To the Empress, as to many of her friends and attendants, the principal features of life at Fontainebleau were the carriage drives, the déjeuners on the grass in the forest, the excursions to neighbouring villages, and visits to the churches. When the Emperor attended these rural outings his carriage was drawn by six horses—two more than those of the other vehicles. As the imperial party left the château the drums beat “aux champs,” the guard presented arms, and the cavalcade swept along to the music of the horses’ bells. Neither black clouds, threatening rain, nor mists, nor a scorching sun prevented an excursion if it had been arranged. One day, after a pelting shower, the Empress waded through muddy paths until she had reached the top of a steep hill. The Chevalier Nigra (Italian Ambassador) and M. Octave Feuillet followed her as they best could through the slush, to the ruin of their silk hats (!) and thin boots. The Empress had not a dry thread on her; some of her garments were in rags; the dripping branches made walking a heavy business. When in time they got back to the carriages, the sun was shining, making the men’s coats smoke like a chimney. Never had the Empress more enjoyed herself, never had she looked more beautiful. A quarter of an hour after her return to the château she was the first at table, laughing at the spectacle of the Ambassador and the author in their ruined hats, her cheeks still rosy from the long tramp in the sodden forest paths and up the slippery hillside. As, however, she insisted that she was late, she had wrapped in paper ten sous, the fine which all who were not punctual at dinner had to pay to General Lepic before daring to seat themselves at table. (This fine was a survival of the custom which had prevailed at the royal Courts. The Duchesse de Berry was so unpunctual that she was fined every day!)

In the early days of the Franco-Mexican campaign—after the defeat of the imperial forces in their hopeless attempt to capture Puebla—Count Bismarck was the guest of the Emperor and Empress at Fontainebleau. He had just been appointed Prussian Minister to France. No one could have had a warmer welcome than the diplomatist. Bismarck was well known to his host and hostess, who had received him in 1855, the year of the first Exhibition—the year also of the visit to France of Queen Victoria, the Prince Consort, the Princess Royal, and the Prince of Wales. Next he attended the conference held in Paris to settle the question of Neuchâtel. In 1857 Bismarck did not display any hostility to the Emperor Napoleon’s wish for a rapprochement between France and Prussia. The Emperor had said to his Foreign Minister, Thouvenel: “These two neighbouring States (France and Prussia), placed by their intellectual culture and their institutions at the head of civilization, ought to mutually support each other.”

Bismarck and the Emperor had a “political walk” through the grounds of Fontainebleau, then in their autumnal beauty (it was October, 1862). The Prussian Minister[63] had the art of making himself agreeable, and became a general favourite with the guests of the “séries,” among whom he was the most striking figure. As the Emperor unbosomed himself to his guest, and smoked and talked with him, nothing could have been farther from his thoughts than that, eight years later, he would find in Bismarck (who had yet to earn his sobriquet, the “Man of Blood and Iron”) his implacable enemy.

“The Emperor,” said Bismarck later, “asked me abruptly if I believed the King was disposed to conclude an alliance with him. I replied: ‘Circumstances alone can enable us to appreciate the necessity and the utility of alliances.’”

Bismarck had been almost the only man in his country who admired Napoleon III. He had even advised King Frederick William IV. to enter into an alliance with France. When he took over the Paris Legation he was received with much favour, not only by the Court, but by the official world; and the Foreign Minister (Thouvenel) wrote to the Duc de Gramont: “We are assured that Bismarck has the most friendly feeling for us.” When King William succeeded Frederick William IV. he was not far from sharing Bismarck’s views of the French Emperor. Those views underwent a change in 1863, the result of the intervention of Napoleon III. in the affairs of Poland—a step which did the Poles no good, and temporarily alienated the Tsar (Alexander II.) from Napoleon. Bismarck was not slow to see how he could utilize the Emperor’s mistake, and henceforth dismissed from his mind all idea of a Franco-Prussian alliance.[64]

It was at a Ministerial Council held later at Fontainebleau that a dramatic incident occurred. The Emperor had asked his consort to be present, somewhat to the embarrassment of Thouvenel, whose duty it was to present a report recommending an early recognition of the new kingdom of Italy. This did not at all accord with the Empress’s well-known views. Scarcely had the Foreign Minister concluded the reading of the report than she burst into tears and left the Council Chamber. There was a painful silence, broken by the Emperor saying to Marshal Vaillant: “Please follow Her Majesty and attend to her.”

