most attractive that has ever lived—but she certainly was not an ideal Sovereign.

When Eugénie married she was already twenty-seven, and therefore it was not easy for her to become used to the various duties and obligations of her new position. She was a thorough woman of the world, which rendered her especially charming when at Compiègne or at Fontainebleau, where etiquette was not so strict as at the Tuileries. At those moments she was positively bewitching, but when she thought it necessary to assume her Imperial manner she lost her womanly charm.

There have been many beautiful moments in Eugénie’s life; such, for instance, as her famous visit to Amiens at the time the cholera was raging there, and when, with a truly royal indifference, she exposed herself to very real and serious danger. She was charitable, and preferred not to boast of her charities; but, not possessing the Emperor’s disposition, she resented injuries done to her. She was impetuous in all that she did, thought, or felt; certainly bigoted and superstitious, as Spaniards generally are. She was not courageous, though brave, because these are two very different things. She would not have minded being murdered in state, and the memory of the deed being handed down to posterity; but she could not find the resolution to face an intricate situation, nor to remain silent and firm at a difficult moment. Her nature was essentially restless; she could never wait with patience for what the future might hold. Her attitude on the 4th of September was characteristic, and it was in accordance with her nature that she tried to explain the abandonment of her position as Regent by the word “necessity,” when, in reality, it was the shrinking of a lonely woman, with no one near her to tell her what she ought to do, or to show her how to resist the demands of the mob.

But once more I must say she exercised a wonderful fascination on all those whom she entertained. There was something remarkable in the influence she exercised. In her presence one forgot all save her extraordinary charm.

In her private life Eugénie de Montijo, in spite of all that has been said and written on that subject, has always been irreproachable. Amid all the gaieties of the Court over which she presided she remained pure and chaste, and redeemed the many frailties of her outward demeanour by the dignity and blamelessness of her existence as a wife and mother. She bitterly resented the indiscretions of the Emperor, but she kept herself aloof from everything that could have been construed as a desire on her part to retaliate. Perhaps her temperament helped her; but it is certain that as a wife she was blameless, and that she showed herself an enlightened mother, trying to bring up her son above the flatteries that usually surround children born in such a high position, teaching him to obey, to be grateful to those who took care of him, and loving him quite as well and more wisely than the Emperor, who was perhaps too indulgent in matters which concerned his only son. That the Prince Imperial remained an only child was a source of deep grief to Napoleon III.

When first I saw Eugénie, her whole appearance was fairy-like; in spite of her forty years, she eclipsed all other women. Her slight, graceful figure was almost girlish in its suppleness, and she is the only woman I have ever seen who, though in middle life, did not prompt one to utter the usual remark when lovely members of the fair sex have attained her age: “How beautiful she must have been when she was young!”

CHAPTER II

The Surroundings and Friends of the Sovereigns

She had but few friends, and after the death of her sister, the Duchesse d’Albe, she felt very isolated, and in need of one into whose ear she might confide her sorrows and her joys. She did not get on with the members of the Imperial Family, and she had been very much hurt at the attitude taken up in regard to her by the Princess Clotilde. Eugénie had received the Princess with open arms, but had met with repulse from the very first moment Clotilde arrived in France. Then, again, Eugénie’s relations with Prince Napoleon became of the worst, perhaps owing to the fact that there had been a day, before her marriage with the Emperor, when those relations were very near. The antagonism towards her which the only cousin of her husband chose to adopt, wounded her to the quick, and instead of trying to overcome it with tact and apparent indifference, she did her best to accentuate his animosity, until open warfare resulted, and the strained situation became a general topic of gossip.

With Princess Mathilde, the sister of the Prince, the Empress was, also, not on intimate terms, although apparently they bore one another affection. The Princess was perhaps the most remarkable among the many fascinating women with whom the Second Empire will remain associated. Surpassingly beautiful in her youth, she retained her good looks, and notwithstanding her embonpoint, possessed a personality of great dignity. She was certainly a grande dame, despite her numerous frailties.

She was clever, kind, brilliant in more senses than one; very talented, she liked to surround herself with clever people, who, in their turn, were glad to have her appreciation. There had been a time when the question of a marriage between her and her cousin, Prince Louis Napoleon, had been discussed, but the latter’s chances were so uncertain, that neither Mathilde nor her father had had the courage to run the risk of uniting her destiny with that of the Pretender.

