THE DUC D’AUMALE AND CHANTILLY
The Duc d’Aumale was certainly the one member of the Orleans family who
made the most friends for himself, and had the greatest number of
admirers. Whether this was due to his personal merits, or to the
millions which he inherited from the last Prince of Condé, it is not for
me to say. He had plenty to give to others; it is but natural that these
others praised him in the hope he would give them a little more than he
had intended. He courted popularity, made sacrifices of pride,
principles, and sometimes personal affections, in order to win it; and
he succeeded in a certain sense, at least from the point of view of
those who measure praise and blame according to the social standing of
the person to whom they deal it. He was more learned than clever, more
clever than brilliant; his wit was inferior to his intelligence, but he
had cunning, a singular way of at once finding his personal advantage
out of an entangled situation. He put his own wellbeing beyond
everything else, and cared in reality only for his comforts and being
left alone to lead an easy, indolent existence among his books, his
pictures, his flowers, his manuscripts, all the magnificences of the old
home of the Condés. This he had restored with care and a singular
artistic knowledge, and had succeeded in endowing it with some of its
past glories.
He was a perfect host, even though, perhaps, a little dull; and one
enjoyed a first visit to Chantilly more than a second, on account of
the necessity it entailed to perform with its master what is called “le
tour du propriétaire,” to admire what he admired, to look only upon what
he showed you himself, and not to be allowed to roam at will in the
avenues of the park, or in the vast halls full of lovely things, and of
remembrances of the past. One would have liked to spend hours
contemplating the wonders of art gathered under that roof, to examine
the sword of the Great Condé, or to look through the quantity of
interesting documents, historical and otherwise, that were kept in
businesslike order in the great cupboards of the long library, whose
windows opened on the meadows, where probably the lovely Madame de
Longueville had roamed together with one or other of her numerous
admirers.
This solitary place required silence rather than the casual remarks
which echoed through its corridors as the motley crowd generally met at
the Sunday breakfasts which the Duc liked to give. These breakfasts were
quite a feature in the life of the master of this palace, and the
queerest assemblage of people could be met at them--Academicians,
colleagues of the Duc, military men, foreigners, scientists, diplomats,
men of letters and men of the world, ladies of the highest rank and
actresses. He made no distinctions, and never cared whether he brought
together people who agreed with each other or not. There was no link
between his guests, who forgot all about those who had been their
companions of the afternoon at Chantilly after that afternoon was over;
they never chatted together, and perhaps their host did not care for
them to do so. He liked to concentrate around his own person the
attention of those who had partaken of his hospitality; he would have
felt offended had he caught them talking to each other, and not
listening exclusively to himself. He was full of attention to those whom
he guessed were admirers of his deeds or works, and took a deal of
trouble to show to self-made people that he esteemed them more than
those who were his equal in birth if not in rank. For instance, I
remember one day when having at lunch the Duchesse de Noailles and
Madame Cuvillier Fleury, the widow of his old tutor, he put the latter
on his right and the Duchesse on his left. The fact was instantly
noticed by a few Academicians, of what I would call the inferior ranks
of the Academy, and instantly it was remarked what a kind, noble and
attentive nature was Henri d’Orleans, Duc d’Aumale, who thus ignored the
high standing of one of the noblest amongst the noble Duchesses of
France in order to show gratitude to the relict of the man to whom he
owed his moral training. This action of the Duke was just one of these
things he was so fond of doing, in order to provoke admiration. He liked
to forget the exclusive traditions of his race whenever he thought that
it would ensure for him the sympathies of the mob; that mob which his
family had ever courted, to which it owed in part its fame and its
successes, and which despised it for the very facility with which it
bowed down licking the very dust. Among all the opportunist Orleans the
Duc d’Aumale was foremost.