CHAPTER X

COMPIÈGNE

The social history of the Second Empire was resumed in the Tuileries, St. Cloud, Fontainebleau, Biarritz, and Compiègne. The name of the latter lingered fondly on the lips of the fine fleur of English society between 1855 and the winter of 1869-70. It is well to remember that it was to Queen Victoria that we owed the entente cordiale. That, as time passed, the mutual understanding which she secured flickered, and gave place to bad blood after the “attempt” of Orsini, Pierri, Rudio, and Gomez, was no fault of Queen Victoria. But the bombs were designed by the master-mind in Belgium, and manufactured at Birmingham, and London was the scene of the “conspirations.” It is true that the personal relations between the Sovereigns, which had been securely cemented in 1855 at Windsor, London, Osborne, and St. Cloud, remained unchanged, and naturally. Was not Queen Victoria the best friend the French Sovereigns possessed in Europe? What angered the French nation was the shelter given to the Italian assassins by England. Had it been otherwise, the tragedy of January 14, 1858, would have been more difficult—perhaps impossible—of achievement. Such was the French view, and not an unreasonable one.

But even the attempted murder of Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugénie did not, we may assume, cause English people who were honoured with invitations to Compiègne to think twice before accepting them. Those “Compiègnes”—how many souvenirs the mention of them evokes! Was it not at Compiègne that Mme. Fortoul’s gross insult had as an immediate result the Emperor’s belated “proposal” to Mlle. Eugénie de Montijo? Was it not there that the Prince and Princess of Wales were the principal figures in 1868, when any Cassandra who had ventured to predict the imminence of a “Sedan” would have been derided and scorned?[65]

The first of what came to be known as “the Compiègnes” dates from December 18, 1852, six weeks before the marriage, and the Comtesse de Montijo and her daughter were of the party. The Emperor of a fortnight had arrived at the château a few days previously amidst the roar of cannon; he had passed under triumphal arches and between rows of troops and the local firemen; his unmusical ears had been amused by the “tralalas” of the peasantry gathered from the countryside for miles around. With him came his cousins, Prince Jérôme Napoleon (not yet married to Princesse Clotilde, one of the survivors of to-day) and Princesse Mathilde (who had been long separated from her impossible husband, Prince Anatole Demidoff), Ambassadors and Imperial Ministers, and, of course, many ladies—Mme. Drouyn de Lhuys, Mme. de Persigny, and Mme. de Contades, to mention a few.

The Emperor knew what was expected of him. He had not been four years President without learning the métier. The festivities began with a ball on the 18th; on the 20th there was a great “meet,” attended by two hundred ladies, all mounted, and in Louis XV. costume—“casaque à basques” and “chapeau mousquetaire.” Of course, “the Montijos” were among the “dames chasseresses,” and provoked criticism as well as admiration at the “meet” at the carrefour Bourbon and in the evening at the curée, by torchlight, in the court of the château. At this stag-hunt the first of the “boutons” made their appearance; these were favoured persons allowed by the Sovereign to wear the green uniform and three-cornered hat, which, to unæsthetic British “pursuers,” smacked of the theatrical, just as scarlet coats may have seemed to Frenchmen who were occasionally seen in our shires.

The two “foreign ladies”—Mme. and Mlle. de Montijo—were ardent sportswomen. They rode boldly in the stag-hunts, and they appeared at the “shoots” with guns—delicately-made weapons—“jolis joujoux,” M. Bouchot calls them. They tramped through the coverts alongside the Emperor; no other ladies shared this privilege. This alone was enough to set envious tongues wagging. Nobody admitted the possibility of what actually happened; nobody believed in an “engagement”; but many believed in “adventures” which never occurred. In reality there was played in the alleys and coverts of Compiègne a final act of diplomacy, in which Spain wasted less powder and shot than the spectators imagined.

