FONTAINEBLEAU AND COMPIÈGNE
Though still a young man when I was appointed to Paris--a man of
thirty-two years is considered to be quite young--I had already a
considerable experience of the world, and knew the society of most
European capitals, having been at every European Court. I was very well
able, therefore, to judge of what I saw, and to form a reliable opinion,
good or bad, of the people with whom I came into contact.
I must confess at once that I arrived in France with certain prejudices
against the regime, and I did not examine it at first with
over-indulgent eyes. But as I grew to know the Emperor and the Empress
well, many of these prejudices vanished. The kindness of the Emperor,
and his boundless generosity, could not but impress favourably, and as
for Eugénie, her powerful charm made one forget other sides of her
character. When in their presence it was difficult to realise that they
were Sovereigns, or to have the feeling, whether at the Tuileries, at
Compiègne, or at Fontainebleau, that one was at a Royal Court. A mixture
of formality and of gaiety without restraint was prevalent, which
entirely upset one’s notions of what should constitute the atmosphere of
a Court. Eugénie was an incomparable hostess, even if sometimes
eccentric; Napoleon was the most thoughtful of hosts, though restless at
times, and showing some impatience at different vagaries indulged in by
his guests; still, though each was addressed as “Your Majesty,” it was
in much the same spirit that one would have said “Monsieur” or
“Madame”; deference was lacking.
In spite of the shade of Bohemianism which presided over the annual
gatherings at Compiègne and at Fontainebleau, the invitations were
always coveted, and with reason, for a week spent at either place was
certainly most enjoyable. The autumn season generally saw the Sovereigns
at Compiègne, which the Empress liked very much, and there could be met
all the celebrities of modern France and a good many foreigners, whom
the Imperial couple liked to encourage to visit France, and on whom they
lavished every attention. They were generally asked to stay a full week,
and privileged persons were sometimes invited to extend their sojourn.
Life was very pleasant in this old home of the Bourbon dynasty, and the
liberty left to the guests to do what they liked added to its charm. One
rode, one hunted, one drove, and one flirted to one’s heart’s content,
and the only thing which was asked was punctuality at meals and
admiration for the beauty of the Empress.
The exceeding charm and beauty of the Empress was never more seen to
advantage than in one of her country homes, where she felt more at her
ease than in Paris. She used to ask privileged persons among her guests
to drink tea with her in the afternoon. On these occasions she appeared
at her best, talking on every subject, and discussing all the new books.
She rather prided herself on being what French people call “un bel
esprit,” and of caring for literature; she considered it a part of her
duty ostensibly to interest herself in the literary and scientific
movements of the day. She liked to make herself popular among writers
and artists, of whom there was generally a good sprinkling at Compiègne.
Among her favourites were Octave Feuillet, Mérimée, and Carpeaux. More
than once Carpeaux implored her to allow him to carve her bust, to
which, however, she would not agree. Mérimée had been a friend of her
mother’s, the Countess de Montijo, and had known her as a little girl;
indeed, people whispered softly that he had had a good deal to do with
her elevation to the throne, having admirably advised her at that
critical period of her existence when first she became the object of
Napoleon’s adoration.
