two before the surrender and with a Prussian officer who was one of Napoleon’s escort. Both closely scrutinized the captive, but neither noticed any unusual colour in his face. Zola was not the first Frenchman to accuse Napoleon III. of cowardice (for that is what is implied by the story of the painted cheeks); he may have borrowed the idea from Kinglake, who describes the Emperor at Magenta turning green, yellow, and white under the Austrian fire.

Those who enjoyed the personal acquaintance of the Emperor are unanimous in the opinion that he was less of a poseur than most men. There was nothing of the “roi du théâtre” about him. Throughout the short campaign which finished for Napoleon III. at Sedan he was, both physically and mentally, unstrung by his malady. It was indispensable that he should begin the campaign in good health, and be able to keep the saddle for several hours at a stretch. Gamble, the Scotsman, who superintended the imperial stables for many years, and stood by the Emperor on the day of Sedan, said that His Majesty “did his best to court death,” despite the entreaties of his officers; and Gamble’s testimony is confirmed by many other eye-witnesses.

The late M. Paul de Cassagnac gave Zola credit for his account of Sedan, but emphatically denied the rouging story. De Cassagnac was a good witness, for he was with the Emperor at Sedan. “It was on my shoulder,” he has told us, “that Napoleon III. leaned when, seriously ill and suffering terribly, he got into the carriage in order to surrender himself as a prisoner.”

The question was even discussed by M. Melchior de Voguë, who affirmed that Zola was wrong.[100] Princesse Mathilde, cousin of Napoleon III., “refused to believe that the Emperor would have acted so theatrically on such a momentous occasion.” She had certainly never told anyone that her relative was rouged. M. Robert Mitchell corroborated Paul de Cassagnac. He was a volunteer in the 3rd Zouaves at Sedan, often saw the Emperor, and was certain he was not rouged. M. Mitchell argued (and military experts will agree with him) that no writer, “not even Zola,” could adequately describe what happened at Sedan without having been actually in the battle. We may believe Paul de Cassagnac and Robert Mitchell, and may be certain that Zola was misinformed.

I pass on to the final phase of Sedan.

In newspapers, in magazines, in volumes of memoirs, in histories of the war, there have appeared, year after year, ever since the autumn of 1870, as many different accounts of what passed the day following the battle of Sedan, at the interviews which Napoleon III. had, first with Bismarck, and next with the King of Prussia, as would fill volumes. It is natural that it should be so, for at the meeting of the Emperor and the King no third person was present, and the Emperor’s talk with Bismarck was heard by only one other man. What passed between the two Sovereigns was related to his son, the then Crown Prince, by the King, and recorded by the Prince in his “Diary,” in his royal father’s own words. The Prince-reporter’s account of the interview is as follows:

The only witness of the meeting (September 2, 1870) between Napoleon III. and Count Bismarck at Donchéry, the day after the battle of Sedan, was Colonel Freiherr Josef von Ellrichshausen (who died in September, 1906). After the Colonel had ridden out with his men to take over a convoy of wounded French officers and prisoners, and while thus engaged, the carriage with the Emperor in it appeared. At the same moment several horsemen, amongst whom was Bismarck, rode up. Von Ellrichshausen reported to the Chancellor the presence of the Emperor, whereupon Bismarck at once sprang from his horse, and, in the Colonel’s own words, “approached Napoleon almost with humility, and the words, ‘Sire, qu’est-ce que vous désirez?’” As conversation in the small wayside house (the only building near at hand) was impossible owing to the presence of many dead and wounded soldiers, Von Ellrichshausen and his men brought out two chairs, upon which Napoleon and Bismarck sat while discussing the situation.[101]

The late Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, accompanied by Sir Henry James (Lord James of Hereford), happened to be at Verviers when Napoleon III. was being taken to Wilhelmshöhe. Drummond Wolff found the Emperor looking anything but ill, nor did his features betray any traces of that deep emotion which other eye-witnesses have dwelt upon so eloquently. The Emperor “leant somewhat heavily on the arm of the gentleman who assisted him to alight” from the carriage which had brought him to Verviers. His Majesty read a despatch which was handed to him, “sat down at a table in the waiting-room, and was engaged in writing for some time.” He then took a turn up and down the platform, returned to the waiting-room, and read l’Indépendence Belge until the moment came for him to enter the special train which took him to his destination, Wilhelmshöhe. Sir Henry Drummond Wolff noted with the Emperor General Chazal, who was in command of the Belgian army of observation on the German frontier, and at whose earnest request the Emperor wrote a full explanation of the causes which, in his opinion, led to his defeat at Sedan.[102]