Between December 18 and 25—that fateful week for the Emperor and Mlle. de Montijo—the Gymnase company performed the “Fils de Famille,” and on Christmas Day came another big “meet” of the imperial hounds. The “foreign ladies” assisted at both these events, which preceded by a few days the news of the engagement. Every year thereafter the Court removed to Compiègne in November, and there the Festival of Ste. Eugénie was regularly celebrated on the 15th.

Compiègne was neither a Fontainebleau nor a St. Cloud; in some respects it was like the Tuileries. The Empress’s “Compiègnes” were at once sans-gêne and dignified—an amalgam of town and country festivities; château life carried to an excess of luxuriousness; an intermediate existence between summer at Fontainebleau and winter at the Tuileries. In the country, amongst the vast woods, with relays of guests, the Empress was happy. In the day there was now a “meet,” anon a “shoot”; at night there were raouts, dances, charades, theatrical performances. The invités, as a rule, remained four or five days; others, a week or so. On the Empress’s fête-day (Ste. Eugénie) there was a family gathering. Towards the end of November snow or rain usually interfered with hunting and shooting.

Each of the “seriés” was composed of from sixty to eighty persons—social stars, actors and actresses, singers, authors, painters, journalists, and mere gens d’esprit. They left Paris by a special train at two o’clock, and it was often dark when they reached the château in the English chars-à-bancs. Amongst the guests of every variety were some who were not remarkable for social graces. Here and there were men who apparently did not find it easy to tie a white cravat properly; yet for these the sunniest smiles of the imperial host and hostess were reserved. Some of the guests were encumbered by baggage—huge boxes and trunks choked with uniforms and dresses. The sorting of these, under the superintendence of valets and suisses, provided amusement for those who watched the scene from the upper windows.

By a quarter-past seven the guests had to be correctly dressed—the men in tail-coats, short breeches, black silk stockings, and shoes with steel buckles—and in the large drawing-room awaiting the entry of the Sovereigns. Only the official personages had places allotted to them at table; the others sat where they pleased, or where they could. Dinners at Courts are said to be very much alike. But those at Compiègne had a spécialité; everything was superlatively good, and the music excellent. On the stuccoed columns of the dining-room were statues of Mme. Lætitia and Napoleon I. The plates were of Sèvres, the girandoles of silver, a surtout in biscuit (which faced the Emperor) was adorned with a hunting scene. The legion of servants wore coats with gold lace; their perruques were powdered, their stockings of pink silk. The head-servants—maîtres d’hôtels—wore plum-coloured tail-coats, embroidered with silver; each had a sword. The unseen orchestra played softly, so that conversation was undisturbed. In less than three-quarters of an hour the Emperor and Empress rose; the guests, passing through the salle des gardes, returned to the salons.

When professional actors and actresses appeared at Compiègne, the great salle de spectacle was more than usually crowded, for on these occasions the audience was composed, not only of the Sovereigns’ guests, but of the officers of the garrison and many of the principal residents. The comédies de salon were represented in a gallery on the ground-floor of the Palace, where a temporary stage—technically known as a “fit-up”—was erected. These amateur performances were given for the exclusive benefit of the imperial couple’s guests, the “house-party.” On evenings when there was no acting there were “games” of various kinds, some of them very similar to those provided for children’s gatherings; or there was an informal dance, to the strains of a piano-organ, “played” by the guests in turn, and sometimes by the Emperor himself.

It was in the little theatre on the ground-floor of the château that Octave Feuillet’s piece, “Les Portraits de la Marquise,” was originally produced. This was an event, for the Empress played the principal part, which was “specially written” for her. Here, too, was given M. Legouvé’s spirituelle charade, the word being “anniversaire,” and the occasion the Festival of Ste. Eugénie (November 15).