Mérimée was a charming man in spite of his misanthropic tendencies and
his fits of bad temper, which caused him sometimes to say the rudest
things imaginable, but which in reality he did not mean at all. He was,
however, a privileged person, being customarily forgiven words which
would not have been tolerated in anyone else. He was, perhaps, amidst
the crowd which congregated in the vast halls and galleries of
Compiègne, the one who judged most clearly what was going on around him,
and I remember that one evening, when we were discussing the political
situation, he suddenly asked me: “Et vous croyez que cela durera?” (“And
you think that all this will last?”) Noticing my surprise, he did me the
honour of a lengthy explanation: “You see, my friend, here in this
beautiful France of ours we never look beyond the present day; we enjoy
ourselves without any thought of what the morrow may bring. We have seen
so many changes, so many revolutions, that we have entirely lost the
feeling of stability, without which no nation can achieve really great
things. In politics one must have either stability, faith in the
principles which one is called upon to defend, or else enthusiasm like
that felt by our troops at Marengo. Now can you imagine a spirit of
enthusiasm for our master here?” And he winked in the direction of the
Emperor’s private apartments. “He is good, and kind, and weak, but
though the nation and the army shout ‘Vive l’Empereur’ when they see
him, it is very doubtful whether they would sacrifice anything beyond
the interests of their neighbours for him. And the Empress, she is as
much to be pitied as she is to be envied. I am sorry to have to say so,
because I am really attached to her, but what can one do! She does not
realise that she is not by birth the equal of the other Queens of
Europe, and there lies her great mistake. She is so beautiful that one
would have worshipped at once Mademoiselle de Montijo, but the nation
could not bring itself to respect the Comtesse de Téba in the same way
as had she been a Princess born. Now, don’t betray me, please,” he
added, “but I know that you are discreet, and, besides, who minds the
sayings of that old grumbler Mérimée!”
This _boutade_ left a deep impression on my mind at the time I heard it;
it resounded like the “Mene, Tekel, Upharsin” of the Empire, uttered as
it was by a man who was well known to have personally a great and
sincere devotion for the fair Spaniard whom he had helped to place on
the throne of France. Poor Mérimée was not destined to survive the fall
of that Imperial regime of which he had been one of the strongest
supporters. He died broken-hearted a few days after the disaster of
Sedan, writing pathetically to one of his friends just before his end:
“I have tried all my life to fight against prejudices, and to be a
citizen of the world before being a Frenchman. But all these cloaks of
philosophy are now of no avail to me. I bleed to-day of the same wounds
as these idiots of Frenchmen, and I weep over their humiliation.”
Octave Feuillet was a great favourite of the Empress. He was a charming
man, but always ill and always preoccupied with nursing his health, and
his _malade imaginaire_. His novels were undoubtedly pretty, and created
a great sensation at the time. He was the fashionable novelist of his
generation, and certainly some of his works deserve to pass to
posterity because of their fine observation. He was middle-class to the
core, and this made him worship everything that seemed to be above him.
He took himself far too much in earnest, and even carried so far his
appreciation of his own merit that he wrote once or twice to the
Emperor, proffering unsought his advice in political matters. Napoleon
III. was far too kind to rebuff him, and sometimes even replied to him,
flattering his vanity, as he was accustomed to flatter writers and
journalists, in whom he saw the manufacturers of public opinion, and
whom he liked to conciliate as far as possible. Octave Feuillet
professed a great admiration for the Empress, and he must be given his
due--he remained faithful to her after her fall. He was one of the few
who went to Chislehurst to present their respects to the exiled and
dethroned Sovereigns.
In violent contrast to his behaviour can be instanced that of the
architect Viollet-le-Duc, who, after having been loaded with money and
kindnesses by the Emperor and his Consort, turned his back upon them
after the fall of the Empire, and even tried to make excuses for ever
having known them. Unfortunately, he was but one of many, and bitter
must have been the thoughts of Napoleon III. and Eugénie when they saw
that all the good they had done, the boundless generosity they had
exercised, had only made them a few more enemies among the ranks of
those who owed them so much.
Carpeaux, in spite of his rudeness, was very much appreciated at
Compiègne, and I often saw him there, as indeed I met also most of the
illustrious Frenchmen the Empire could boast of at that time. These
celebrities, and the number of pretty women who were also invited, made
the gatherings unique. The members of the fair sex who were nearly
always present were the Princess Metternich, the pretty Comtesse Mélanie
de Pourtalès, the Marquise de Galiffet, then separated from her
husband, who had already struck up that strange friendship with the
Princesse de Sagan, née Seillères, which gave rise to so much talk later
on. Mme. de Galiffet was one of the loveliest women of the Imperial
Court, and certainly the one who knew the best how to dress. She was an
_élégante_ before everything else, and I believe cared even more for her
dresses than for her lovers. Her relations with General Galiffet were
most strange. They used to meet sometimes in society, and he was always
most polite towards her; it was even said that the warmest admirer the
Marquise de Galiffet had ever had was her husband. This did not prevent
them never agreeing upon any subject save one, and that, it was
rumoured, reunited them sometimes, not under the same roof, but under
the same tent, as the Marquise de Caux once said with more wit than
kindness.