Since the death of his wife and children all his affections had
concentrated on his splendid Chantilly, the reconstruction of which had
entirely absorbed him from the day of his return to France after the
revolution that had overthrown the Bonaparte dynasty. In spite of all
that has been said he had no political ambitions. He knew that he had no
right to the crown of France, and that he could not pretend to it
without foregoing all the principles which he did not possess, but which
he was supposed to represent. Having been sounded as to whether he would
accept the Presidency of the Republic, he had consented to do so,
because he had been told that he had to do it, but he did not regret
that, as events turned out, the candidature of Marshal MacMahon was
preferred to his own. He returned to his country home, to his roses, his
pictures, his works of art, his horses, and his dogs, and took up again
his easy, happy, careless life as a grand seigneur of olden times,
absorbed in his books and studies, able to gather his friends round him
whenever he liked, and to do the honours of his stately domain. Fond of
hunting the stag in his vast forests, he was not above coming to Paris
whenever he wanted amusements that would have been incompatible with the
grandeur of Chantilly--to kiss the hand of a Leonide Leblanc, or to
enjoy an hour’s chat with the lovely Countess de Castiglione, whose
beauty then was on the wane. He was an amiable talker, rather dry in his
remarks, but always ready to make use of his many remembrances and his
vast erudition to add to the enjoyment of those with whom he was
conversing. He told an anecdote pleasantly, and related an historical
fact with a grand eighteenth-century manner, without offending the
Republican instincts of those who were listening to him.
His appearance was entirely that of a grand seigneur of old, no matter
whether he was dressed in his uniform or evening clothes, with the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honour across his chest, or whether he was met
walking in his park in corduroy trousers, and gaiters rather the worse
for wear. His thin, delicate features, with the white tuft on the chin,
the long, soft, silken moustache, and eyes with a haunted look, reminded
one of a picture by Velasquez or Van Dyck. The figure was slightly bent,
but wiry and agile, and had kept much of the elasticity of its younger
days.
He talked quickly, sometimes sharply, but always with extreme courtesy,
and even when disagreeing did so in most measured tones, and with the
utmost care not to wound the feelings of those with whom he was in
discussion. He had a sympathetic manner, but not a kingly one by any
means. There was nothing regal about him, but there was also nothing
that was not gentlemanly in the fullest sense of the word. And
sometimes, when one saw him leaning against the pedestal of the statue
of the Connétable of Montmorency, which he had had erected in front of
his palace of Chantilly, or handling with love and reverence the sword
which the Great Condé had carried at Rocroy, for one short, flitting
moment he gave one the impression that he was only the guardian of those
historical relics of which he was master.
The Duc d’Aumale had never had the initiative to fight for the
privileges to which he had been born. In 1848, he was in command of an
important army in Algeria, with which he might have fought the
insurrectional government with advantage. He either lacked courage, or
didn’t think it worth while to risk his own personal position as a
factor in the France of the future to do so. He resigned his command,
with more alacrity than dignity, and accepting as the decision of his
country the rebellion of the few, retired to England, and with
occasional stays in his Sicilian domains, near Palermo, he awaited in
retirement and silence for the dawn of another day which would allow him
to return to the France he liked so much and to the Chantilly he loved
so well.
When at last that moment came, his first care was to use his efforts to
avoid the possibility of a new banishment. In order to do this he opened
his doors wide to all political men and to all the literary celebrities
of the day. His hospitality was unbounded; he flattered the middle
classes, who had suddenly become the leading force in France, with
consummate skill. He tried as much as he could to make others forget
that he was a member of the ancient house of Bourbon, with whose
destinies those of their country had been inseparably associated for
centuries. He strove always to appear to those whom he welcomed under
his roof as a private gentleman, the owner of an historical place, and
as a member of that Academy to which he was so proud to belong, the
membership of which was dearer to him than all the glories of his race.
He democratised himself, if such an expression can be pardoned. He came
down from the throne, on the steps of which he had been born, into the
crowd with which he liked to mix himself, quite forgetting that this
crowd could at any minute descend to the gutter, whither they would drag
him too whether he liked it or not.