“Some may perhaps consider,” said the Marquis, “that I have availed myself of ‘reportage,’ sprinkled with water blessed by the Court, but ‘holy water’ sprinkled sorrowfully over cinders, for what remains to-day to represent that Court of the Tuileries which was so splendid? Only some disinterested partisans, who, without conspiring, sometimes cross the frontier to salute the noble heir of the name of Napoleon. And elsewhere Pietri, the faithful and devoted secretary, and the Duchesse de Mouchy, a weeping niece—two waifs, tending with pious care, forty years after the shipwreck, an august widow, sacred by misfortune, after having worn a crown, and standing on the shore—a foreign shore—guarding two tombs.”

At Compiègne, in the autumn of 1861, the talk was mainly of Mexico and its proposed Emperor. This “Idée Napoléonienne” was quite outside the intentions of the three Powers (France, England, and Spain) as expressed in the Convention signed on October 31, 1861, and the Emperor’s idea was not suspected by the guests then at Compiègne. Among them were some of the Portuguese Princes. Consternation fell upon the Court when, in the midst of the festivities, news arrived, first of the sudden death of the Infant Don Fernando, then of the young King of Portugal, Dom Pedro V. The convenances had to be observed; there was an end of the programme of entertainments arranged for that particular “series.”

After the regulation period of the Court “mourning” for the Infant and the King (poisoning had been darkly hinted at), fêtes were organized for the next batch of guests and the following “séries,” and mingling with Princes of the Blood were many intellectual lights—Octave Feuillet and Prosper Mérimée (both quite at home at the château), Gounod and Meissonier, Camille Doucet and Paul de Musset (brother of Alfred, the poet), Jules Sandeau and Cabanel (the renowned painter). The Empress was in exceptionally high spirits, for she was aware of her consort’s secret views concerning Mexico, and rejoiced at the coming struggle. Had not her beloved Spain been grossly insulted and its Ambassador expelled? Had not Juarez disregarded treaties and shown contempt for the two Vice-Consuls of France? The expedition would be at once an avenging and a civilizing army, which would make a country in which the flag of Castille had long floated respect order and the Catholic faith. Vain dreams!

CHAPTER XI

THE FOREIGN LEGION; AND SOME GREAT LADIES

In this vulgar crowd were Princes and Princesses, some, at least, of whom, had conferred these titles upon themselves; a few were of princely rank, but these were not the wealthiest. “Paradoxical as it may appear, Exoticism was Parisian in its essence.”[68] The women were superb, “with lips amorously red and facile; the girls had wicked eyes and undulating forms; the faces of the men were sufficiently bronzed to give a suggestion of dramatic adventures aforetime. The Exotic ladies, with all the assurance of a ribald gang raiding a town, gave themselves great airs”; but their hauteur did not prevent them from opening their arms. Parisians at first held aloof from these besiegers, smelling disgustingly of money; but the revolt did not last long, and it was followed by new expressions of amiability. Brazilians, Armenians, and Turks—new and unknown meteors—came, and in a fit of remorse for their previous disdain Paris society flocked to the abodes of the new-comers, clamouring for champagne and sandwiches.

But there is another side to the medal. In those Second Empire days it was not a case of the abject degradation of a society which, rotting, engulfs itself. All these men, all these women, these Don Juans and these Ninons de l’Enclos’, had healthy blood in their veins, and fire under the skin. They bore themselves proudly. The men were brave; the women were beautiful—some intelligent. There were women who exercised a sovereign rule over the arts and politics. There were salons which had at their head some feminine aristocratic personality; others, swayed by some radiant bourgeoise beauty. With their slender fingers, bourgeoises or patricians, they led the grand farandole of the lazy. They sought out the poets, the artists, who work in the shade. A smile, a flower taken from a palpitating corsage, for a sketch; a kiss—more still, sometimes—for a sonnet. “With very little alteration, I would write this page, if it had to be rewritten, just as it is given here.”[69]

Among these ladies, two especially—“Exotics”—are noted by M. de Lano as having preoccupied the Empress by their actions in various ways—the Princesse de Metternich and the Comtesse de Castiglione. The first of these was apparently the Empress’s friend; the second openly hostile to her Majesty, posing to her face as her rival, at one time the Sovereign’s successful rival. “On one side [that of the Austrian Princess] was an affection which, perhaps, still continues; on the other, a hatred which ended only in death.”