Another habitué of Compiègne was the Baronne de Poilly. She was a daring
horsewoman, an eccentric character, full of brusquerie and kindness, but
not liked, and very much talked about. She was, with the Comtesse de
Beaulaincourt, ex-Marquise de Contades, one of the most dreaded persons
in the whole of Paris society.
Speaking of Madame de Beaulaincourt reminds me of various episodes in
that lady’s career, which set me wondering how the strict Faubourg St.
Germain, as well as the frivolous society of the Second Empire, could
have taken her to their hearts in the way they did. She was bad for
badness’ sake, as unsparing in her words as in her judgments; always on
the look out for something evil to do, or something unpleasant to say.
Full of wit with it all, this last circumstance only made her the more
dangerous. She was a rare example of a vicious woman who had no
charitable instincts; it seemed as if she condemned others the more
bitterly because she knew that there was needing much pardon in herself.
Nevertheless, Madame de Beaulaincourt was one of the most remarkable
personalities at the Court of the Emperor Napoleon III., and as such she
deserves to be remembered.
The members of the Cabinet and their wives were generally asked to
Compiègne in turn. At Fontainebleau, where the Court used to spend the
summer months, this was rarely the case. St. Cloud was too near Paris to
be really pleasant as a summer residence. Fontainebleau was quite in the
country, and its lovely forest afforded many opportunities for riding,
driving, or hunting, which appealed to Eugénie’s tastes. There she used
to live a family life free from the restraints of the Court, with the
guests whom she asked to share her _villégiature_. At Fontainebleau,
too, the Emperor, always a great stickler for etiquette, allowed it to
be relaxed, considering his stay there as a kind of holiday. He was more
often in the company of his guests than at Compiègne, and his presence
was very much appreciated. When he liked, Napoleon III. could be a
charming man and an interesting talker, but it was not often that he
allowed himself to become expansive.
Life at Fontainebleau as well as at Compiègne was almost uniform in its
round of gaieties. The company assembled for breakfast at noon, after
which the guests followed their own inclinations during the afternoon. A
few privileged ones, however, were asked to drive or walk with the
Empress, and afterwards to have tea with her. All guests enjoyed perfect
liberty, but this did not prevent them from watching their neighbours to
find out their little weaknesses, for gossip was rife both at Compiègne
and at Fontainebleau, and many unpleasant rumours concerning the Emperor
and the Empress were started there. The manners and customs that
prevailed among the recipients of the Imperial hospitality were publicly
criticised, the feeling being that it would certainly have been better
had more discrimination been exercised. There was little dignity though
much ceremony during these “series,” as they used to be called, and the
extreme liberty granted was the source of all kinds of unmerited rumours
concerning what happened in those vast halls. Somehow it savoured of
desecration to see the gay company of careless men and fashionable women
who thronged Fontainebleau without giving a thought to the great events
which its walls had witnessed.
