MM. d’Aumale and de Montpensier are charming young men, bright, gay,
gracious, witty, sincere, full of that ease that communicates itself to
others. They have a fine air. They are princes; they are perhaps men of
intellect. M. de Nemours is embarrassed and embarrassing. When he comes
towards you with his blond whiskers, his blue eyes, his red sash, his
white waistcoat and his melancholy air he perturbs you. He never looks
you in the face. He always casts about for something to say and never
knows what he does say.
November 5, 1847.
Four years ago the Duke d’Aumale was in barracks at Courbevoie with the
17th, of which he was then colonel. During the summer, in the morning,
after the manoeuvres which took place at Neuilly, he frequently strolled
back along the river bank, alone, his hands behind his back. Nearly
every day he happened upon a pretty girl named Adele Protat, who every
morning went from Courbevoie to Neuilly and returned at the same hour
as M. d’Aumale. The young girl noticed the young officer in undress
uniform, but was not aware that he was a prince. At length they struck
up an acquaintance, and walked and chatted together. Under the influence
of the sun, the flowers, and the fine mornings something very much like
love sprang up between them. Adele Protat thought she had to do with a
captain at the most. He said to her: “Come and see me at Courbevoie.”
She refused. Feebly.
One evening she was passing near Neuilly in a boat. Two young men were
bathing. She recognized her officer.
“There is the Duke d’Aumale,” said the boatman.
“Really!” said she, and turned pale.
The next day she had ceased to love him. She had seen him naked, and
knew that he was a prince.