who inspired Guizot, and Mme. Swetchine, the goddess of M. de Falloux. In those pre-Bonapartist days the Parisians also welcomed several Spanish families—the Aguados in particular—who soon became naturalized.

With the advent of Napoleon III. and his consort came the first of the foreign contingent—Spaniards, naturally, drawn to Paris by the Empress, whose compatriots saw with real pleasure Mme. de Montijo’s peerless daughter on the imperial throne and in the éclat of her marvellous good-fortune. In the salons now began to be seen a number of these fair foreigners—young women who, as De Morny gallantly said, “all had beautiful eyes, even the ugliest of them.” Prominent among the most beautiful were the Empress’s sister, the Duchesse d’Albe; the Duchesse de Frias, the Duchesse de Rivas, and Mme. Alfonso de Aldama (whose daughter married the Emperor’s equerry, the Comte de Castelbajac). The Spanish division was later reinforced by Queen Isabella, who, physically, was the greatest woman in Europe, but not enjoying a monopoly of all the virtues; the Duchesse de la Torre and her two daughters, the Marquise de Guadalmina, and Mme. De Arcos (Spanish only by marriage—Irish by birth).

The young Spanish ladies left in Paris the happiest souvenirs. They were gay, laughter-loving, and très honnêtes, despite—or perhaps on account of—their Southern expansiveness. They got up parties and organized “tertulias,” now with French gentlemen, and now with their compatriots of the epoch—MM. Alvarez de Toledo, the Marquis de Guadalcazar, Calderon, and jolly old Diego, the joy of Paris for more than thirty years.

The Italians rivalled the Spaniards by their beauty as well as by their entrain. There were the Comtesse de Castiglione, Princesse Belgiojoso, the Duchesse Riario-Storza, the Comtesse Marcello, the Duchesse de Bojano, to name only a few of the best known.

There were many reasons why the advent of the Second Empire coincided with the reign of the foreigner in Paris between 1853 and 1870. Firstly, the Faubourg Saint-Germain would have no intercourse with the new régime. The Empress, as we have seen, welcomed with open arms the Spanish aristocrats. Thus the ladies from beyond the mountains found themselves in the centre of the social whirlpool, and to this point naturally gravitated other of the foreign invaders. It was this attractive cosmopolitanism which inspired the amusing boutade of Meilhac and Halévy in their (and Offenbach’s) “Vie Parisienne”: “You are a foreigner—so am I. Then, as compatriots, let us,” etc.

Another reason—and the principal one—was the facility for getting about by the multiplication of means of locomotion. If a new railway was to be inaugurated the Emperor was always ready to preside at the ceremony, and to make one of his telling speeches, abounding in happy phrases, and glorifying French genius and French enterprise. It was steam which acted as the great conductor of the foreigner to the Paris of the Second Empire—steam which linked France with, first, North, and then South, America. In 1852, when, until December, Louis Napoleon was only Prince-President, Paris did not contain a dozen American residents. The first American ladies seen in Paris salons when the new reign began were Miss Ridgway and Miss Moulton. Then came Mrs. Post and her daughters; Mrs. Moulton, whose daughter married Count Hatzfeldt; Mrs. Ronalds and her sister, Miss Josephine Carter, both beautiful; Mrs. Pilié, one of whose daughters became the Marquise de Chasseloup-Laubat; Mrs. Carroll, who found in the Comte de Kergorlay a husband for one of her daughters; Mrs. Davis, two of whose daughters married Frenchmen; Mrs. Payne, whose daughter became Mme. Ferdinand Bischoffsheim; Miss Beckwith; and Miss Polk, who married General Baron de Charette, the redoubtable leader of the Papal Zouaves.[80]

While Princesse de Metternich had a monopoly of notoriety, there were four ladies who enjoyed greater social triumphs than any others—a charming quartet, who shed lustre on the imperial Court, and were immune from the barbed shafts of the satirists, which is not to say that they escaped the attentions of the gossip-mongers. They were Jeanne de Tallyerand-Périgord, Princesse de Sagan; the Marquise de Galliffet, Princesse de Martignes; Mélanie, Comtesse de Pourtalès; and the Marquise de Canisy.[81] In the lives of each there is material for a chapter. Mme. de Sagan was dubbed in her monde “Canaillette”; Mme. de Galliffet, “Cochonette”; and Mme. de Pourtalès, “Chiffonette.” The Junoesque Mme. de Canisy had no such enigmatical “fond-name.” These ladies figure in the chronique as among what was known as the Prince of Wales’s coterie, which included a few others who do not call for particular mention.