One evening at Fontainebleau, after the rest of the world had retired, I
was returning late to my bedroom from an enjoyable stroll in the lovely
park. There was a beautiful moon, and it lit up the old castle of
François I., with its many turrets, its old gables, its whole aspect
speaking of the grandeur of many ages. I thought myself the only one to
indulge in such an eccentricity, when suddenly I came face to face with
the Chevalier Nigra, then one of the great admirers of the Empress, and
a general favourite both at Court and in Society. Chevalier Nigra had
been the private secretary of Count de Cavour, and was considered one of
the stars of Italian diplomacy. He professed the greatest devotion for
Eugénie, knew exactly how to flatter her and thus to glean information
as to what was going on in the French Cabinet. More clever than lovely
Madame de Castiglione, who thought that one of her glances was
sufficient to keep the Emperor enchained to her chariot, Nigra did not
attempt to play the lover, but rather the worshipper of the Empress,
whom he used to tell he had set upon a shrine whence he hoped she would
condescend from time to time to smile upon him. He had all the subtlety
of the Italian, and had read, and, what is better, thoroughly digested
and understood, the philosophy expressed by Machiavelli in his works. He
was an ardent patriot, and when he accepted the appointment to Paris it
was with the firm intention of using his best endeavours to bring about
the completion and recognition of Italian unity.
Nigra was an extremely pleasant man, with a sufficient tincture of
cynicism to make him amiable without being aggressive. He rarely spoke
the truth, and never said what he thought; but he had the talent of
convincing people of his entire sincerity. A keen observer, he had
judged better than any of his colleagues the frailty of the Imperial
regime, and was only watching for the moment when the house of cards
should collapse. On the evening I am referring to he was smoking a big
cigar and walking slowly in the flower-garden which stretched in front
of the private apartments of the palace, enjoying the scent of the
roses, and from time to time raising his eyes towards the only row of
windows still showing a light amidst the darkness that enveloped the
venerable pile.
When he saw me, he pointed upwards with his finger to these windows,
saying at the same time:
“She is not sleeping; she is always the last one to go to rest.”
“I wonder what she is doing so late,” I replied.
“Thinking about her dresses, or the last sermon she has listened to,”
was the remark of Nigra. “How little the Empress understands her
situation.”
“She gathers her roses whilst she can,” was my reply.
“Yes,” retorted the Italian diplomatist, “and perhaps she does the best
thing under the circumstances; all this cannot last.”
“You do not believe in the durability of the Empire?” I asked him.
“No,” was the reply. “I do not believe in it at all. The Italian
question will overthrow it sooner than one thinks.”
“You do not admit the possibility of a war between Italy and France on
the subject of the integrity of the Holy See?” I inquired.
“Certainly I don’t,” said Nigra, “but I know one thing; the Emperor has
no likelihood of keeping his crown, or of passing it to his son, unless
he makes up his mind to fulfil the promises which he gave, perhaps in an
unguarded moment, and without thinking of the consequences, but which he
gave all the same. This hesitation of his has not only entirely
destroyed his popularity in Italy, but it has also thrown Italian
politicians into the arms of his foes. You see, we cannot prevent the
natural course of events taking place; the supremacy of the Pope has had
its day, and the Bourbons also have achieved their destiny. Italy, if
she is to be regenerated, can only be so under the sway of an Italian
dynasty. The Bourbons are not Italians; they are French, with a large
admixture of Austrian blood, and their temperament is distinctly hostile
to that of the Italian people. The House of Savoy, on the other hand,
has everything that appeals to the mind and to the imagination of my
country; it will welcome Victor Emmanuel with joy wherever he may
appear. You must not forget, either, a thing of which people generally
lose sight: Italians are superstitious; they are not at all religious,
and they more or less look upon the Pope in the same light as they do
the small princes and dukes who have ruled them for so long. Temporal
Power has far more prestige abroad than is the case with us, and
Italians will only feel wrathful against those who may try to force it
upon them. The people of Italy instinctively guess that the Emperor is
afraid to go against the popular feeling in France, and that he will at
a given moment refuse to help their ambitions if he finds that they
clash with his own personal interests. That is where he makes his
mistake,” continued Nigra, who had become excited, a rare thing with
him; “that is where he makes his mistake. If he upheld our national
ambitions he would find us at his side when his hour of peril will
strike, whereas now we shall merely look on and do what he did in
1859--seek our own advantage, heedless of the danger in which he may
find himself placed.”