From the year in which she first appeared in Paris as the wife of the Austrian Ambassador, Mme. de Metternich aroused criticism. “She gave us the impression,” says M. de Lano, “of one who had set herself the task of publicly discrediting the imperial Court by her eccentricities, her lightness, and the equivocal style of dress which she made fashionable at the Tuileries. Her influence had not a favourable effect on the destinies and the undertakings of Napoleon III. and his consort; and if this were the place to inquire into the sincerity of the sentiments professed by the Prince and Princess for the Emperor and Empress, one might be disposed to ask if the Ambassador and his wife did not from the first enact a comedy—the comedy of friendship—the better to aid in the downfall of a man whom, au fond, they could not love.”

Irreproachable as a wife, the Princess brought “trouble, and almost indecency,” to the Court of the Tuileries. The Empress saw only with the Princess’s eyes, and heard only with that lady’s ears. The Court ought to have been able to reply to the raillery of foreign Courts by an absolute correctness; but the Princess made the Tuileries a sort of school-boy’s playground. Mme. de Metternich took lessons of the café-concert singer, Thérèsa,[70] took her to the Tuileries, and gave “imitations” of her at the Palace, to the dismay of some, whom these displays saddened, and to the amusement of not a few feather-headed folk. Entirely owing to the influence of the Princess, Thérèsa was made acceptable to—at all events, was accepted by—some of the aristocrats of the old Faubourg, and one night, at a ball given by the Duchesse de Galliera, the Princess presented her café-concert friend to the Duchess’s guests, who waxed indignant.

When the incident was reported to Mme. de Metternich, she said: “Ah! these old heads upon young shoulders! It seems that I have rather upset them!” She not only coped with the suggestive “cancan,” but one evening, in a charade, appeared as, and in the dress of, a cabman.

M. de Lano affirms that “these incohérences, these insane manifestations of a decadent society, pleased the Empress, who encouraged and authorized them with the unconsciousness of a pretty woman, intoxicated by unforeseen happiness and her unhoped-for royalty.” The intimacy with the Empress, resulting from Mme. de Metternich’s “originality”—which perhaps was studied and calculating—doubtless made her the clever collaboratrice of her husband in his ambassadorial labours, enabling her, it was said, to snatch precious secrets from one[71] who regarded her as a devoted friend. “This, apparently, is the explanation of those checks so often sustained by the Emperor and his Ministers in their negotiations with foreign diplomatists.”

Enemies abroad, intriguing ladies at the imperial palaces, an Emperor “using himself up” by his indiscriminate “affairs,” an unsuspecting and too-good-natured Empress—what were all these but precursors of ultimate dynastic ruin?

It was the Princesse de Metternich who, after the Empress had been singing the praises of Marie Antoinette, said: “Je voudrais bien être votre Princesse de Lamballe”—a doubtful compliment, if all that has been recorded of that lady can be believed.

Princesse Pauline de Metternich is[72] the daughter of Comte Sandor, a Hungarian grand seigneur, and granddaughter of the celebrated President of the Congress of Vienna. In the sixties she was as much a Parisienne as a grande dame, and she had the courage of her opinions. Needless to say, she was severely criticized. She had her own method of answering her assailants, one of whom she sought out and thus addressed: “Sir, in what you have publicly printed about me you have absolutely lied, for you know that I am incapable of acting in the manner you have described.”