One of the most noted speculators of the epoch was Baron Seillière, father of the Princesse de Sagan. Her husband was the eldest son and heir of the Duc de Valençay; the great Talleyrand, Bishop of Autun, was of this family. If the Princess lacked beauty, she had exceptional intellectual gifts, and was prized for the staunchness of her friendships and her never-failing good nature. It was not her brilliant mental equipment that attracted the Prince; she had a very large dowry, or she might never have been presented by De Sagan with his hand, his heart (or what remained of it), and his title. The De Sagans’ princely abode, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, had belonged to an Englishman—Mr. Hope, the banker, whose London residence was converted into the Junior Athenæum Club, from whose upper rooms the Crystal Palace is visible.

The Princesse de Sagan used to assemble her relations and friends round her hospitable table every Sunday. Although she sprang from the wealthy middle class, Madame la Princesse, by her marriage, was immediately accorded a place in the forefront of the aristocracy, and she was one of the most notable figures at the Court of the Tuileries. One would have thought she had been born, if not in the actual purple, at all events very near it. They said of her that her husband, grand seigneur as he was to the finger-tips, developed her instincts, and that “she formed herself in his school.”

The immense wealth which this fascinating woman brought her husband enabled them to outshine the great majority of even the richest members of the French aristocracy. Her magnificent toilettes were the envy of all the women—the De Sagans’ horses and carriages excelled those of everybody else. The purple liveries, braided in gold, were singled out for special admiration by the crowd at Longchamp, where the Prince of Wales was seen fairly often. I have heard that the stables were not inferior to those of the Emperor. The luxe of the De Sagans’ residence was amazing. Very few, if any, royal palaces could show anything equal to it. There were said to be twelve hundred silver plates and dishes, and everything else was on a similarly regal scale.

A striking feature of the De Sagans’ hotel was the principal staircase, suggestive of the grand escalier at the Royal Palace at Madrid. The marble steps, covered with rich Aubusson carpeting; the cushions on the balustrades; the beautifully-decorated salons on the first floor; the bibelots of every kind; the white-and-gold adornments of the apartments; the galerie des glaces, scarcely less beautiful than the mirrored corridors at Versailles; the immense dining-room in which a hundred guests were often entertained; the rez-de-chaussée reserved for the use of the family; the park-like garden stretching over an immense area of the Faubourg Saint-Germain—how often did not our Prince see and admire all these!

The Princess had been the spoilt child of her wealthy father, who indulged her every caprice and humoured her every whim. Her jewels were the world’s talk at the time I am speaking of—and after. During one of her visits to London she made up her mind to appear at some great gathering in all her diamonds, and a telegram to Paris brought over one of the secretaries of her father (Baron Seillière) laden with the gems! Needless to describe the sensation which these bewildering stones, valued at many thousands of pounds, made in London.

Before very long the Prince and the Princess were living apart. Of the Prince and Baron Hirsch[82] this story is told by a friend of mine who was in the Bonapartist set during the reign.