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE EVE OF EXILE

About nine o’clock on the morning of September 4, 1870, the Empress Eugénie was in the Pavillon Marsan, at the Tuileries, anxiously waiting for the domestics to come and assist her in dressing, as Her Majesty was going to hear the grand’messe at the church of St. Germain-l’Auxerrois. The Empress became impatient, and was astonished that no one had obeyed the orders which she had given. At this moment there arrived Mme. Lebreton (sister of General Bourbaki), her devoted friend, who came to report to the Empress the gloomy state of affairs in the capital. It appeared that the people were excitedly demanding the overthrow of the Emperor; everywhere menacing groups had formed; perhaps the Tuileries would be invaded.

With tears in her eyes, Mme. Lebreton entreated the Empress to fly while there was still time to escape. Her Majesty, although much perturbed by what she had heard, tried to soothe Mme. Lebreton with the assurance that General Trochu would watch over her safety—that he had promised to protect her, that he was a man of honour, that he would keep his word, and that if there should be any real danger he would not fail to send someone who would tell her what course it was necessary, in his opinion, for her to take.

Meanwhile the Revolution became more threatening. The clamour of the crowd and the cries of “Vive la République!” were plainly heard by the two ladies. Mme. Lebreton renewed her appeals, but the Empress unheeded them. “I have confidence in Trochu,” she continued to repeat; “he is a soldier, and will not abandon me.”

It was not until about one o’clock that, the Place du Carrousel being by this time invaded, the Empress, now finally convinced of her danger and of Trochu’s defection, listened to Mme. Lebreton. Her Majesty rang for her women—rang several times; no one came. Mme. Lebreton, much alarmed, went into all the neighbouring rooms. Not a soul! All she saw was furniture upside down—the drawers all open.

The Empress was abandoned—abandoned by everybody, even by her servants! Then the poor woman fled, accompanied only by her devoted friend. For a full hour they paced through the galleries, the cabinets, the long passages of the immense, deserted palace, their cheeks paling at every noise which they fancied they heard; not daring to pass in front of the windows for fear that those outside might see them; undecided which way to go. Finally, exhausted, they arrived under the colonnade of the Louvre, at the top of the great staircase.

When, at last, they ventured to look into each other’s face, a cry of terror escaped from them. In their haste and their anguish of mind they had forgotten to put on their hats and mantles; thus they could not take a step without being noticed. The Empress was en peignoir, with a simple piece of gauze thrown over her head. At this moment, before they had got half-way down the stairs leading to the street, someone close to them exclaimed, “The Empress!” Her Majesty turned pale and cried out, “We are lost!” Mme. Lebreton, preserving her sang-froid, turned towards the person who had spoken; he was a gentleman irreproachably dressed. She cast a look of entreaty at him. He understood, and pretended not to see them.

At the foot of the staircase a fiacre was passing. To spring into it was the work of a moment. The driver, astonished, and perhaps suspecting who the two ladies were, had a good look at them. The Empress, conquering her fears, exclaimed brusquely, “Boulevard Haussmann, 30!” and the fiacre moved off. As they were driving through the streets, feeling a ray of hope, Mme. Lebreton asked her mistress if she had any money with her. “Ah, mon Dieu! Did I think of that?” replied the Empress. Mme. Lebreton rummaged her pockets, while the faces of both were bathed in a cold perspiration. “Saved!” cried Mme. Lebreton, who had found in her pockets two five-franc pieces!

The cab stopped at the place indicated. At the same moment another fiacre came up. The driver of the Empress’s cab was given five francs, and when he had disappeared the two ladies engaged the other vehicle. “Avenue de l’Impératrice, 57!” said the Empress. (It was to put the first cabman off the track that the Empress had told him to go to the Boulevard Haussmann.)

At No. 57, Avenue de l’Impératrice lived Mr. Evans, the Court dentist. They rang the bell, and a valet opened the door. “Monsieur is not at home,” said the man; “what do you want?” Then, surprised at the tenue of the ladies, the servant seemed to be about to shut the door in their faces, but the Empress, rousing herself, said: “We are two Americans. Mr. Evans made an appointment with us here at three o’clock.”

