THE SURROUNDINGS AND FRIENDS OF THE SOVEREIGNS
When Napoleon III. married, he tried to establish his Court on the same
footing as that of his uncle after the latter’s union with Marie Louise,
and fearing that, in spite of his affection, his young wife would find
it hard to get used to her exalted position, he surrounded her with the
trammels of a severe etiquette. From this, however, she gradually
emancipated herself, especially during the time when she acted as Regent
for the Emperor, at the period of the war of 1859 with Austria.
This emancipation was in itself a curious phase. In her way Eugénie was
just as anxious as the Emperor to order her household upon the same
lines as those of the other great Courts of Europe. Especially with that
of Windsor she had been deeply impressed, when with the Emperor she
visited Queen Victoria. But she was not endowed by nature with that
reserved dignity which is a necessity to regal rank, and the result
stultified her efforts. The Empress, when a girl, had enjoyed far more
liberty than girls had at the time of which I am writing. This lack of
control led her sometimes to forget her rank as Empress, and she found
herself drifting into her old habits of saying everything that occurred
to her, or of allowing her sympathies and her antipathies to be seen by
a public always eager and ready to criticise.
She had but few friends, and after the death of her sister, the Duchesse
d’Albe, she felt very isolated, and in need of one into whose ear she
might confide her sorrows and her joys. She did not get on with the
members of the Imperial Family, and she had been very much hurt at the
attitude taken up in regard to her by the Princess Clotilde. Eugénie had
received the Princess with open arms, but had met with repulse from the
very first moment Clotilde arrived in France. Then, again, Eugénie’s
relations with Prince Napoleon became of the worst, perhaps owing to the
fact that there had been a day, before her marriage with the Emperor,
when those relations were very near. The antagonism towards her which
the only cousin of her husband chose to adopt, wounded her to the quick,
and instead of trying to overcome it with tact and apparent
indifference, she did her best to accentuate his animosity, until open
warfare resulted, and the strained situation became a general topic of
gossip.
With Princess Mathilde, the sister of the Prince, the Empress was, also,
not on intimate terms, although apparently they bore one another
affection. The Princess was perhaps the most remarkable among the many
fascinating women with whom the Second Empire will remain associated.
Surpassingly beautiful in her youth, she retained her good looks, and
notwithstanding her _embonpoint_, possessed a personality of great
dignity. She was certainly a _grande dame_, despite her numerous
frailties.
She was clever, kind, brilliant in more senses than one; very talented,
she liked to surround herself with clever people, who, in their turn,
were glad to have her appreciation. There had been a time when the
question of a marriage between her and her cousin, Prince Louis
Napoleon, had been discussed, but the latter’s chances were so
uncertain, that neither Mathilde nor her father had had the courage to
run the risk of uniting her destiny with that of the Pretender.
The Princess married M. Demidoff, and very soon regretted it; so deeply
that she tried to break the bonds. Thanks to the intervention of the
Emperor Nicholas of Russia, a separation was arranged under very
favourable terms for Madame Demidoff, who, by permission of the
government of Louis Philippe, settled in Paris. She did not mix with
politics, and only tried to create for herself a pleasant circle of
acquaintances and friends. Unfortunately, she possessed in addition to a
superior and cultivated mind, a very ardent temperament, and gossip soon
became busy with her name, especially after her liaison with Count de
Nieuwekerke became a recognised fact.
When the Revolution of 1848 brought back to France the heir to the
Bonaparte traditions, the Princess Mathilde at once hastened to his
side, and showed herself to be the best of friends. It was the Princess
Mathilde who presided at his first entertainment at Compiègne, as well
as at the Elysée, where he was residing when in the capital, and it was
at her house that the Prince President, as he was called, met for the
first time the lovely Spaniard who was later to become his wife.
The Princess Mathilde did not like the marriage, in view of the fact
that she might have occupied the place which this stranger took, as it
were by storm; she would hardly have been human had she done so. But she
was far too clever to show her disapproval, and it is related that when
the question arose as to who should carry the train of the new Empress,
Mathilde at once declared that she would do so if the Emperor asked her,
much to the astonishment and perhaps to the scandal of those who heard
her. She bore no malice, and thought herself far too great a lady to
imagine that by whatever she might do she would fall in the estimation
of others, or that it would be derogatory to her position.
But though she consented to receive the future wife of her cousin when
first she entered the Tuileries, and though she tried hard to establish
friendly relations with her, all her efforts failed, partly because the
young Empress felt afraid of the brilliant Princess, and of her sharp
tongue and brusque manners, partly, also, because Mathilde did not care
for the people who formed the entourage of the Sovereign, and never felt
at her ease at the many entertainments given by Eugénie. She thought
them either too dull or too boisterous.