The Prince de Sagan was offered by Baron Hirsch the liberal fee of £40,000 to go to Constantinople and conduct a business “deal.” Needless to say, the Prince closed with the tempting offer at once. The news soon reached the ears of the Princess, for, as M. de Blowitz very wittily said, “In Paris the fish talk—in Berlin the parrots are dumb.” Mme. de Sagan was furious, and, bursting in upon her husband at his bachelor’s “diggings” near the Petit Club (his favourite cercle), angrily exclaimed: “Is what I have heard true, Boson?” “What, ma chère?” innocently inquired the dandy. “That you are going to sell your name—going to be the commission agent and tout of that Jew Hirsch for some speculation of his in Turkey? Is it true?” “Hélas, ma chère, it is only too true. As I have but little money, and can hardly make both ends meet on what you allow me, I am forced to take advantage of any opportunity which arises to add to my scanty store.” “Oh, you are going to Turkey for the sake of the money which that Hirsch gives you?” “Of course; why else should I take the trouble of going all the way to Constantinople about this wretched railway business, dont je m’en fiche comme de l’année quarante?” (Which I care no more for than for the year forty.) “Well, then,” continued the Princess, now somewhat mollified, “if you got the same amount as that which Hirsch offers you, you would give up all idea of going?” “Ma foi, oui,” smiled the Prince. “Will you promise?” asked “Canaillette,” suspiciously. “Yes, I will promise.” “How much did Hirsch say he would give you?” “Oh, a bagatelle to you, but a large sum to me—a million francs.” “Indeed! Well, I will send you a cheque for the million this afternoon, on condition that you give up this absurd, degrading trip to Turkey. Is it a bargain?” The Prince, much amused at his wife’s earnestness, kissed her hand, thanked her, and accepted the terms. That afternoon De Sagan received Madame’s promised cheque, and the next morning saw him with one for a similar amount in his pocket from Baron Hirsch on his way to Constantinople!

To Mme. de Sagan we owe this epigram: “A husband can only hope to be a hero in his wife’s eyes for two months—the month before he is married, and the month after his death.”

Frank Seillière, brother of the Princesse de Sagan, married Mlle. Diane de Galliffet, of whose mother, the Marquise (the wife of the famous General), a few words must now be said.

The Marquise de Galliffet was half English, her father, M. Lafitte, the banker (“Major Fridolin,” of Turf celebrity), having married an English lady. The blonde Marquise was truly beautiful—“as beautiful as the Empress,” some enthusiasts vowed; “blonde comme les blès,” as my friend “Sornette” wrote of her “in the days that were earlier.” “Her few faults,” he asserted, “for all of which she was most bitterly punished, proceeded from her tenderness of heart. The beautiful and dainty Marquise could not find it in that sweet little cardiac arrangement which I suppose she called her heart to say ‘No’ to anybody who did not ask too audacious a favour, the result being that her generosity was abused.”

The Marquise was in great favour with the Empress, and the Emperor spoke of her in the most rapturous, but perfectly respectful, terms. Her nickname, “Cochonette,” to which she never objected, is said to have been conferred upon her because she was supposed to pay less attention to soap and water than she might have done. De Grammont-Caderousse (according to “Sornette,” the all-knowing and ever-humorous) used to tell this story of Mme. de Galliffet:

The imperial couple would have readily admitted, had they been asked, that they had no better friend, and that France did not possess a more patriotic soul, than the Comtesse de Pourtalès (who was born Mélanie de Bussière), who was always most warmly welcomed by the Emperor and Empress at the Tuileries entertainments, at the chasses and theatricals at Compiègne, and wherever else their Majesties happened to be. In that beautiful house in the Rue Tronchet, a museum and gallery of art combined, were to be found many English who were in Paris in obedience to the imperial invitation, the Prince of Wales not seldom being among them. It was Mme. de Pourtalès who, upon her return to Paris from a visit to Berlin, warned the Emperor and Empress of the high state of efficiency of the German forces. But she only had her trouble for her pains. The self-satisfied Generals made light of her forebodings of evil. Only Colonel Stöffel listened to her sympathetically, for he, better than anybody, knew how right she was. Who does not remember the portrait of Mme. de Pourtalès, garbed à l’Alsacienne, which, when France was humbled to the dust, evoked emotion all over the world? Who can forget the practical help which she hastened to extend to the Empress after her flight from the Tuileries?

