The Elysée National, which has been appropriated as the residence
of Louis Napoleon, is an edifice which has gone through many
changes of masters. Situated in the Rue Fauxbourg St Honoré, with
a façade behind towards the far-famed Champs-Elysées, it enjoys
one of the most agreeable localities in Paris. Externally it makes
no great appearance, being shut in by a lofty wall in front; but
in internal arrangements the house is elegant, with suites of
grand apartments, common to the palaces of France. The builder and
first proprietor of the Elysée was the wealthy Count d'Evreux, in
the era of the Regent, Philip of Orleans, at the beginning of the
eighteenth century. After this it became crown property, but for no
long time.
One day, in the year 1743, Madame de Pompadour entered Louis XV.'s
apartments, complaining of a dreadful headache. The king had made
her a marchioness and a lady-in-waiting; he had laden her with
honours and wealth. But this did not satisfy her, for unworthy
favourites are never content: they were the revolutionists of those
days.
'Is anything the matter with you, madame?' inquired the king
anxiously, observing her downcast looks.
'Alas! I have no hôtel!' replied Madame de Pompadour.
'Is that all?' exclaimed the sovereign; and the same day the Hôtel
d'Evreux was purchased for her: it need hardly be added, at the
king's cost. A little while after, Madame de Pompadour was again
severely incommoded by a distracting headache. Like questions from
the monarch, and new complaints from the favourite.
'My hôtel is but a citizen's dwelling in comparison with Choisy
and Trianon. Its interior is so antique and formal! I really seem
to exist among the ghosts of a past century. In short, I am dying
there of languor and ennui.'
'Live, fair lady! and let your abode be the temple of fashion.'
This was quite enough for La Pompadour, who, being a connoisseur in
painting, sent next day for Boucher and Vanloo, and installed them
in the Hôtel d'Evreux. The ceilings and panels were quickly peopled
with rosy Cupids playing amid shepherds and shepherdesses: the gilt
cornices were wreathed in flowers. The talents of the architect,
L'Assurance, were also put into requisition, and the building
greatly enlarged. Once more the king's purse was obliged to meet
all the consequent demands for these improvements. L'Assurance,
being his controller, took care to exercise no control whatever
over the whims of the favourite. From thenceforth Madame de
Pompadour held her court at the Hôtel d'Evreux. Courtly equipages
began to crowd around it: balls and _petits-soupers_ enlivened its
halls.
On one occasion the queen of the place assumed the part of an
actress, and after rehearsing her part with the Dukes de Chartres
and Duras, and Madames de Brancas and d'Estrades, in her own
saloon, they all set off in great style, and performed a little
piece in the king's cabinet of medals. Another day, Crébillon,
Voltaire, and all those _beaux-esprits_ who sported on the brink
of a volcano, were gathered around the marquise, to whom they
addressed epigrams and madrigals. Voltaire, whose paw of velvet
concealed a tearing claw, combined the madrigal and the epigram in
the following verses:--
Que tous vos jours soient marqués par des fêtes;
Que de nouveaux succès marquent ceux de Louis.
Vivez tous deux sans ennemis
Et gardez tous deux vos conquêtes.
Madame de Pompadour felt only the velvet; but the king felt
the claw; and Voltaire became an exile, and lost his office of
gentleman of the bedchamber. From that day forth the cat-like
genius of Voltaire scratched those whom he had hitherto caressed:
so easy is the transition from a flatterer to a foe!
But who is this other original who appears at the Hôtel d'Evreux?
He is young and handsome, or at least he appears to be so, for
his age is a problem. He pretends to have existed during the days
of the _Fronde_, which would make him a centenarian. His friends
declare that he has found the Philosopher's Stone; that he can
renew his youth when he pleases; that he can read the past, the
present, and the future. The fact is, that his origin is unknown;
and so is his fortune. His wealth seems to be unbounded and
exhaustless: his prodigality is carried to excess: he speaks every
language, understands every science, cultivates every art: his wit
is so lively, his eloquence so full of captivation, that he is able
to make falsehood assume the air of truth: his whole life is, in
fact, but a fable in action. Some people regard him as a demi-god,
some take him for a devil; one affirms that he is a sorcerer,
another that he is a magnetiser. It may easily be conceived that he
becomes an idol in the frivolous and wonder-loving court of Louis
XV.; nor is it less to be expected that La Pompadour should attract
him to her magic circle. There he creates as great a sensation
as at Versailles. One day the king comes purposely for the sake
of having a private conversation with him. He interrogates him
closely, hoping to win from him his secret: but all in vain. The
Proteus escapes through a thousand windings, and charms Louis XV.
without betraying himself to him. This wonderful, this inexplicable
man, was the famous Count de St Germain.
Another day the favourite expresses her suspicion that the diamonds
he wears are all false. Just at that moment he enters her saloon,
sparkling from head to foot. His lace ruffles are fastened with
rubies; his fingers are covered with rings; his shoe-buckles are
valued at 200,000 livres. Madame de Pompadour, quite dazzled by
this sparkling magnificence, asks if he is not afraid of risking
so much wealth by wearing it about his person. St Germain guesses
the suspicion, and answers it by taking out of his pocket a box.
This box is full of jewels. The count intreats of Madame du Hausset
(the favourite's _dame de compagnie_) to accept a small diamond
cross. At length she is prevailed on to do so. It is immediately
shown to the court jeweller, who values it at a hundred louis. Soon
afterwards this strange personage disappears. His exit from the
fashionable world is as mysterious as had been his _entrée_ into it.