The Princess married M. Demidoff, and very soon regretted it; so deeply that she tried to break the bonds. Thanks to the intervention of the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, a separation was arranged under very favourable terms for Madame Demidoff, who, by permission of the government of Louis Philippe, settled in Paris. She did not mix with politics, and only tried to create for herself a pleasant circle of acquaintances and friends. Unfortunately, she possessed in addition to a superior and cultivated mind, a very ardent temperament, and gossip soon became busy with her name, especially after her liaison with Count de Nieuwekerke became a recognised fact.

When the Revolution of 1848 brought back to France the heir to the Bonaparte traditions, the Princess Mathilde at once hastened to his side, and showed herself to be the best of friends. It was the Princess Mathilde who presided at his first entertainment at Compiègne, as well as at the Elysée, where he was residing when in the capital, and it was at her house that the Prince President, as he was called, met for the first time the lovely Spaniard who was later to become his wife.

The Princess Mathilde did not like the marriage, in view of the fact that she might have occupied the place which this stranger took, as it were by storm; she would hardly have been human had she done so. But she was far too clever to show her disapproval, and it is related that when the question arose as to who should carry the train of the new Empress, Mathilde at once declared that she would do so if the Emperor asked her, much to the astonishment and perhaps to the scandal of those who heard her. She bore no malice, and thought herself far too great a lady to imagine that by whatever she might do she would fall in the estimation of others, or that it would be derogatory to her position.

But though she consented to receive the future wife of her cousin when first she entered the Tuileries, and though she tried hard to establish friendly relations with her, all her efforts failed, partly because the young Empress felt afraid of the brilliant Princess, and of her sharp tongue and brusque manners, partly, also, because Mathilde did not care for the people who formed the entourage of the Sovereign, and never felt at her ease at the many entertainments given by Eugénie. She thought them either too dull or too boisterous.

Mathilde was never so happy as when in her own house in the Rue de Courcelles, where all that was distinguished in France considered it an honour to be admitted, and where she could live the life of a private lady of high rank. She was too frank to conceal what she felt, and too honest to flatter the Empress, or to find charming what she considered to be the reverse. Though she disapproved of many things that her brother, Prince Napoleon, did, she did not care to blame him publicly, and thus she maintained a neutral attitude in regard to both. Eugenie’s airy disposition and love of amusement in any shape or form prevented her from finding pleasure in the company of the Princess Mathilde, whom she thought exceedingly dull, and whom she accused of fomenting the accusations which her enemies showered upon her. So long as the Empire lasted there was no sympathy between the Empress and her husband’s cousin, and it was only later, when both ladies had realised the emptiness of worldly things, that their relations became intimate and affectionate, so much so that when Mathilde Bonaparte died, it was Eugénie who watched beside her, and whose hands were the last she pressed before expiring.

The best friend that the Empress Eugénie had among the members of the Imperial Family was the Princess Anna Murat, who married the Duke of Mouchy, to the horror of all the Noailles family, and the chagrin of the Faubourg St. Germain generally. Princess Anna was one of the loveliest women of her time, though perhaps not one of the brightest. Still, she had a warm heart, a kindly disposition, and a sincere attachment for the Empress. She had very nice dignified manners, if sometimes stiff, and was perhaps the only really grande dame, with the exception of the Princess Mathilde, among the many ladies with whom Eugénie liked to surround herself.

Very much might be said about the ladies of the Court. There were lovely women, such as the Countess Valovska, née Anna Ricci, the dark Florentine, whose smiles won her so many hearts, including that of Napoleon III.; others were clever like Pauline Metternich, and some were both lovely and clever, Mélanie Pourtalès for instance, that star of the Empire who condescended later to shine in the Republican firmament, and who to this day is one of the celebrities of Paris, in spite of her seventy odd years. There was the Duchesse de Persigny, and the Duchesse de Cadore, and the Baroness de Rothschild, and many others, but among them all the Empress could not boast of a real friend, always with the exception of the Duchesse de Mouchy, who owed her far too much ever to dare criticise anything she did.

I have mentioned the Princess Metternich. Among all those to whose fatal influence the Second Empire owed its fall she holds one of the first and foremost places. She it was who sapped its foundations and lowered its dignity; she it was who with a rude hand pulled back the veil which, until she appeared at Compiègne and at the Tuileries, had still been drawn between the general public and the Imperial Court. Young and ugly, but clever and gifted with what the French call brio, she lived but for one thing, and that was amusement in any shape or form. She had no respect for the society in which she found herself, and brought to Paris an atmosphere of carelessness such as we sometimes display when we find ourselves travelling in a country where we are unknown, and where we can do what we like without fear of the qu’en dira-t-on, or, as they say in England, “Mrs. Grundy.” After some experience of the strict etiquette of the Austrian Hofburg, she felt delighted to be able to dispense with it, and treated the Empress with disdain, making use of her in order to attain her own ends, and ruling the Tuileries like some of the present great ladies in pecuniary straits rule the houses of the American or South African millionaires whom—for a consideration—they introduce into society. The behaviour of the Princess Metternich can be characterised by her remark to a lady who, at Compiègne, reproved her for trying to induce the Empress to appear in public in a short gown, a thing that was not considered to be proper at the time of which I am writing. The friend asked her at the same time whether she would have advised the Empress Elizabeth to do such a thing; she replied vehemently: “No, certainly not, I would not do such a thing, but then my Empress is a real one.”