They were shown into a room, where they waited an hour. Then Mr. Evans came in. He had returned from the Tuileries, where he had vainly searched for the Empress.

Upon Mr. Evans’s return the servant told him that two ladies, very oddly attired, were waiting to see him, and the dentist at once guessed who they were. “Ah, yes,” he remarked, “they have come to bother me again. We must try to get them across the Atlantic as soon as possible.”

He had previously arranged how the Empress was to escape. While two of his best horses were being harnessed, the Empress and Mme. Lebreton wrapped themselves in some plaid shawls which they found in Mrs. Evans’s wardrobe. Then they were driven off in Mr. Evans’s carriage. They stopped first at Evreux to change horses, which had been telegraphed for in advance; next, at Trouville. Nobody imagined that it could be the Empress of the French who was travelling in this fashion. Happier than Louis XVI. at Varennes, the Empress was not recognized anywhere, not even at the hotel at Trouville, to which Mr. Evans conducted her.

When the Empress and Mme. Lebreton were comfortably installed at the hotel, Mr. Evans hurried off to the harbour, where he found two yachts moored. Sir John Burgoyne, the owner of one of the vessels, when first asked by Mr. Evans if he would take two ladies to England, refused, but relented when, under a pledge of secrecy, he learnt that it was a question of saving the Empress.

In this version of the Empress’s flight from the Tuileries no mention is made of the prominent part played in the episode by the then Austrian Ambassador (the husband of the still-living Princess Pauline Metternich, who gave herself the very uncomplimentary sobriquet, the “singe à la mode”), and the Italian Minister, Chevalier Nigra, who died at Rapolla in July, 1907. When Nigra’s death was announced, the English newspapers published a variety of versions of his share in the Empress’s escape, but I am disposed to think that the vérité vraie is to be found in the subjoined brief narrative, from the pen of M. Maurice Dumoulin.

The gates of the Tuileries were forced open by the excited, exasperated crowd. The déchéance had been pronounced on the steps of the Corps Législatif, and the Republic proclaimed. The Empress must quit. Early on that terrible Sunday afternoon M. Franceschini Pietri half opened the door of the Empress’s salon and exclaimed, “Madame, there is only just time!” Prince Richard Metternich (the Austrian Ambassador) and Chevalier Nigra were with him. “Make haste, Madame!” said Nigra, who watched from the windows the progress of the émeute; “make haste!” The Empress snatched up a waterproof, a hat with a brown veil, and some portraits.

Nigra again exclaimed: “Be quick, Madame! I can hear them; they are coming up!” The Empress took Metternich’s arm. Nigra walked by her side. Like a whirlwind the Empress and the Ambassadors, followed by Mme. Lebreton, M. Conti, and Dr. Conneau, flew across the salles of the Louvre Museum, making for St.-Germain-l’Auxerrois, where Prince Metternich’s carriage had been ordered to wait; but the vehicle was not there, and the Prince went in search of it. Nigra remained alone with the Empress and Mme. Lebreton. Meanwhile the crowd increased. As the little group stood in the street, a boy, who was watching them, recognized the principal figure, and cried out, “Tiens! Voilà l’Impératrice!” Nigra’s presence of mind saved the situation. “What, you little scamp!” exclaimed the Ambassador; “you dare to shout ‘Vive la Prusse!’” Just then, before the bystanders could realize who was in their midst at the most critical moment in her life, an unoccupied fiacre jolted by. Securing it, Nigra pushed the Empress and her companion into the cab, saying: “Get in, Madame. We cannot wait for Metternich’s brougham.”

Not only was Nigra possessed of great intellectual powers, he was the handsomest of men, and that fact contributed in no small degree to his success in diplomacy. Count Cavour had a great friend in the Comtesse de Circourt, née Anastasie de Klustine, whose salon was the resort of many political and literary celebrities. She helped to “launch” Nigra, to whom she wrote: “What strikes one so forcibly is the perfect harmony of your youth with the maturity of your look. M. D—— says your profile reminds him of a Greek statue. And he is right.” Nigra took up his abode at the hotel of the Italian Embassy (formerly the home of the Piedmontese Legation), at the Rond Point of the Champs-Elysées, and was soon made much of, for his reputation had preceded him. Cavour had written to his friends in Paris: “Nigra knows all my thoughts,” and that alone was sufficient to insure the young diplomatist’s success.