There came, however, a day in the career of the Duc d’Aumale when he
felt constrained to assert himself, when for once the blood of Henri IV.
spoke in him. It was when he wrote to the President, Jules Grévy, that
famous letter which resulted in his being sent to join his nephew across
the frontiers of France. This letter was penned after the government had
sent the Comte de Paris into an exile whence he was never to return, and
he himself had been deprived of his rank and command. The shock was
terrible to him, and bitterly did he regret the attack of indignation
that had made him speak when he should have remained silent. As he said
himself many years later: “J’ai laissé parler mon cœeur, tandis que
j’aurais dû écouter ma raison” (“I listened to my heart when I ought
only to have heard my reason”).
He retired to Brussels, which was nearer than England to the royal home
he had adorned with such loving care, in the hope to bequeath it to his
race, a living memento of the glories of their ancestors. When he saw
himself parted from Chantilly, especially when it became evident to him
that he would remain in exile until death released him, he took a
resolution which, better than anything else, proves that in his heart
and mind his family held but a small place.
He made a will by which he left Chantilly, its collections, its
treasures, its library, its historical documents, its park and forests
to the French Academy. And he divulged his intention in the hope that,
as a reward for the splendid gift he was making to her, France would
once more admit him within her doors, and by restoring him to his home
thank him for having given it to her.
This act of selfish generosity has been very differently commented upon.
Whilst many have admired it, a few old men and women, born and bred in
ideas of an age when traditions, love for one’s race, and desire to help
it to keep its high position and its inheritance were uppermost, have
bitterly reproached him for having thus transgressed traditions that
ought to have been sacred to him.
This attack of “Christian generosity,” as someone wittily termed it,
which made him not only forgive the injury that had been done to him,
but even reward by a kingly gift the injustice of a country which had
used him so mercilessly, not only estranged him from his family, which,
though it said nothing, thought a great deal, but also made him lose the
sympathies of many former partisans of the Orleans dynasty. This
alienation of the home of the Condés, in favour of a Republican
government, made all realise that whatever were the qualities of the Duc
d’Aumale, they were obscured by his unlimited selfishness.
France also felt the degradation of this gift, and did not hasten to
reward the donor of it as he had expected. She left him for some months
in Brussels, alone with the shame of his unworthy action, until at last
an advocate of talent, Maitre Cléry, succeeded in obtaining from
President Carnot the repeal of the decree which had banished the Duke
from France. He thereupon returned in haste to his beloved Chantilly,
where he took up again his former existence, with the difference that
when he received at his table the members of the Academy he used to tell
them: “Maintenant vous êtes ici chez vous, messieurs” (“Now you are at
home”). It was related at the time that a member of the learned Assembly
took this opportunity to entreat the Duke to change the place of a
certain picture which he thought had not been put where it ought to have
been hung. Henri d’Orleans’ eyes flashed with indignation at this
audacity, and drawing himself up very haughtily he said: “Vous vous
oubliez, monsieur” (“You forget yourself, sir”), to which, nothing
daunted, the impertinent visitor remarked: “Mais, puisque vous venez de
dire que nous sommes chez nous, monseigneur” (“But you have just said
that we are at home, sir”).
Maitre Cléry, to whom the Prince owed his return from exile, did not
know him personally, and had never been among those whom he had invited
to his receptions. Consequently his action when he undertook to plead
the cause of the Duc d’Aumale with the President of the Republic was
absolutely disinterested. He had, however, expected a word of thanks for
his intervention in the matter. That word was a long time in coming, too
long, perhaps, in the opinion of some people. When at last the
celebrated advocate received an invitation to lunch at Chantilly, he
remarked that it came like mustard after dinner--“comme de la moutarde
après dîner.”
