The Princess von Metternich—The Lady of the Luxembourg Gardens
Paris was very dull in the way of entertainments and parties after the
Commune, and people spoke of hardly anything but the siege. Mrs. Healy,
an aunt of Viscount Dillon, who lived in the same house as my parents in
the Rue d’Albe, her _appartement_ being on the _entresol_, had remained
there throughout the siege and the Commune, and told us that she had
always contrived to get everything she wanted in the way of eatables,
though she had had to pay an enormously high price for them; twenty
francs a pound, for instance, for butter, which she obtained as well as
eggs and meat, and consequently was never obliged to dine off a mouse
or any delicacy of that description, like most of the people in Paris.
Theobald, Lord Dillon, often came to see his aunt, and one day he related
to us how he had become acquainted with Sims Reeves, and how he had been
the means of the latter continuing his studies at Milan as a singer. It
was entirely through Lord Dillon’s generosity that Sims Reeves became so
well known, as he had advanced him a large sum of money. Albani was also
first brought into notice in England by Lord Dillon, who was so enchanted
with her beautiful voice that he soon made known to everybody the
“star” he had discovered. Albani was a frequent guest at his beautiful
country-seat, Ditchley Park, for he and Lady Dillon not only admired her
most exquisite voice, but her very charming personality as well.
The last time I met Lord Dillon was on the pier at Brighton, when I
happened to be on leave from Aldershot, where my regiment was then
stationed; and, I remember, I introduced Lord Headley to him, at the
former’s request. The two noblemen discussed politics, upon which subject
they did not agree. Later the same day, I introduced two young officers
to Lord Dillon, as he told me he was very fond of young men, he himself
being then an old man. The officers in question were both Old Etonians
and attached to my regiment. One was Richard Sutton, a son of Sir Richard
Sutton, who died before his father; the other, the present Sir Charles E.
C. Hartopp, a nephew of the Duke of Norfolk, who had just been staying at
Arundel with his uncle.
I happened to meet Whitehead, a correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_,
who had remained in Paris during the siege. I asked him whether he was
not at all alarmed at the time, to which he replied that he did not know
what fear meant, and had never been afraid of anything in his life.
I was still at Eton, but came to Paris for my holidays, and one evening
went to a ball, at which I recollect the Princess von Metternich, wife of
the Austrian Ambassador, was present, and that she left after remaining
only half an hour. Sir Edward Malet, who was then First Secretary at the
British Embassy, led the cotillion. It was a terribly dull affair, and I
was quite glad to get away. Evidently, the Princess von Metternich saw at
a glance what it was like, and only waited until her carriage returned,
or no doubt she would have left even sooner. The Princess spoke English
just like an Englishwoman, and when she spoke in German interlarded every
sentence with French words, as all the Austrian nobility do. She had
plenty of _esprit_, and when I saw her in recent years in Vienna, she
always used to make use of the late Baron Nathan de Rothschild to assist
her in collecting money for the poor of the city, and—some people were
malicious enough to say—for herself as well. She had such a way of asking
for charitable contributions that she scarcely ever met with a refusal,
and never indeed from “her little Jew,” as she was accustomed to call
Baron Nathan.
After I left Eton, I returned to Paris, and, as it was summer, I often
walked in the Luxembourg Gardens, where it was very pleasant to sit
beneath the trees and read a book. One day, I happened to be sitting near
a fountain which contained some gold fish. On the same seat sat a young
girl with fair hair, who appeared entirely absorbed in a book which she
was reading, and from which she did not raise her eyes for a moment. I
asked her what was the name of the novel in which she was so interested.
She answered that it was not a novel at all, but a serious modern French
work on philosophy. And she handed it to me. I was not a little curious
to know why she read such books, and questioned her on the matter, when
she replied that they were the only ones capable of distracting her
thoughts, and that, as her own life had been like a novel, she avoided
such stories, for they usually reminded her of her own experiences, and
made her sadder than ever. I inquired if she would mind letting me know
her own history, and, at the same time, studied her more attentively than
before. She was a fair girl, with blue eyes with long black eyelashes,
a very clear complexion and long wavy hair. Her features were small and
rather regular, and she had very fine teeth and a beautiful figure.