She was one of Worth’s principal clients, and not only superintended the making of her own robes at the great man’s atelier (it would be profane to call it a “shop”), but gave him hints and advice. The late M. Aurélien Scholl, in one of his most mordant articles, audaciously asserted that the celebrated couturier of the Rue de la Paix—whom Scholl described as a “faune de la toilette”—had dared, when “trying on” one of the Princess’s toilettes, to “lay his mercenary hands on the bust of this patrician.” The Princess resented the expression, and Scholl, to allay her anger, wrote, and sent her, a poem of thirty-six lines, beginning:

The Marquis de Massa thinks this poetical apology “le plus galant du monde, as they say at the Comédie Française.” The story goes—and it was repeated by the Marquis shortly before his death in October, 1910—that at the first performance of “Tannhäuser” at the Paris Opéra (March 14, 1861) the Princess was so exasperated at the derision with which the work was received that she broke her fan.[73] Let us hear Princesse de Metternich’s own version of how Wagner’s great work came to be represented in Paris in 1861:

On Sunday, March 12, 1861, the eve of the première, Wagner wrote to the great cantatrice, Marie Sass, whom he addressed “Mlle. Marie Sax”:

This highly-born and highly-educated woman was, in the opinion of many, the evil genius of the imperial Court, while her husband took no pains to conceal the fact that he “adored” the Empress. A merry lady was Pauline de Metternich in those days, as this story will show. It was at Fontainebleau, and the pretty butterflies of the Court were dying of ennui, when Mme. de Metternich proposed that they should go for a walk in the neighbourhood with shortened skirts. The suggestion found general favour, with the Empress as well as with the ladies by whom she was surrounded. While the majority were arraying themselves in abbreviated drapery, it occurred to one of the suite that the spectacle of the Empress of the French rambling along the country roads in a frock barely covering her knees would be a rather pitiful one, and she ventured to remonstrate with Mme. de Metternich for proposing it.

The “fashionable monkey” was, as may be supposed, equal to the occasion, and, with much naïveté, replied: “What harm can there possibly be in the Empress dressing as we do, and going for a walk with us?”

“There may not be much harm in it, perhaps,” observed the remonstrating lady; “but it strikes me that it is unsuitable for a Sovereign. We might venture out in short skirts, but not the Empress—decidedly not.” She added: “And, besides, my dear Pauline, pray tell me this: Would you advise your own Sovereign, at Vienna, to dress herself up in such a style?”

“Oh,” was Mme. de Metternich’s answer, “that would be quite a different matter. I certainly should not advise the Empress Elisabeth to go out in short skirts; but you must remember that my Empress is a real Princess, a real Empress, while yours, ma chère, is Mlle. de Montijo!”

Some probably regarded this as clever; others may have deemed it impertinent, if not impudent, and doubtless among these latter was included the Empress Elisabeth, who often manifested her friendly feeling for her sister-Sovereign. Let us, however, be perfectly just and fair to the Austrian Ambassadress. She was admittedly more than a little méchante; but it should not be forgotten that she induced some of the most brilliant and beautiful women of the time to attend the Empress’s Court, and that but for her the Palace might never have seen within its walls such grandes dames as the Princesse de Sagan, the Comtesse de Pourtalès, the Comtesse de Beaumont, Mme. de Canisy, e tutti quanti. If she was as “ugly as a monkey,” she was at least, “spirituelle comme un démon et bonne comme un ange,” the most radiant star of the constellation of pretty women which graced the Tuileries.

Thérèsa, who was dubbed, very irreverently, “the music-hall Patti,” interpreted what later were styled “les chansons rosses,” and Mme. de Metternich was blamed, not altogether unjustly, for having introduced into the salons a singer and reciter of impertinent “comic” effusions only to be heard in the cafés-concerts. By most people Thérèsa’s ditties were regarded as highly diverting; others considered them “impossible,” and calculated to lower the public taste.