On Madame de Pompadour's death, the Hôtel d'Evreux reverted
to Louis XV., and became first the residence of ambassadors
extraordinary, and was afterwards used as the wardrobe of the
crown, until in 1773, when it was purchased by Monsieur de Beaujon.
M. de Beaujon was the Crœsus of that time, but a Crœsus who devoted
his wealth to the encouragement of art, and to the succour of the
indigent. The Hôtel d'Evreux became in his hands a depository of
all that was choice and beautiful in the fine-arts. The marbles of
Tassant, of Guyard, of Pajou; the tapestries of the Gobelins; the
paintings of Vanloo, of Rubens, Teniers, Poussin, Guido, Murillo,
&c. besides innumerable articles of _virtù_, were to be found in
his saloons; and in one of the alcoves was placed a large mirror,
so situated as to reflect the Champs-Elysées as in a beautiful
landscape.
M. de Beaujon died in peace at his charming hôtel; but he had
previously sold it to Louis XVI. This prince parted with it to
Madame de Bourbon, the Princess de Lamballe's friend. Brief,
however, was this lady's enjoyment of her charming residence. The
Revolution approached, and she fled from France: so it passed into
the hands of a certain Sieur Hovyn, who made it a place of public
amusement, and all Paris danced, and played, and sang within its
precincts, as they did at a later time at Tivoli.
One day these noisy gaieties were disturbed by sounds of a sadder
and yet ruder nature. On the Place Louis XV., now become the Place
de la Révolution, large bodies of troops were assembled; cries of
savage fury echoed on every side; one voice of peace alone uttered
its gentle tones, 'Son of St Louis, ascend to Heaven!' Then came
shouts of 'Vive la République!' It was Louis XVI., who had been
immolated on the altar of Terror. Unhappily, for a time such scenes
were but too common in Paris: every heart was filled with either
rage or terror, and the voice of joy was no longer heard among the
people. There was neither music nor dancing at the Hôtel d'Evreux.
After Thermidor, however, it was re-opened to the public by some
speculators, who had purchased it of the nation. In the time of the
Directory and Consulate, the waltz and the quadrille flourished
within its princely walls. Every victory of Bonaparte's was
celebrated at the hamlet of Chantilly, for so was the newly-opened
garden now called. But the Empire approaches, raising up some
crowns, and creating others. In 1805, a handsome hussar becomes
the purchaser of L'Elysée. He enters it on horseback, orders it
to be repaired and richly decorated; and beneath the influence of
his magic wand it quickly becomes once more a palace. That wand,
unfortunately, is a sabre, and it is not swayed by the hand of
taste. Luxury reappears, without elegance: the graceful fancies of
Pompadour and of Beaujon are replaced by the heavy splendour of the
Empire: the grand saloon alone is spared by the new master. This
new master is Joachim Murat.
Madame Murat--the beautiful Marie Bonaparte--celebrated the
victories of her husband and her brother by brilliant fêtes at the
Elysée. It was there that she received the bulletins of Austerlitz
and Jena; it was there she received the tidings of her being the
queen of Naples. She resigned herself to her fate, and without a
sigh, abandoned her Parisian hôtel for the Neapolitan throne.
L'Elysée, now restored to the domain of the crown, soon saw beneath
its roof a little spare man, of lively disposition, and yet brusque
and pensive by nature. With booted spurs, and his hand wrapped
within his gray _capote_, he paced up and down its shady walks.
This little man was the Emperor Napoleon. L'Elysée was a favourite
residence of his, and he often dwelt there. There was but one thing
he regretted in the garden--a straight and well-covered avenue,
where he could walk on, engrossed in his own thoughts, without
looking before him. These were some of his happiest days. He had
still his guardian angel by his side--his Josephine. L'Elysée was
for a long while their paradise. But a day came in which Josephine
entered it alone bathed in tears. She was no longer empress, but it
was not for this she wept: it was for the lost love of her husband,
who cast her off with the hope of obtaining from another consort
the long-desired heir to his vast dominions. In her retreat at
L'Elysée, Josephine was consoled by the tender affection of her
daughter, the Queen Hortense, and a few friends who clung to her in
the hour of her adverse fortune.
In 1814, Napoleon quitted both L'Elysée and France. Another
emperor, victorious in his turn, entered his cabinet, and exclaimed
aloud, 'How many gigantic enterprises have been conceived in this
unpretending apartment! And how wonderful was that intellect which
could at once direct so many plans!' This emperor was Alexander
of Russia. The following year Napoleon reappeared for a moment at
L'Elysée. It was there that, on the 22d of June 1815, the Eagle,
wounded at Waterloo, received its deathblow. It was seized by
England, in the name of all Europe, and, by a stern necessity,
cast upon the far-off rock of St Helena.
Inhabited under the Restoration by the Duke de Berri until his
murder by Louvel, then by the Infant Don Miguel, and by the king
of Naples: appropriated during Louis-Philippe's reign to the use
of divers illustrious visitors, amongst whom were Ibrahim Pacha,
the Bey of Tunis, and the Infanta of Spain, L'Elysée Bourbon was
at length reserved as a dowry-palace for the Queen Marie-Amelia,
in the contemplated possibility of her widowhood; but its future
hostess having been obliged, like some of its former owners, to
fly from her country, its portals were opened to a new master in
December 1848, when, under the name of L'Elysée National, it became
the residence of the President of the Republic--of a nephew of
that Emperor who had said on leaving that very palace thirty-three
years before, 'It is only with _my name_ that France can hope to
become free, happy, and independent.' Such have been the fortunes
of L'Elysée National! Who can presume to say what destiny may yet
be in store for it?