The last years of the life of the Duc d’Aumale were saddened by
uncongenial family stories and incidents, in which his nephews--so
gossip said--figured in rather an unpleasant light. Angry beyond words
at these rumours, his relations with his people became more and more
distant and estranged, and the big family parties that he liked to
gather round him in former times took place no more. He kept himself
among a small circle of friends, and in the society of Madame de
Clinchamps, a former lady-in-waiting of the Duchesse d’Aumale, whom he
married secretly, and who--and this is very characteristic of him--he
left very badly off after his death, with nothing but a small pittance
out of his many millions. Madame de Clinchamps was invariably amiable.
She appeared at the lunches given at Chantilly, and visitors found her
sitting by the fire in the tapestried drawing-room, where the Duc used
to receive his guests. She did not put herself forward in any way, and
never attempted even to do the honours of the place. She must have
really loved the Duc, or else she would never have put up with the
slights he showered upon her, or accepted the false position in which he
left her, and her devotion to him never failed up to his death, after
which she retired to a small house on the edge of the Forest of
Chantilly, where, at the time I am writing, she lives in strict
retirement and in comparative poverty.
I have met most of the celebrities of modern France at the Duc
d’Aumale’s lunches. He was very catholic as to the people whom he
invited, and only required them to be amiable and to listen well to him,
without attempting to interrupt. Among his great friends was Jules
Lemaitre, the Academician, an amusing, intelligent little man, rather
void of manners, who buzzed about in a way that would have been
aggressive had it not been so funny. He was full of wit, but sometimes
said gauche things, the value of which did not appear to strike his
otherwise critical mind. For instance, one day, whilst the Duc was
showing to his visitors a lovely collection of miniatures of the Royal
Family of France, from the end of the eighteenth century, he interrupted
him with the question: “And where, sir, do you keep the letters of M.
Cuvillier Fleury?” The late Duc de la Trémouille was standing next to
me; we looked at each other, and smiled. Evidently a member of the
French Academy of the end of the nineteenth century could not feel the
slightest interest in anything else but Cuvillier Fleury, the bourgeois
tutor of a bourgeois pupil, such as the Duc d’Aumale had proved himself
to be in the eyes of a certain number of the people whom he had made his
friends.
Bonnat, the painter, was also a frequent visitor at Chantilly, and his
portrait of the Duc is one of the best pictures that ever came from his
brush. The Prince is represented in the uniform of a general, perhaps
the same which he wore on the day when, with a cruelty one would have
preferred not to have seen in him, he condemned Marshal Bazaine to an
ignominious death.
It is related that the Duc d’Aumale used to say that he would like to
die at Chantilly, and that he had even left directions how his funeral
was to take place. In them he expressed a wish to lie in state in the
chapel for a day or two, near the hearts of the Princes de Condé, buried
there and respected by the Revolution of 1789. This desire was not
destined to be fulfilled. He breathed his last in Sicily, at his castle
near Palermo, and his mortal remains were brought back straight to the
family vault at Dreux. Chantilly stands empty and deserted now, save on
the days when tourists invade it, and roam in the rooms which have rung
with women’s soft laughter and listened to so many momentous and
interesting conversations. No one, even among the old servants still
left in charge of the place, ever talks of the Duc d’Aumale, and mention
is only made of the former lords of the Castle, of those illustrious and
unfortunate Princes de Condé, the souls of whom still fill the old walls
their fame has immortalised for ever. In the Gallery des Batailles, as
it is called, the sword of the hero of Rocroy still hangs, tarnished
with age, but now no reverential hand ever lifts it; only the heavy
fingers of a sleepy housemaid dusts it now and then. The pictures, the
portraits, the works of art are in the same place they occupied when an
intelligent master had arranged them with loving care. In the long
dining-room the table at which so many celebrities and high-born people
sat is still there, with chairs standing round it; in the drawing-room
the two arm-chairs the Duc and Madame de Clinchamps used to occupy are
in the same place; and in the library the inkstand has been left open
with its pen lying beside it. Everything seems a little dingy, a little
empty, a little forsaken, everything has the appearance of one of those
vast temples of old, whence, according to the words of the Russian poet,
“the idols have fled.”