At the amateur theatricals at Compiègne none of the ladies outshone the Comtesse de Pourtalès. In the Marquis de Massa’s Revue de l’année 1867 she represented the River Seine, magnificently dressed, of course. A phrase, sublime in its audacity, was put into her mouth, and was delivered with such charming naïveté that the little theatre resounded with peals of laughter. Prudhomme (Baron Lambert) exclaimed rapturously, “Mais, quel superbe costume vous avez, belle dame!” a compliment to which Mme. de Pourtalès had to reply, “Oh, j’en ai un beaucoup plus beau par-dessous!” (I have a much more beautiful one underneath.)

In the last years of the reign there figured at the Court of the Tuileries (and equally in the Royalist salons of the Faubourg Saint-Germain), among the pléiade of dazzling forms, the Baronne Alphonse de Rothschild.[84] The hôtel of the Baron and Baroness Alphonse in the Rue St. Florentin, which had been acquired from the heirs of the Prince de Talleyrand, was not only the rendezvous of the brilliant society of the Second Empire and of the intransigeante aristocracy of the ancien régime, but frequently opened its doors to foreign Princes, who, with lesser mortals, were also entertained at the magnificent château of Ferrières (a landmark in 1870-71) and at the fairy-like home at Cannes. Like the other (Continental) Rothschilds, the Baron and Baroness Alphonse liked to be surrounded by the artistic element. In their Paris hôtel were to be seen the leading lights of literature, science, and art. Of course, the Baron and Baroness were what is called “keen” on every kind of sport, otherwise they would not have been Rothschilds. Alexandre Dumas fils, calling on the Baroness Alphonse one Monday afternoon, was met with the inquiry: “Well, Monsieur Dumas, were you at the races yesterday?” “At the races, Madame la Baronne! Oh no; I never go to them.” “Never go to the races!” exclaimed the Baroness, surprised, if not horrified, at such an avowal; “then what on earth do you do with yourself on Sundays?”[85]

Mme. de Courtval was well known to the Court coterie, as any intimate friend of the Princesse de Sagan was bound to be. After dinner one night, at her villa at Deauville, she and her guests sat down at the whist-table. Presently there was a loud knocking and ringing at the door of the villa, and, to the dismay of the servants, a much-whiskered and moustached gentleman forced his way into the salon. Questioned as to his right to intrude upon the privacy of Mme. de Courtval and her guests—the Prince of Wales included—the stranger, in very aggressive tones, replied, “I have the honour to be the Mayor of Deauville!” and, unbuttoning his overcoat, he displayed to the stupefied party his scarf of office. He apologized for having to discharge a painful duty, and proceeded to say that the fair hostess, by permitting card-playing, had converted her villa into a tripot, or gaming-house, and had brought herself within the meshes of the law. The farce continued for some little time, to the great amusement of “the Prince” and Mme. de Sagan, who were the only members of the party in the secret. Then the whiskers of “M. le Maire” fell off, and revealed the features of a gentleman who was well known to the hostess and her friends. To complete the story, it must be added that the joke which had so perturbed Mme. de Courtval and most of her guests was due to the ingenuity of the Princesse de Sagan and—the Prince of Wales!

I pass from the recital of these frivolities to the Tragic Year. We shall see precisely how the Empress fulfilled the duties of the Regency, and hear the conversations of the Sovereigns.

CHAPTER XII

THE SOVEREIGNS’ WAR DESPATCHES

The Prince to his Mother.

On July 29 the Empress writes a long letter to the Emperor concerning the negotiations between France, Austria, and Italy. These appear to her to be proceeding favourably, having regard to a telegram received from Count Beust (Vienna), an analysis of which the Empress encloses in her letter; and to another telegram from the Marquis Visconti Venosta (from Turin), stating that the Roman Question[86] is about to be settled. The Empress, in her letter to her consort, congratulates herself upon having opposed the demands of the Emperor of Austria and his Minister (Beust), whose advice was that France should leave the Pope to his fate. The Emperor received this news very calmly, and on the following day replied by telegraph as under:

The Emperor to the Empress.