Nigra’s rôle was a very difficult one. He had to conciliate French diplomatists, to keep “well in” with the Emperor, and to avoid creating jealousy amongst the foreign Ambassadors and Ministers. Above all, he had to secure the goodwill of the Empress Eugénie, who had no love for a Government which was attacking the temporal power of the Pope. But Nigra succeeded. How he did it is still a mystery. He got on terms of intimacy with the Emperor and Empress, and even stifled the jealousy of Prince Metternich.

Nigra was not only a diplomatist and a handsome man—“beau comme Apollon”—but a poet. One afternoon (it was a soft June day in 1863) the imperial hostess and some of her guests were trying a Venetian gondola on the lake at Fontainebleau. The Empress asked the gondolier to sing something appropriate; but the man declared that Nature had not endowed him with a voice. But Nigra was there, and Nigra would sing. He warbled in those beautiful, seductive tones which had struck responsive chords in the hearts of many before he had bewitched the imperial lady, the favourite “Gondola,” which he had himself written and submitted to Prosper Mérimée, who was pleased to approve it. The singer ended with these daring lines:

It has been even said that it was Nigra’s poetic skill as much as anything which impelled the “dumb Emperor” to hand over Venetia to the young Kingdom of Italy. What is more certain is that Nigra made two powerful friends of the Marquis d’Azeglio and the celebrated Signor Manzoni by writing, when he was a humble clerk in the Sardinian Foreign Office, a poem dedicated to d’Azeglio’s daughter on her marriage to Comte Matteo Ricci, the Marquis at the time being Prime Minister. That poem gave Nigra a step in the “F.O.,” but had not Cavour made him his secretary he might have had no opportunity of showing that he could do something better than pen little lyrics, copy despatches, and warble a chanson to the Empress’s eyebrow. In his most poetical moments he could hardly have imagined that a day would come when he would be aiding the subject of his love-song to escape from the fury of the mob by pushing her into a common fiacre and refusing to “wait for Metternich’s carriage.”

In one of his interesting volumes Comte d’Hérisson appears to have narrated the story of the Empress Eugénie’s voyage from Trouville to Ryde after her flight from the Tuileries. A letter to Sir John Burgoyne on the subject brought the French author the following reply:

Sir John Burgoyne subsequently made the appended extracts from the logbook of his yacht. With this addition the narrative may, for the first time, be considered complete:

The writer to whom Sir John Burgoyne gave these extracts from the Gazelle’s logbook adds, amongst many other piquant details of the terrible voyage from Deauville to Ryde, that the Empress personally thanked the crew who had risked death in order to save her life, and presented them with five pounds.

A story which is told of Louis XVIII., in somewhat analogous circumstances, may furnish a pendant to the above. The King, being compelled to evacuate Courland, engaged the Captain of a Danish merchant ship to convey him and his suite to Prussia. The Captain had a cargo for the Baltic, but, anticipating a handsome reward, he consented to change his course. For this service the King gave the skipper a gold watch and a written promise that, if he regained his throne, he would liberally recompense the Dane. As the Captain did not land his merchandise in time, it could not be disposed of, and the consignees made him pay them heavy damages, with the result that the poor man was ruined. After the King’s restoration the promissory note was presented to His Majesty by the Danish Minister at Paris. Louis XVIII. did not shirk his liability, but handed to the diplomatist what he considered a suitable reward for the Danish Captain who had rendered this service—fifty napoleons and the Cross of the Lily!

If it was an American citizen who, at no little risk, escorted the Empress from Paris to Deauville, it is well to remember that it was a British officer who really saved and brought her to our shores. Sir John Burgoyne, Bart., entered the army in 1850, and retired (Lieutenant-Colonel) from the Grenadier Guards in 1861. Eton should be very proud of its gallant son. Sir John resides at Sutton Park, Sandy, Bedfordshire, and is widely known in clubland as a member of the Carlton, the Travellers’, and the Royal Yacht Squadron (Cowes).

There is yet another version of the Empress’s escape from Paris—that which Her Majesty related at Chislehurst to Lord Ronald Sutherland-Gower, who very kindly allows it to appear here:

In the course of the story the Empress became somewhat excited and brushed off the table an alabaster bust of Marie Antoinette, which she had given Lord Ronald. He picked it up, minus its head!