Mathilde was never so happy as when in her own house in the Rue de
Courcelles, where all that was distinguished in France considered it an
honour to be admitted, and where she could live the life of a private
lady of high rank. She was too frank to conceal what she felt, and too
honest to flatter the Empress, or to find charming what she considered
to be the reverse. Though she disapproved of many things that her
brother, Prince Napoleon, did, she did not care to blame him publicly,
and thus she maintained a neutral attitude in regard to both. Eugenie’s
airy disposition and love of amusement in any shape or form prevented
her from finding pleasure in the company of the Princess Mathilde, whom
she thought exceedingly dull, and whom she accused of fomenting the
accusations which her enemies showered upon her. So long as the Empire
lasted there was no sympathy between the Empress and her husband’s
cousin, and it was only later, when both ladies had realised the
emptiness of worldly things, that their relations became intimate and
affectionate, so much so that when Mathilde Bonaparte died, it was
Eugénie who watched beside her, and whose hands were the last she
pressed before expiring.
The best friend that the Empress Eugénie had among the members of the
Imperial Family was the Princess Anna Murat, who married the Duke of
Mouchy, to the horror of all the Noailles family, and the chagrin of the
Faubourg St. Germain generally. Princess Anna was one of the loveliest
women of her time, though perhaps not one of the brightest. Still, she
had a warm heart, a kindly disposition, and a sincere attachment for the
Empress. She had very nice dignified manners, if sometimes stiff, and
was perhaps the only really _grande dame_, with the exception of the
Princess Mathilde, among the many ladies with whom Eugénie liked to
surround herself.
Very much might be said about the ladies of the Court. There were lovely
women, such as the Countess Valovska, née Anna Ricci, the dark
Florentine, whose smiles won her so many hearts, including that of
Napoleon III.; others were clever like Pauline Metternich, and some were
both lovely and clever, Mélanie Pourtalès for instance, that star of the
Empire who condescended later to shine in the Republican firmament, and
who to this day is one of the celebrities of Paris, in spite of her
seventy odd years. There was the Duchesse de Persigny, and the Duchesse
de Cadore, and the Baroness de Rothschild, and many others, but among
them all the Empress could not boast of a real friend, always with the
exception of the Duchesse de Mouchy, who owed her far too much ever to
dare criticise anything she did.
I have mentioned the Princess Metternich. Among all those to whose fatal
influence the Second Empire owed its fall she holds one of the first and
foremost places. She it was who sapped its foundations and lowered its
dignity; she it was who with a rude hand pulled back the veil which,
until she appeared at Compiègne and at the Tuileries, had still been
drawn between the general public and the Imperial Court. Young and ugly,
but clever and gifted with what the French call _brio_, she lived but
for one thing, and that was amusement in any shape or form. She had no
respect for the society in which she found herself, and brought to
Paris an atmosphere of carelessness such as we sometimes display when
we find ourselves travelling in a country where we are unknown, and
where we can do what we like without fear of the _qu’en dira-t-on_, or,
as they say in England, “Mrs. Grundy.” After some experience of the
strict etiquette of the Austrian Hofburg, she felt delighted to be able
to dispense with it, and treated the Empress with disdain, making use of
her in order to attain her own ends, and ruling the Tuileries like some
of the present great ladies in pecuniary straits rule the houses of the
American or South African millionaires whom--for a consideration--they
introduce into society. The behaviour of the Princess Metternich can be
characterised by her remark to a lady who, at Compiègne, reproved her
for trying to induce the Empress to appear in public in a short gown, a
thing that was not considered to be proper at the time of which I am
writing. The friend asked her at the same time whether she would have
advised the Empress Elizabeth to do such a thing; she replied
vehemently: “No, certainly not, I would not do such a thing, but then my
Empress is a real one.”
Pauline Metternich never liked Eugénie; she secretly envied her for her
beauty. She encouraged her in every false or mistaken step the Empress
unwittingly took. She brought a shade of vulgarity into all the
entertainments over which she presided and which she organised. She
smoked big cigars without minding in the least whether it pleased the
Empress or not, and she allowed herself every kind of liberty, sure of
immunity, and careless as to what people thought about her. She showed
herself the most ungrateful of beings, forsaking her friend when the
latter was precipitated into obscurity and misfortune, never once giving
her a thought. Pauline Metternich was a perfect type of an opportunist
without a memory, and after having danced, eaten, smoked, enjoyed
herself at the Tuileries where she always was a favoured guest, she
never once sent a message of sympathy to the discarded Sovereign, whose
acquaintance she probably thought irksome and inconvenient. Once in a
moment of expansion, so the story goes, she gave way to a remark which
deserves to pass to posterity concerning those years during which she
was the leading spirit at all the entertainments given at the Tuileries,
and which I cannot help reproducing here: A diplomat who had known her
in Paris asked her whether she did not regret the Second Empire, and
received a characteristic reply: “Regret it? Why? It was very amusing,
very vulgar, and it could not last; we all knew it, and we all made hay
whilst the sun shone.”
