There entered my drawing-room in the Place Royale one morning in March,
1848, a man of medium height, about sixty-five or sixty-six years of
age, dressed in black, a red and blue ribbon in his buttonhole, and
wearing patent-leather boots and white gloves. He was Jerome Napoleon,
King of Westphalia.
He had a very gentle voice, a charming though somewhat timid smile,
straight hair turning grey, and something of the profile of the Emperor.
He came to thank me for the permission that had been accorded to him to
return to France, which he attributed to me, and begged me to get him
appointed Governor of the Invalides. He told me that M. Crémieux, one of
the members of the Provisional Government, had said to him the previous
day:
“If Victor Hugo asks Lamartine to do it, it will be done. Formerly
everything depended upon an interview between two emperors; now
everything depends upon an interview between two poets.”
“Tell M. Crémieux that it is he who is the poet,” I replied to King
Jerome with a smile.
In November, 1848, the King of Westphalia lived on the first floor
above the entresol at No. 3, Rue d’Alger. It was a small apartment with
mahogany furniture and woollen velvet upholstering.
The wall paper of the drawing-room was grey. The room was lighted by two
lamps and ornamented by a heavy clock in the Empire style and two
not very authentic pictures, although the frame of one bore the name:
“Titiens,” and the frame of the other the name: “Rembrandt.” On the
mantelpiece was a bronze bust of Napoleon, one of those familiar and
inevitable busts that the Empire bequeathed us.
The only vestiges of his royal existence that remained to the prince
were his silverware and dinner service, which were ornamented with royal
crowns richly engraved and gilded.
Jerome at that time was only sixty-four years old, and did not look his
age. His eyes were bright, his smile benevolent and charming, and his
hands small and still shapely. He was habitually attired in black with
a gold chain in his buttonhole from which hung three crosses, the Legion
of Honour, the Iron Crown, and his Order of Westphalia created by him in
imitation of the Iron Crown.
Jerome talked well, with grace always and often with wit. He was full
of reminiscences and spoke of the Emperor with a mingled respect and
affection that was touching. A little vanity was perceptible; I would
have preferred pride.
Moreover he received with bonhomie all the varied qualifications which
were brought upon him by his strange position of a man who was no
longer king, no longer proscribed, and yet was not a citizen. Everybody
addressed him as he pleased. Louis Philippe called him “Highness,”
M. Boulay de la Meurthe “Sire” or “Your Majesty,” Alexandre Dumas
“Monseigneur,” I addressed him as “Prince,” and my wife called him
“Monsieur.” On his card he wrote “General Bonaparte.” In his place I
would have understood his position. King or nothing.