No one has hitherto told us the precise time at which the Empress quitted the Tuileries on Sunday, September 4, 1870.

She actually left the Palace at 1.30 in the afternoon by the Louvre entrance.

Towards four o’clock all the servants left, the National Guard having previously taken possession of the Palace.

These facts are recorded in his register[103] by M. J. Maillard, chef du service de l’argenterie, who records that the troops did not give him time to “put things in their places.” He did not fail to observe that the National Guard had “written everywhere” the simple words, “Death to the thieves.” It was the parting shot of the gallant “Nationals,” whose commander was that modern Bayard, General Trochu.

Baron Imbert de Saint-Amand holds that the Empress would have had less prestige if the Empire had not been overthrown. “The world is most interested, not in the châtelaine of the Tuileries, not the Juno reigning over an Olympus of Emperors and Kings at the Exhibition of 1867, but in the mother who weeps and prays in Zululand on the spot where her son had fallen after fighting like a young lion. What posterity will prefer to contemplate on the brow of the Empress Eugénie is not a crown of Empire, but a crown of thorns.”

“The Empress’s conduct after Sedan,” said an ex-Minister of the Empire, “was heroic. It is impossible to conceive a nobler courage than she showed on September 4, 1870. When she speaks of the Empire or the Emperor it is always with regret that the aims of Imperial institutions had been misrepresented and that the Emperor was misunderstood. On one occasion she observed that ‘English journalists would not understand the democratic basis of the Empire. The Empire wanted to give a direct voice in the government to all Frenchmen, whereas other régimes would give a monopoly of power to the bourgeoisie, and make the people pay the taxes and remain voiceless. If turbulent Frenchmen had only the calm in political matters of the English public!’”

Immediately after the overthrow of the Empire an amazing plot was concocted to defraud the Empress. It was alleged that Her Majesty had abstracted French Crown jewels valued at 6,650,000 francs (£266,000), and had sent them by one Manuel Perez to her mother at Madrid.

M. Franceschini Pietri says:

CHAPTER XV

“THESE THINGS ARE LITTLE; BUT, THEN, THEY’RE ALL”

Between December 23, 1870, and January 25, 1871, a minute record was made, by order of the new Government, of all the objects found in the imperial apartments at the Tuileries, and admittedly belonging to Napoleon III., the Empress Eugénie, and the Prince Imperial. The list was most carefully drawn up by the Delegates of the Commission of Liquidation of the former Civil List and Private Domain of their Majesties, and when it was completed everything was transferred to and put under seals in a room on the fifth floor of the Pavilion of Flora.[105]

Not one of this heap of cherished articles was of any particular intrinsic or artistic value, yet it was this fact which gave, and gives, them their charm. It is not the State décor, seen and known by all, that we can reconstitute with the aid of these multifarious knick-knacks, but they form the milieu intime, comprising a thousand familiar objects, a thousand personal souvenirs, in the midst of which the occupants of the Tuileries lived their daily life. It is more than interesting or curious to handle these old-fashioned bibelots; it is often touching, even painful.

In the Emperor’s apartments were an eagle (from a flag) in gilded bronze, embraced by Napoleon I. when he took farewell of Fontainebleau; a hand of the Empress Eugénie in white marble; a portfolio of music (containing the “Marche des Impériaux,” from the tragedy of “Jules César”), by Hary de Bülow; a meerschaum pipe, representing Napoleon III. and the Prince Imperial; a silver fountain, the gift of Queen Pomaré to the Emperor; a dagger, with damascened blade, given to him by his mother-in-law, the Comtesse de Montijo; a walking-stick, made of a bulrush stalk; a crutch, in rock-crystal, ornamented with fine stones, the Empress Catherine of Russia’s present to Frederick II.; a tin box, containing water from the Jordan; a candle used at the Prince Imperial’s first Communion; a black leather case, containing the Emperor’s costume of Knight of the Garter; a man’s head, in crayons, signed “Joséphine”; a plan in relief of the château of Ham (the prison of Napoleon III. for six years); a photograph of the Prince Imperial in his cradle; boxes, cases of medals, addresses, diplomas, vases, cups, tea and coffee services; a thousand articles which have gone out of fashion, in all styles; albums of photographs and engravings, portraits of Sovereigns, hundreds of paper-weights, inkstands, and wafer-boxes; a collection of French and foreign military models in coloured plaster—amongst them two Prussian soldiers, one Bavarian, two Würtemburgers, and a White Cuirassier; figures of a merchant, a woman, five soldiers and peasants—Russian; and two mahogany boxes containing the plaques and decorations of Napoleon III., with the stern official notification, opposite the French ones, “Two plaques and decorations missing—taken away by the Emperor.”