Countess Mélanie Pourtalès, in that respect, was far superior to
Princess Metternich; she at least had the decency to remain faithful to
her former sympathies and to her Bonapartist leanings. To this day she
sees the Empress when the latter visits Paris, and she never indulges in
one word of blame concerning that far away time when she also was one of
the queens of the Tuileries.
Mélanie de Bussières is one of the marvels of last century. As beautiful
as a dream, she had an angelic face, lovely innocent eyes, which used to
look at the world with the guilelessness of a child, and a Madonna-like
expression that reminded one of a long white lily drooping on its stem.
She was intelligent, too, had an enormous amount of tact, and succeeded,
whilst denying herself none of her caprices, in keeping unimpaired her
place in Parisian society, of retaining as her friends all those to whom
the world had given another name, and of acquiring a position such as
few women have ever had before her. Always kind, rarely malicious,
smiling alike on friends and foes, she contrived to disarm the latter,
and never to estrange the former. Though very much envied, yet she was
liked, and she inspired with enthusiasm all those with whom she was
brought into contact. Now she is a great-grandmother, but still a
leading light of social Paris, and those who formerly admired her beauty
continue to crowd around her in order to listen to her conversation.
When I entered the circle of Imperialist society, I was struck by the
number of pretty women that I met there. They were not all clever; a
good many were vulgar, but most of them were lovely. A ball at that time
was a pretty sight, far prettier than it is at the present day, and as
for amusement, one could find it wherever one went. Morals, on the other
hand, were no worse than is the case at present; indeed, in many
respects they were better, insomuch that it was far more difficult then,
owing to the conditions of existence, for a lady belonging to the upper
classes to misbehave herself than is the case at present, when women go
freely everywhere, whilst during the Second Empire it was hardly
possible for a well-known lady to be seen in a cab or a ’bus, or even
walking in unfrequented streets. “Le diable n’y perdait rien,” to use an
old French expression; but a certain decorum, totally absent nowadays,
had to be adhered to, and the Empress was very severe upon all those who
infringed its rules. She had attacks of prudery, as it were, during
which she posed as a watcher over the morals of her Court. Such a
procedure among the very carefully immoral persons who surrounded her
made many people smile.
The Emperor also had but few personal friends. The most faithful and
devoted perhaps was Dr. Conneau, who had watched over Queen Hortense
during her last illness, and who had given to her son the most sincere
proofs of affection that one man can give to another. Conneau was that
_rara avis_, a totally disinterested person. Millions had passed through
his hands, but he died poor, and when the Empire fell he was reduced to
selling a collection of rare books he possessed, in order to have bread
in his old age. He loved Napoleon with his whole heart, soul, and mind,
and belonged to the very few who cared for and believed in the
traditions of the Bonapartes. He did infinite good during the eighteen
years the Empire lasted, and never refused to lay a case of distress
before Napoleon III. once it was brought to his notice. Everybody
respected him, and he was a general favourite with everyone, except
perhaps with the Empress, who felt no personal sympathy for him.
Conneau had voluntarily asked to be allowed to share the Emperor’s
captivity at Ham, and it was thanks to him that the latter contrived to
escape from that fortress disguised as a workman, with a plank on his
shoulder, behind which he hid his face. Whilst Napoleon was hastening
towards the Belgian frontier, Conneau did his best to hide his flight
from the authorities, declaring to those who wanted to see him that he
was ill and asleep in his bed. Conneau had cunningly arranged the
pillows in such a way that they appeared to represent a body wrapped up
in blankets. He knew very well that in doing this he was running a great
risk, but nothing stopped him, and it is certain that to his bold
initiative Napoleon III. owed first his escape and afterwards his
Imperial Crown.
Conneau never left the Emperor, who breathed his last in that faithful
servant’s arms, murmuring before doing so: “Conneau, were you at Sedan?”
thus showing how incurable had been the wound received on that fatal day
which saw the fall of his throne and of his dynasty.
Conneau, with perhaps the exception of M. Mocquard, Napoleon’s private
secretary, was the person who knew the best of the Emperor’s character,
and he remained faithful to him to the last. One day a friend asked him
whether he was sorry not to have died before the fall of the Empire,
and to have witnessed the terrible catastrophes that accompanied it.