On the 31st Captain Guzman, one of the Emperor’s orderly officers, takes to Metz news from the Empress. His sterling character has gained him Her Majesty’s confidence, and she tells him to inform the Emperor that she wishes to visit Metz! Without an instant’s delay the following telegram is despatched:

The Emperor to the Empress.

On July 31 and August 1 the Emperor contemplates an attack upon Saarlouis, but changes his mind, and all the plans which had been in the air end with the little affair at Saarbrücken[87] on August 2, which the Emperor describes to his wife by telegraph as soon as he returns to Metz.

The Emperor to the Empress, St. Cloud.

This last phrase (says M. Germain Bapst) was important; it showed that the Empress, knowing that Count Vimercati was at Metz with a treaty, approved by the Emperor of Austria and the King of Italy, which Napoleon III. was to be asked to sign, had insisted that her consort should ignore it.

When the telegram reporting the engagement at Saarbrücken reached the Empress at St. Cloud she was walking in the park. Someone took the despatch to her. She read and re-read it aloud, very happy, and proud of her son. She hastened to the voltigeurs who were on guard and read it to them—then sent it, marked “private,” to M. Émile Ollivier, President of the Council [since January 2]. M. Ollivier perhaps forgot that the despatch was marked “private”; at all events, he showed it to a “Gaulois” reporter, and it appeared in large print in that paper the next day. The Empress, upon seeing it, declared that its appearance in the journal was the result of an “indiscretion.” Unfortunately, the telegram was not read by the public in the right light, and the little Prince was made the subject of ridicule.

Leaving the voltigeurs, the Empress went to her little study and wrote these telegrams:

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Empress to her Son.

The day following the famous “baptism” was quiet. On the next day (the 4th) Marshal Canrobert’s wife dined at St. Cloud, and she was still there when the Empress received the two telegrams, announcing the defeat at Weissemburg, sent by Marshal MacMahon to the Emperor, who transmitted them to the Empress without any alteration.

Marshal MacMahon to the Emperor.

The Empress to Marshal Lebœuf, Metz.

Half an hour after midnight Marshal Lebœuf telegraphed to the Empress to say he had no news.

MacMahon’s dread telegrams were withheld from the public for more than twenty-four hours. They appeared in the papers on the 5th, after 3 p.m. This unexpected news produced great irritation in Paris. But the people’s exaltation of spirit increased and their chauvinism was unbounded. The Parisians comforted themselves by saying: “It required 100,000 Prussians to defeat 8,000 French, and our troops were not beaten until they had inflicted greater losses on the enemy than the total number of French engaged.” The boulevards rang with a hundred other similar stupidities on the 5th. “However, MacMahon will take his revenge to-morrow!”

But the bad news seriously perturbed Ministers. “If,” they said, “the Crown Prince enters Alsace with 100,000 men he will attack MacMahon, who has only 35,000. That is grave indeed.” The night wore on without any further news. At midday some idiot or other, or perhaps a speculator “for the rise”—nobody ever knew which—stuck up at the Bourse this telegram: “Great victory: 25,000 prisoners, including the Crown Prince.” The Bourse became a Bedlam; the crowds on the boulevard yelled and danced and sang and wept. The “Marseillaise” was roared by men and shrieked by women and children. The grocers’ shops were cleared out of Venetian lamps, for use in the evening. Flags passed from hand to hand; houses were decked with them; and still the crowds, maddened with joy, sang themselves hoarse, and still they danced and wept. Traffic was stopped, carriages and cabs blocked the way, people climbed into them, stood on seats, and kissed each other.

A brief hour, and it was known that no news had been received from the frontier. The Bourse “telegram” was a huge “joke,” a diabolical “sell.” Then the mob, split into sections, roared, “Down with the Ministry!” and sang “Des nouvelles, des nouvelles!” to the air of the “Lampions.” And M. Chevandier de Valdrôme (Minister of the Interior) hastened to St. Cloud and reported to the Empress the day’s events.

Her Majesty maintained her composure, although for hours her nerves had been unstrung by suspense. At her suggestion Ministers met at six o’clock, and discussed the expediency of sending M. Maurice Richard to the Emperor with an urgent request to His Majesty to arrange for a constant supply of information. During the discussion a telegram from the Emperor announced that Frossard’s army corps was engaged—with what result was unknown.