Among the numerous “Souvenirs intimes de Napoléon I. et de sa famille” are a Prayer-Book (“paroissien”) which belonged to Mme. Mère,[106] and a black snuff-box with her portrait, enclosing some locks of hair of her daughter, Princesse Pauline; a gold folding lorgnette, which belonged to the Duc de Reichstadt; a packet containing handkerchiefs from the death-bed of Queen Hortense, and a packet of handkerchiefs which belonged to Napoleon I.; a gold ring containing a tooth of Michel Montaigne, and one of Goethe’s visiting-cards; the grey capote of Marengo, and the scarf worn by Napoleon I. at the battle of the Pyramids; a morocco blotting-pad, ornamented with a painting under glass representing a Spanish bandit, painted by Queen Hortense; a blue velvet sabretache, embroidered in gold, the gift of Prince Eugène; two gold epaulettes; the garniture of buttons, grenades, and plaques; the grey capote worn by the Emperor at the battle of Waterloo; a quantity of breloques, bibelots, snuff-boxes, objects in hair, miniatures, porcelain and crystal ornaments, bonbonnières, pocket-knives, etc.

In the Empress Eugénie’s apartments were found Perrault’s stories, a Spanish edition of “Paradise Lost,” an “Imitation de Jésus-Christ,” the “Mémorial de Saint-Hélène,” and the “Chansons Populaires du Piémont”; photographs of the Shah of Persia, Mme. Carette (the Empress’s “reader” for many years, and a reliable chronicler of Second Empire days), the Princesse de Metternich, the daughters of the Duchesse d’Albe (the Empress’s nieces), the Royal Family of Spain, the Sultan Abd-el-Kader, and Princesse Bacciochi; a miniature of the Prince Imperial and his “guardian angel,” in a velvet frame; an egg, on which is painted the battle of Malakoff; two dumb-bells, in granite, with silver handles; one of Orsini’s bombs, seized on the memorable January 14, 1858, the date of the “attempt” at the opera; two pairs of satin shoes, which belonged to Queen Hortense and the Empress Joséphine; and the hat worn by Napoleon III. on the night of his attempted assassination by Orsini.

In the Prince Imperial’s apartments were statuettes of the Virgin and the Infant Jesus, the dome of the Invalides in painted cardboard, stuffed birds, geographical games, a three-masted vessel in a glass case; a reliquary, containing relics of St. Eugénie and the brassard worn by the “little Prince” at his first Communion; a garden rake and two hoes, in steel; three summer hats, in white silk, and two black ones; a cantata dedicated to the Prince by Pellegrini; trophies of the imperial hunts at Fontainebleau and Compiègne; and the Prince’s Orders and decorations.

There were chairs and fauteuils, settees (poufs) in tapestry and red satin, with silk fringe; étagères in black wood and bronze; a prie-Dieu in carved oak, covered with blue velvet; tables, with feet of bamboo, covered with tapestry and adorned with fringe; a carved fire-screen in gilded wood; and many other objects.

Finally, there were several boxes of cigars (“regalias” and “Londres”) and “Imperial” cigarettes (the Emperor was a great smoker of these), which were sent by the Delegates of the Commission of Liquidation, by order of M. Picard, to M. Jules Simon, at the Ministry of Public Instruction, and sold for the benefit of the wounded soldiers. Forty years have flown since France was weighed down by the disasters, but the past appears so recent that, in stirring its ashes, we fancy them still warm, still living; neither the tears nor the blood poured upon the souvenirs of so many misfortunes have yet made them cold.