Conneau immediately replied: “I am sorry for myself, but glad for the
Emperor who would have had one friend less around him in his
misfortune.” The remark is characteristic of the man.
Mocquard also belonged to the few friends of Napoleon III. who had known
his mother Queen Hortense, and who had devoted his life to the cause of
the Bonapartes. He was one of the pleasantest men of his day, always on
the alert to learn or to hear everything that could be useful to his
Imperial master. Gifted with singular tact, he was able with advantage
to come out of the most entangled and awkward situations. His reply to
Berryer, who had written to him telling him that his political
convictions prevented him from asking to be presented to the Emperor on
his election to the French Academy, is well known, and proves his
ability in that respect. The great advocate, in writing to Mocquard, had
appealed to him as a former colleague. Napoleon’s private secretary at
once responded to his request, and gave him the most courteous and most
respectful reproof, in which the dignity of his Sovereign and that of
the great advocate were equally taken into account.
“The Emperor,” wrote Mocquard, “regrets that M. Berryer has allowed his
political leanings to get the upper hand of his duties as Academician.
M. Berryer’s presence at the Tuileries would not have embarrassed His
Majesty, as he seems to dread. From the height on which he finds himself
raised, the Emperor would only have seen in the new Academician an
orator and a writer; in to-day’s adversary, the defender of yesterday.
M. Berryer is perfectly free to obey the general practice imposed by the
Academy, or to follow his personal repugnances.”
A friend of Berryer, who happened to be with him when that letter
reached him, related to me later that that famous ornament of the French
Bar for once in his life felt embarrassed, and acknowledged his regret
at thus having drawn upon himself a well deserved and tactfully
administered rebuff.
When Mocquard died his place was taken by M. Conti, also a clever man,
who was in possession of the post at the time I arrived in Paris. He did
not succeed in gaining the confidence of the Emperor, as his predecessor
had done, and I believe never felt quite at ease in his difficult
position. I do not know what became of him after the fall of the Empire.
General Fleury was already Ambassador in St. Petersburg at the time of
which I am speaking. He had been, and still was, one of the most
intimate friends of the Emperor, but he was not liked by the Empress,
whose influence he had always tried to thwart. Eugénie was delighted
when he was sent on his foreign mission; she had never got used to the
General: perhaps he knew too many things relating to that distant time
when Mademoiselle de Montijo had never dreamt that fate held a crown in
reserve for her. And then one of the Empress’s closest acquaintances,
the Comtesse de Beaulaincourt, the daughter of the Marshal de
Castellane, and formerly Marquise de Contades, had an undying grudge
against General Fleury. It must be owned that he had not behaved
altogether well in regard to her, and she used her best endeavours to
harm him in the mind of the impressionable Eugénie, to whom she
represented the General as one of her worst enemies. This was not the
case; but Fleury had no sympathy for the Empress, and certainly did
nothing to further her views or her opinions in regard to politics, as
she would have liked him to do. To him is credited the most severe
comment that ever was made on the subject of the marriage between the
Emperor and the lovely Spaniard who had captivated his fancy; that
comment was revealed to the world through the indiscretion of Madame de
Contades, as she was at that time. Fleury had been asked why he objected
so much to his future Sovereign: “I do not like her,” he replied,
“because I feel that she will insist upon wearing her crown in her bed
and her night-cap in public.” This bitter remark being repeated to the
person whom it most concerned, was never forgiven by her.
Fleury, Persigny, and Morny had been the most trusted advisers of
Napoleon III., but unfortunately I never had opportunity to meet any of
them. With their removal from the political scene, the Empire lost its
most solid supports. The ability of M. Rouher could not stave off the
supreme calamity that was to cast it into the abyss; and as for M. Emile
Ollivier, about whom I shall have more to say presently, he had neither
the energy nor the moral courage to resist the current that went against
him and that swept away a regime.
In general, when I look back upon those last two years of the Second
Empire, and try to recapitulate all that I saw, I cannot find anyone,
with the few exceptions already mentioned, who was really the friend of
either the Emperor or the Empress. Surrounded by flatterers, admirers,
courtiers, they had around them no really devoted people willing to risk
anything in order to prove their affection. The Tuileries seemed to be
one vast Liberty Hall, inhabited by men and women who knew very well
that they had but a short time before them to enjoy the good things of
this world, and whose only care was how they could escape with the most
advantage from situations which all the time they felt to be shaking
under their feet. Indeed, the Court reminded one of a vast _cuvée_ out
of which everybody tried to snatch some prize. It was a case of eating,
drinking and being merry, but without thinking that for all these things
there would one day be a reckoning.