Louis Bonaparte gave his first dinner last evening, Saturday the 23rd,
two days after his elevation to the Presidency of the Republic.
The Chamber had adjourned for the Christmas holidays. I was at home in
my new lodging in the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne, occupied with I know
not what bagatelles, _totus in illis_, when a letter addressed to me and
brought by a dragoon was handed to me. I opened the envelope, and this
is what I read:
The orderly officer on duty has the honour to inform Monsieur the
General Changarnier that he is invited to dinner at the Elysee-National
on Saturday, at 7 o’clock.
I wrote below it: “Delivered by mistake to M. Victor Hugo,” and sent
the letter back by the dragoon who had brought it. An hour later came
another letter from M. de Persigny, Prince Louis’s former companion
in plots, to-day his private secretary. This letter contained profuse
apologies for the error committed and advised me that I was among
those invited. My letter had been addressed by mistake to M. Conti, the
Representative from Corsica.
At the head of M. de Persigny’s letter, written with a pen, were the
words: “Household of the President.”
I remarked that the form of these invitations was exactly similar to the
form employed by King Louis Philippe. As I did not wish to do anything
that might resemble intentional coldness, I dressed; it was half past 6,
and I set out immediately for the Elysee.
Half past 7 struck as I arrived there.
As I passed I glanced at the sinister portal of the Praslin mansion
adjoining the Elysee. The large green carriage entrance, enframed
between two Doric pillars of the time of the Empire, was closed, gloomy,
and vaguely outlined by the light of a street lamp. One of the double
doors of the entrance to the Elysee was closed; two soldiers of the line
were on guard. The court-yard was scarcely lighted, and a mason in his
working clothes with a ladder on his shoulder was crossing it; nearly
all the windows of the outhouses on the right had been broken, and were
mended with paper. I entered by the door on the perron. Three servants
in black coats received me; one opened the door, another took my mantle,
the third said: “Monsieur, on the first floor!” I ascended the grand
staircase. There were a carpet and flowers on it, but that chilly and
unsettled air about it peculiar to places into which one is moving.
On the first floor an usher asked:
“Monsieur has come to dinner?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are they at table?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“In that case, I am off.”
“But, Monsieur,” exclaimed the usher, “nearly everybody arrived after
the dinner had begun; go in. Monsieur is expected.”
I remarked this military and imperial punctuality, which used to be
customary with Napoleon. With the Emperor 7 o’clock meant 7 o’clock.
I crossed the ante-chamber, then a salon, and entered the dining-room.
It was a square room wainscotted in the Empire style with white wood.
On the walls were engravings and pictures of very poor selection, among
them “Mary Stuart listening to Rizzio,” by the painter Ducis. Around the
room was a sideboard. In the middle was a long table with rounded ends
at which about fifteen guests were seated. One end of the table, that
furthest from the entrance, was raised, and here the President of the
Republic was seated between two women, the Marquise de Hallays-Coëtquen,
née Princess de Chimay (Tallien) being on his right, and Mme. Conti,
mother of the Representative, on his left.
The President rose when I entered. I went up to him. We grasped each
other’s hand.
“I have improvised this dinner,” he said. “I invited only a few dear
friends, and I hoped that I could comprise you among them. I thank you
for coming. You have come to me, as I went to you, simply. I thank you.”
He again grasped my hand. Prince de la Moskowa, who was next to General
Changarnier, made room for me beside him, and I seated myself at the
table. I ate quickly, for the President had interrupted the dinner
to enable me to catch up with the company. The second course had been
reached.
Opposite to me was General Rulhières, an ex-peer, the Representative
Conti and Lucien Murat. The other guests were unknown to me. Among them
was a young major of cavalry, decorated with the Legion of Honour. This
major alone was in uniform; the others wore evening dress. The Prince
had a rosette of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole.
Everybody conversed with his neighbour. Louis Bonaparte appeared to
prefer his neighbour on the right to his neighbour on the left. The
Marquise de Hallays is thirty-six years old, and looks her age. Fine
eyes, not much hair, an ugly mouth, white skin, a shapely neck, charming
arms, the prettiest little hands in the world, admirable shoulders. At
present she is separated from M. de Hallays. She has had eight children,
the first seven by her husband. She was married fifteen years ago.
During the early period of their marriage she used to fetch her husband
from the drawing-room, even in the daytime, and take him off to bed.
Sometimes a servant would enter and say: “Madame the Marquise is asking
for Monsieur the Marquis.” The Marquis would obey the summons. This made
the company who happened to be present laugh. To-day the Marquis and
Marquise have fallen out.
“She was the mistress of Napoleon, son of Jerome, you know,” said Prince
de la Moskowa to me, sotto voce, “now she is Louis’s mistress.”
“Well,” I answered, “changing a Napoleon for a Louis is an everyday
occurrence.”
These bad puns did not prevent me from eating and observing.
The two women seated beside the President had square-topped chairs. The
President’s chair was surmounted with a little round top. As I was about
to draw some inference from this I looked at the other chairs and saw
that four or five guests, myself among them, had chairs similar to that
of the President. The chairs were covered with red velvet with gilt
headed nails. A more serious thing I noticed was that everybody
addressed the President of the Republic as “Monseigneur” and “your
Highness.” I who had called him “Prince,” had the air of a demagogue.
When we rose from table the Prince asked after my wife, and then
apologized profusely for the rusticity of the service.
“I am not yet installed,” he said. “The day before yesterday, when I
arrived here, there was hardly a mattress for me to sleep upon.”
The dinner was a very ordinary one, and the Prince did well to excuse
himself. The service was of common white china and the silverware
bourgeois, worn, and gross. In the middle of the table was a rather fine
vase of craquelé, ornamented with ormolu in the bad taste of the time of
Louis XVI.
However, we heard music in an adjoining hall.
“It is a surprise,” said the President to us, “they are the musicians
from the Opera.”
A minute afterwards programmes written with a pen were handed round.
They indicated that the following five selections were being played:
1. Priere de la “Muette.”
2. Fantaisie sur des airs favoris de la “Reine Hortense.”
3. Final de “Robert Bruce”.
4. “Marche Republicaine.”
5. “La Victoire,” pas redoublé.
In the rather uneasy state of mind I, like the whole of France, was in
at that moment, I could not help remarking this “Victory” piece coming
after the “Republican March.”