CHAPTER XVI

THE EMPEROR AND THE COMTESSE DE MERCY-ARGENTEAU

She is the daughter of that Prince de Chimay who was the head of the younger branch of the Riquet-Caramans; she is, consequently, the granddaughter of Mme. Tallien, whom the “Directory” named “Notre Dame de Bon-Secours.” Mme. Tallien was the idol of Barras; she was the divinity of the Revolutionary epoch, the worshipped of France. Many people speak of the Chimay family as if it were Flemish. It is Franco-Austrian-Belgian, and had its origin in Gille Paul Riquet, a worthy bourgeois of Béziers—the man who founded the Languedoc Canal, and was ennobled by letters patent, granted by Louis XIV., in 1666. The house of De Mercy has been thrice ennobled, receiving from three different heads of State the coronet which it has worn proudly and with dignity. The actual head of the house in 1871 was Charles François Joseph, whose two sons married the Comtesse de Caraman (Marie Louise de Riquet) and Mlle. Alix de Choiseul-Praslin; his two daughters became the Comtesse d’Oultremont and the Duchesse d’Harcourt.

The Comtesse de Mercy-Argenteau was, then, born Comtesse de Caraman-Chimay. It has been said of her that, “like Cleopatra, she would have thrown pearls into the goblet or her heart out of window, according to the caprice of the moment.” When she made her appearance in Paris the Second Empire was at its zenith; the world’s gaze was riveted upon it. All was gaiety and sunshine. It was a magnificent Court, that of the Tuileries in the reign of Napoleon III. and his consort. Only the Cassandras of the period went about predicting, and rightly, that it would not last.

The Comtesse de Mercy-Argenteau was a contemporary of some very celebrated women whose names, at least, are still remembered. There were notably the Princesse de Sagan, the Duchesse de Mouchy, the Comtesse Edmond de Pourtalès, and the Marquise de Galliffet, wife of that dashing cavalryman of whom so many amusing stories are told.[107] Our Comtesse shone at the head of the famous “Décameron,” and was counted the most beautiful of the lovely group. They wittily said of her that her grandmother was a goddess, her mother a queen, and she herself a “moderne.” For the first there was Olympus, for the second a throne, for the third the little English cart, which, said one of her sprightly friends, “takes to the Allée des Acacias every morning our mondaines semi-garçons.”

As already hinted, the young Comtesse de Mercy-Argenteau made a sensation in Paris society—in the Faubourg as well as at the Tuileries, at Compiègne, and at St. Cloud. The Empress Eugénie admitted her into close friendship. The Emperor paid her his most respectful homage. If a particularly delicate mission had to be undertaken, who so fit to carry it out as this charming woman? We need not wonder, then, that Napoleon III., in the hour of his despair, appealed to her devotion, and charged her to go, as his ambassadress, “séduire le vainqueur et tenter de sauver la France.” Many women envied the Comtesse her mission to Berlin, foredoomed to failure as it was.

The Comtesse was renowned for her jewellery. In diamonds she outshone the Empress; her pearls were the finest in the world; she possessed the family jewels both of the Chimays and the De Mercys. After the war she devoted herself to study. She shines as a musician, in languages she is proficient, she paints miniatures à merveille, and she has always been a sportswoman.

Napoleon III. had been in captivity at Wilhelmshöhe about five months when he began an active correspondence with the Comtesse de Mercy-Argenteau, who, on at least one memorable occasion, acted as the intermediary between the dethroned monarch and the late Emperor William. The letters addressed to the Comtesse by the Emperor Napoleon are distinguished by their poignant interest and frank outspokenness; they are, indeed, a revelation of the unhappy man’s innermost thoughts, his aspirations, his fears, and, finally, his apparent abandonment of hope, although we know that, later, his ideas underwent a great change.

Not the least curious feature of the correspondence given to the world in 1906 through the medium of an important German review, the Verlagen and Klasing Monatshefte, is the fact that we hear for the first time of the Comtesse de Mercy-Argenteau as figuring prominently in the Bonapartist propaganda of the autumn of 1870, throughout 1871, and up to September, 1872, the Emperor’s final letter, surcharged with gloom, bearing date, Chislehurst, September 9.[108] There is no doubt about their authenticity, for, with one or two exceptions, the epistles are contained in their original envelopes, properly stamped, and bear the postmarks “Cassel” (Wilhelmshöhe) and “Terwagne” (near which Belgian town the château of the Mercy-Argenteaus is situated).

The first letter of the series was written to the Comtesse from the Tuileries, and is a graceful reference to the Count’s naturalization.

When Napoleon III. was at the Tuileries.