Meanwhile there were wild “demonstrations” in front of some of the Ministries. All night the crowds remained on the boulevards. At midnight a thunderbolt fell. The Government received a copy of a telegram from the Empress announcing the double defeat at Forbach and Froschweiler. In forwarding this despatch the Empress ordered a meeting of Ministers, and announced that she was returning from St. Cloud to the Tuileries.

All this Saturday (August 6) the Empress was in a highly nervous condition. She could not be still, but walked in the park a few yards, then returned to her little room and wrote these telegrams:

The Empress to the Prince Imperial.

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Emperor to the Empress.

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Emperor to the Empress.

Although over-excited by her emotions, the Empress displayed splendid energy all through this terrible crisis, which was to last a full month—until September 4.[90] She had not a moment’s weakness; never abandoned her dignity. She set an example of constancy, dignity, and courage, while around her were many instances of weakness.

On the evening of August 6 the Duc and Duchesse de Montmorency and Prince de Metternich dined at St. Cloud with the Empress. After dinner the two former spent the remainder of the evening at Bougival, with the Princesse de Metternich, who had just been delivered of a girl. When the Prince got home he said to his wife and her guests: “The Empress is much exhausted. No news has reached her this evening. She is resting on her bed. I hope she will have a quiet night.”

At midnight there is a dramatic scene at St. Cloud. Admiral Jurien de la Gravière, M. Brissac, and Prince Poniatowski are sitting up awaiting news. At twelve o’clock they are called to decode a cipher telegram from the Emperor. They read: “General Frossard in retreat.” The Admiral goes to the Empress in her room to report this event. He finds her lying on the bed, fully dressed in a purple robe; she springs up from the bed, and goes to the salon, where Brissac reads the fateful words: “Marshal MacMahon has been beaten. Army in retreat [or “routed”]. Must expect the gravest events. We must retain our composure. Paris must be armed and a state of siege declared. All can be repaired. I have no news of MacMahon.”

Even this violent shock in the middle of the night does not overwhelm the Empress. “They must all have lost their heads!” is her only comment. She orders a copy of the Emperor’s telegram to be sent to the Minister of the Interior, tells him to call a meeting of the Council, and says she is returning to the Tuileries immediately. She telegraphs to the Emperor asking him to send further details, as she cannot understand the last six words.

The Empress to Princesse Mathilde.

The Empress sends Prince Poniatowski to Bougival for the Prince de Metternich, whom she wishes to accompany her to Paris, as it is “the dead of night.” At the Metternichs’ house (Villa Staub) a white form appears at an open window, and demands excitedly, “What do you want?” The Prince dresses quickly, and the two men dash off to St. Cloud. Upon learning from Poniatowski what has happened, the Austrian Ambassador abruptly says, “This is all the worse, because now an alliance is impossible.”

At the château a landau was ready, drawn by two Russian horses, black, with long manes and long tails. The Empress, in travelling dress, was waiting for Metternich. Admiral Jurien de la Gravière, Cossé-Brissac, and Poniatowski got into another carriage, and the party started for Paris at top speed. During this midnight drive not a soul was visible—not even a solitary drunkard.

When the Empress’s carriage crossed the Avenue Marigny it stopped; Metternich alighted and walked to his Embassy, which he rented from Her Majesty, who owned the house.[91] Ten minutes later the Empress reached the Tuileries; General d’Autemarre and his aide-de-camp awaited her. There was an air of desolation throughout the Palace. The rooms through which the Empress passed were empty. The curtains had been taken from the windows. The furniture was covered by striped stuff. The chairs were ranged in rows close to the walls. The pictures, busts, garnitures of the fireplaces—all were swathed in cloths.

Ministers trooped in immediately, followed by Marshal Baraguay d’Hilliers, commanding the army of Paris; Trochu, General Chabaud-Latour, and a few others, summoned from their beds by the Empress’s orders. The capital must be put in an immediate state of defence. The Emperor had said it, the Empress had said it, and now the Government said it. There was still an Ollivier Ministry; but its days were numbered.