She was dressed in deep mourning, and her petticoat was trimmed with
Valenciennes lace, of which I could just catch a glimpse when she raised
her tiny foot occasionally. She acceded to my request, and related to me
the following story:—
“I was living with my parents in the country, when an aunt of mine asked
me to come to Paris, saying that she would have me taught dressmaking. On
my arrival in Paris, I went to live with my aunt and became an apprentice
at a dressmaker’s shop, which had a number of customers among the ladies
of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. One morning, when I was on my way to
business, I noticed that a gentleman was following me, but it was not
until some days later that I made his acquaintance, when he told me that
he had fallen in love with me, and offered to furnish an _appartement_
for me, and to give me three louis a day to spend as I pleased. Soon
afterwards I left my aunt, and not only did this gentleman carry out his
promise, but gave me my own servants and carriage and horses. As I had
not received very much education, I had various masters, one to teach
me to speak and write French correctly, another for the piano, a third
for singing. As for reading, I never had any taste for the rubbish which
most girls affect, but studied the works of Racine, Corneille, Rousseau
and Voltaire.[18] I gradually developed a passion for philosophy, and
can say that I have read most of the works of the great philosophers,
both ancient and modern, in French. I enjoyed my life thoroughly, and,
as I was only sixteen and quite without experience of the world, I was
foolish enough to believe that my good fortune would continue; and it
is needless to say that I took no thought for the future, but lived
only for the present. My friend was a very wealthy Mexican and quite
young; perhaps a little older than you are, but not very much. He seemed
perfectly devoted to me, satisfying all my caprices and spending a great
deal of money on me, quite apart from what he gave me for myself. I was
very fond of going to the Théâtre-Français, where he would always take
a box and accompany me. We also went very often to the Grand Opéra,
and occasionally to the smaller theatres, for the latter of which,
however, I had but little taste. On Sundays, generally after I had been
to Mass—for, notwithstanding my predilection for philosophy, I still
retained a remnant of faith in the Catholic religion—I drove in the
Bois de Boulogne, sometimes alone, at others accompanied by my friend.
In every respect, my life was most enjoyable, and I had no cares of any
kind. This state of affairs lasted for a year, during which my friend
was most devoted to me, and we never had an angry word with each other.
He was kindness itself in every conceivable way, while I was perfectly
devoted to him. Suddenly, one day, when I had been out alone shopping, I
saw on my return home a note addressed to me lying on the table in the
salon. Recognizing my friend’s handwriting, I tore it open immediately.
It contained only a few lines, which, however, I shall never forget so
long as I live. Indeed, so engraven on my mind are they, that, were I to
forget everything else, I should never forget them!”
On saying this, she suddenly burst into tears, and sobbed so violently
that it was not for some little time that she was able to continue. Then
she said:—
“You will forgive me, for my grief is almost too great for me to endure.
Imagine my astonishment and dismay when I read this note, which had been
hurriedly written:—
“‘_Ma chérie,—Je suis forcé de partir immédiatement pour la
Mexique; je n’ai pas même le temps de venir te dire àdieu._’[19]
“I could scarcely believe my own eyes, and read those lines again and
again, sobbing all the while, and incapable of realizing what had
happened. I had only a few hundred francs left, all the rest having been
spent; and, to make a long story short, I had very soon to leave my
_appartement_ and return to my aunt. I have been with her now a week, and
I need not tell you how very hard I find it to return to work, for which
I feel I am no longer fit. Besides, my aunt is continually reproaching
me, and treats me much worse than she did before. I cannot stand it any
longer....”
At this point, she stopped and was silent for a while. Then she suddenly
asked me if I could assist her as her friend had done, adding that she
was not one of those girls who could love several men. I told her how I
was situated, and she said she would come to a restaurant in the Quartier
Latin with me and take some refreshment. We went, I remember, to some
restaurant near the Luxembourg Gardens, and, when we were alone, she told
me that it was a pity that I could not afford to make her my _maîtresse
attitrée_, as she thought I might perhaps succeed in making her forget
her Mexican. Although I did not aspire to have such warm blood in my
veins, yet perhaps she liked the contrast. She wept bitterly, and when
she left me, said:—
“_Vous avez beaucoup de cœur_; and, if I meet you again, it will be in
three days’ time in the Luxembourg Gardens. If I do not come, you will
know that I have done as I told you before I should do—put an end to my
existence. There is nothing else for me to do, and _le bon Dieu me le
pardonnera_.”
I went to the Luxembourg Gardens three days later, and sat on the same
seat, but, though I waited until it grew dark, there was no sign of her.
I returned to the Gardens every day for weeks and weeks afterwards, more
out of habit than for any other reason, and thought of her and wondered
what had become of her all the time I was there. I did not even know her
Christian name, but I rather fancied it was Mariette. The consequence was
that I was seized with a sudden fit of melancholy, which I was imprudent
enough to give way to, and was continually reading Goethe’s _Die Leiden
des jungen Werthers_, until I felt convinced that I should end my life
in the same way as she had done. For, though I never heard anything more
about her, I made quite sure that she had acted as she had threatened she
would.
Shortly after this, I decided to go to Bonn on the Rhine, to study at the
University; and Miss Kathleen O’Meara, the author of “The Salon of Madame
Mohl,” who was a young girl at that time, gave me a letter to the wife of
Professor Dr. Binz, a sister of General Salis-Schwabe. I was then very
anxious to enter the Austrian Army, and tried very hard to do so. Through
the kindness of Mr. Somerset Beaumont, of the Foreign Office, my request
was put before Prince Richard von Metternich and Baron von Hübner; and
the latter, who was at that time Ambassador in Paris, informed me, when I
saw him at the Embassy, that I should have to become an Austrian subject.
This was easy enough; but the examination was not, as since the War of
1866 it had been made much more severe. It was in pursuance of this
intention to enter the Austrian Army that I made up my mind to study at
the University at Bonn. My father was very much against my doing so, but
I eventually prevailed upon him to let me go, though he warned me that I
must put up with any evil consequences that might result from this _coup
de tête_ of mine.