Mme. de Metternich’s presence in Paris certainly gave an impetus to the reviving fashionable movement. On all sides there were receptions and other entertainments, to the complete satisfaction of the tradespeople. Among the frequenters of the official salons were to be found many young men from the Government offices who were something more than good dancers. Many of them had a future; some attained success, and some came to the ground when their fortunes appeared to be brightest. One of these latter was young Soubeyran, who reached a high position under M. Achille Fould, Minister of Finance. He was a grandson of Savary, Duc de Rovigo, and experienced all the vicissitudes of fortune. Luckily he had a wife (daughter of the Marquis de Saint-Aulaire) who remained devoted to him in his darkest hours. Before he became almost the greatest financier during the reign of Napoleon III., Soubeyran (who, in many respects, was a man of the Albert Grant type, although, unlike the English speculator, he was “born”) had joined the Crédit Foncier as Deputy-Governor, his chief being M. Frémy. The latter retired, and Soubeyran stepped into his shoes. Unfortunately for himself, Soubeyran embroiled the Crédit Foncier so deeply in the affairs of the Egyptian Debt that the Government removed him from his position, and ordered him to pay his successors 40,000,000 francs, although later it was recognized that Soubeyran’s methods were highly beneficial to the country! Soubeyran, whose figure remains legendary in the world of la haute finance, was not, however, even then, completely “broke.” He started afresh, founded two large banks, and lived in sumptuous style; then he involved himself in dealings in the Italian rente, and fell, never to rise again, dragging down with him all who had believed in his “star.”

It was a moment in the reign when the Bourse and the great banks joined in a vast development of commercial undertakings, among them the magasins of the “Louvre,” inaugurated in 1855, and viewed rather sceptically by some of the leading financiers, who did not rush to invest their capital in the huge drapery business of MM. Hériot and Chauchart.[74] They had been employés, without any other advantages but those accruing from exceptional intelligence and untiring industry, and they found their patrons among the tout Paris of the Second Empire. Of course, the success of Hériot and Chauchart led to imitators of their methods, and ere many years had elapsed there arose similar immense “stores”—“Lafayette,” “Dufayel,” the “Printemps,” and others. It was in the reign of Napoleon III. that the “Bon Marché” sprang up in what had been one of the quietest quarters of Paris.[75] The Emperor saw with supreme satisfaction the creation and rapid progress of these establishments, the success of which spelt ever-increasing national prosperity.

Of the “fast” set—composed of men of all ages—the most conspicuous was the Duc de Grammont-Caderousse.[76] A fair-complexioned man, of average height, with small moustache and reddish whiskers, small head, and an abnormally long neck, circled by a straight collar, his high cheek-bones, sunken face, slightly rouged, and cavernous voice, evidenced the existence of phthisis. There were few more brilliant talkers even among the men of letters whose society he affected—Aurélien Scholl, Théodore Barrière, d’Anatole de la Forge, Jules Noriac, and Alphonse Cayron, to name only a few. Despite the English cut of his clothes, he was a Frenchman to his finger-tips. Some of the achievements of the notable viveur whom the Duchesse de Persigny christened “le Duc Darling” may be summarized. He had much to do with the bringing-out of Hortense Schneider, the creator of the principal character in Offenbach’s “La Grande Duchesse de Gérolstein.” He jumped his horse over a dining-table covered with Sèvres—a freak which cost him a small fortune. “Rigolboche,” the notorious dancer of the “cancan,” won the considerable bet which he made with her that she would not, in broad daylight, cross the boulevard from the Café Anglais to the Maison Dorée in Nature’s own garb. “He lit his cigar on La Marche steeplechase course with an English thousand-pound bank-note (which he had just won), because the rustling of the crisp paper grated on his nerves. He gave Cora Pearl[77] the famous silver bath-tub, filled it with magnums of champagne, and then got into it before the amazed company. A few hours before his death he gave a farewell supper-party, made his friends very drunk, and then, very quietly and without a struggle, expired before they had time to get sober. Had Caderousse been properly brought up he might have made a name for himself, but he frittered away his existence and died, as he had lived, like a clever clown. He had the best opinion of himself, or, when Paul Demidoff[78] once asked him to take the head of the table at a dinner-party, he would not have replied: ‘The head of the table is wherever De Grammont-Caderousse sits.’”[79]

It was only when the Second Empire began to dazzle the world—the new as well as the old—that the foreign colony of Paris assumed importance. During the previous quarter of a century the société étrangère consisted mainly of rich bachelors, English and Russian, like the Marquis of Hertford, Lord Seymour, Prince Mentschikoff, and Comte Rostopchine. There were, however, a few distinguished ladies, the most notable being the two Russians—the Princesse de Lieven,