It must have been verging on four o’clock, the daylight was streaming into the Palace, when another cipher telegram was brought to the Empress. In it the Emperor answered his wife’s request for an explanation of the concluding words of the previous despatch—the last she was to receive at St. Cloud. From the new message all learnt that no telegram direct from Marshal MacMahon (announcing his defeat) had been received at Metz; that news had come, according to the Emperor, from “General de Laigle.” What was meant was “Colonel Klein de Kleinenburg.” But it did not occur to anyone at the Tuileries that there was no such person as “General de Laigle,” and the message, blunder included, was sent off to the Journal Officiel, which published it at eleven o’clock, to the mystification of all Paris!

In this despatch the Emperor said he was about to leave Metz and proceed to St. Avold, if, with the 3rd and 4th Corps (the Guard), he could assume “a vigorous offensive” with some success over the Prussians, who had suffered severely in the battle at Forbach (situated at a short distance from the high ground overlooking Saarbrücken which, only four days and a few hours before, had been the

scene of the Prince’s “baptism” and of the first “victory” of the French).

This early-morning Council at the Tuileries was opened by the Empress, whose freshness and vigour amazed everybody. A diversion was caused by General Trochu, who asked all round, “Have you read my book? I foresaw all that has happened!” Trochu’s inane query at such a moment was met with looks of contempt and disgust. Ministers were now convinced that the defeats of the first week of the war meant the fall of the Empire and, with the awakening of Paris to the facts, their own overthrow.

Telegrams from the Emperor to the Empress flowed in, revealing the disorder prevailing at Metz. “Nothing is decided upon, it seems,” said a Minister; “they are floundering about!”

Well, the country must be told of the disasters. But how? In this manner: With the help of a despatch from the Emperor and another from Marshal Lebœuf, the Ministers composed, and all signed, a pretended telegram, preceding it with a statement that they were concealing nothing, and dating the document “6 a.m., August 7.”

The Ministers were talking in low tones, as if at a funeral, when a huge form appeared in the doorway—that of Haussmann, the maker of the new Paris. He had returned from a journey; walking along the Rue de Rivoli, he had noticed an unwonted movement in the Palace, had inquired, and had hastened to offer his services to the Empress. Her Majesty asked him to give his opinion, and he did so, clearly and emphatically. “A state of siege must be proclaimed immediately. If there were not sufficient troops in Paris, those still in Algeria and the regiments of marine infantry at the ports must be sent for.” But at 1.30 that morning Admiral Rigault had ordered the marines to be in Paris within forty-eight hours. A proclamation announcing these measures must be issued immediately. Haussmann, asked by the Empress to draw it up, sat down at a corner of the table and penned the document currente calamo.

Before the Council dispersed, at 6 a.m., orders had been sent recalling to Paris all available land and sea forces. France had still men with heads on their shoulders, and an indomitable Empress-Regent. General Chabaud-Latour went straight from the Tuileries to the Rue St. Dominique (the bureau of the comité du génie), and told of the impression made upon him by the “admirable and simple” courage of the Empress, who had said, “Ne vous occupez pas de l’Empereur et de mon fils, mais uniquement du pays.”

At 8 am. the Ministers were again at the Tuileries. During their short absence the blackest news had arrived. There was a general retreat on Châlons! The Empress read the telegrams without a break in her voice or a quiver of the lip.

Certain members of the Government wanted to make General Trochu Minister of War, vice General Dejean. A Minister proposed to the Empress the desirability of this change, on the ground that Trochu was an “orator” and very popular, while Dejean was a slowcoach. Getting wind of this intrigue, Dejean went to the Empress, who asked him to retain his post. M. Ollivier, who had approved of the Emperor’s plan to retreat from Metz and concentrate the army at Châlons, now changed his mind and telegraphed to the Emperor to say that the Government did not like the idea, and to request permission to replace Dejean by Trochu.

The Empress to the Emperor.