I looked at him attentively.
“So you believe that this hour of danger is fast approaching?” I asked.
“Of course it is,” was the reply; “its warning rang long ago, after
Sadowa, and when the bullets of Juarez struck the breast of Maximilian
at Queretaro. It is only blind people, blinded by vanity, like those who
are in power here, who do not see the menace that the armaments of
Prussia constitute for the whole of Europe.”
“You do not believe in the readiness of the French army in case of a
war?” I asked.
“Do you?” retorted Nigra.
I remained silent.
“No, I do not believe in it,” he went on slowly, “the army is not
capable of strong resistance to a well disciplined foe. How can an army
be so in a country where politics are paramount? You see there is no
real patriotism in France, there is only chauvinism, and that is not
quite the same thing. The Frenchman will not admit that he can be
conquered by anyone. Why, we have seen it at Solferino, where our troops
fought desperately, and were not even thanked by the Emperor, whose
soldiers could never have held out alone against the shock of the
Austrian regiments. When we came up and decided the fate of the battle
they were already giving way. You must not forget one thing, the French
soldier gets discouraged at his first reverse, and most certainly the
fate of the next campaign will be decided in its very first days.
“The Emperor also is no longer what he once was,” went on Nigra; “he is
ill, broken down, either by disease or by worry, he has lost very much
of his former elasticity, and is more than ever undecided in the
resolutions he is called upon to make. The Empress, on the other hand,
believes herself to possess political ability, and is encouraged therein
by people who see a source of advantage for them in a Regency over which
she would be called upon to preside. The death of the Emperor, which ten
years ago would have been regarded in the light of a calamity, not only
for France but for Europe, is no longer dreaded, because the feeling is
that he has survived himself, that his lucky star has left him. The
convinced Bonapartists think that a Liberal Empire is an anachronism;
but the Emperor, who was always more or less a conspirator, dreams, on
the contrary, of establishing his dynasty on new lines, in which his
strong sympathies towards Liberalism will take the upper hand. When once
his entourage realise this fact, which so far they do not yet suspect,
they will do their best to bring matters to a crisis, and by means of a
foreign war divert Napoleon’s mind from his present intentions. And that
war----”
He stopped and looked at me significantly.
“That war won’t find Italy the ally of France,” I remarked.
“Certainly not, because there would be no necessity for it. Why should
we lose either men or money when nothing could be gained by it? What we
want is Rome, and Rome we shall get all the same, whether Napoleon
allows it or not. One cannot stop the evolution of history.”
“But she--what will she do?” I asked, pointing up to the windows we had
been looking at a few moments before, when, as if in reply to my
question, the light suddenly went out.
Nigra shrugged his shoulders, as if this matter did not concern him at
all.
“She will never resign herself to her fall, should such a thing occur,”
I remarked.
“Oh yes, she will do so,” was the answer. “She will not even attempt to
fight against her fate should it prove inimical to her,” he concluded
philosophically.
It was during the last time the Imperial Court was at Fontainebleau that
this remarkable conversation took place, and it impressed me so much
that I noted it down at once when I reached my room. I was to think
about it more than once subsequently, and many years later, meeting
Count Nigra, as he had become then, in St. Petersburg, where he had been
appointed Italian Ambassador, I reminded him of it, and asked him to
tell me what had really been the conduct of the Empress Eugénie on that
fateful 4th of September when he and Prince Metternich urged her to fly
before the revolutionaries.
“She did exactly what I told you that night at Fontainebleau,” replied
Nigra; “she declared that she would not go against the wishes of the
country, and that, since it wanted her to leave Paris, she would do so.
Mind, she knew nothing as to whether this was true or not; no one had
told her that the country wanted her to go, one had simply drawn her
attention to the fact that her life was in danger, and she believed it
at once. Metternich at one moment asked her whether she would not take a
few things with her, but she replied that it was not necessary, and she
left the Tuileries without even taking a pocket handkerchief.”