Pauline Metternich never liked Eugénie; she secretly envied her for her beauty. She encouraged her in every false or mistaken step the Empress unwittingly took. She brought a shade of vulgarity into all the entertainments over which she presided and which she organised. She smoked big cigars without minding in the least whether it pleased the Empress or not, and she allowed herself every kind of liberty, sure of immunity, and careless as to what people thought about her. She showed herself the most ungrateful of beings, forsaking her friend when the latter was precipitated into obscurity and misfortune, never once giving her a thought. Pauline Metternich was a perfect type of an opportunist without a memory, and after having danced, eaten, smoked, enjoyed herself at the Tuileries where she always was a favoured guest, she never once sent a message of sympathy to the discarded Sovereign, whose acquaintance she probably thought irksome and inconvenient. Once in a moment of expansion, so the story goes, she gave way to a remark which deserves to pass to posterity concerning those years during which she was the leading spirit at all the entertainments given at the Tuileries, and which I cannot help reproducing here: A diplomat who had known her in Paris asked her whether she did not regret the Second Empire, and received a characteristic reply: “Regret it? Why? It was very amusing, very vulgar, and it could not last; we all knew it, and we all made hay whilst the sun shone.”

Countess Mélanie Pourtalès, in that respect, was far superior to Princess Metternich; she at least had the decency to remain faithful to her former sympathies and to her Bonapartist leanings. To this day she sees the Empress when the latter visits Paris, and she never indulges in one word of blame concerning that far away time when she also was one of the queens of the Tuileries.

Mélanie de Bussières is one of the marvels of last century. As beautiful as a dream, she had an angelic face, lovely innocent eyes, which used to look at the world with the guilelessness of a child, and a Madonna-like expression that reminded one of a long white lily drooping on its stem. She was intelligent, too, had an enormous amount of tact, and succeeded, whilst denying herself none of her caprices, in keeping unimpaired her place in Parisian society, of retaining as her friends all those to whom the world had given another name, and of acquiring a position such as few women have ever had before her. Always kind, rarely malicious, smiling alike on friends and foes, she contrived to disarm the latter, and never to estrange the former. Though very much envied, yet she was liked, and she inspired with enthusiasm all those with whom she was brought into contact. Now she is a great-grandmother, but still a leading light of social Paris, and those who formerly admired her beauty continue to crowd around her in order to listen to her conversation.

When I entered the circle of Imperialist society, I was struck by the number of pretty women that I met there. They were not all clever; a good many were vulgar, but most of them were lovely. A ball at that time was a pretty sight, far prettier than it is at the present day, and as for amusement, one could find it wherever one went. Morals, on the other hand, were no worse than is the case at present; indeed, in many respects they were better, insomuch that it was far more difficult then, owing to the conditions of existence, for a lady belonging to the upper classes to misbehave herself than is the case at present, when women go freely everywhere, whilst during the Second Empire it was hardly possible for a well-known lady to be seen in a cab or a ’bus, or even walking in unfrequented streets. “Le diable n’y perdait rien,” to use an old French expression; but a certain decorum, totally absent nowadays, had to be adhered to, and the Empress was very severe upon all those who infringed its rules. She had attacks of prudery, as it were, during which she posed as a watcher over the morals of her Court. Such a procedure among the very carefully immoral persons who surrounded her made many people smile.

The Emperor also had but few personal friends. The most faithful and devoted perhaps was Dr. Conneau, who had watched over Queen Hortense during her last illness, and who had given to her son the most sincere proofs of affection that one man can give to another. Conneau was that rara avis, a totally disinterested person. Millions had passed through his hands, but he died poor, and when the Empire fell he was reduced to selling a collection of rare books he possessed, in order to have bread in his old age. He loved Napoleon with his whole heart, soul, and mind, and belonged to the very few who cared for and believed in the traditions of the Bonapartes. He did infinite good during the eighteen years the Empire lasted, and never refused to lay a case of distress before Napoleon III. once it was brought to his notice. Everybody respected him, and he was a general favourite with everyone, except perhaps with the Empress, who felt no personal sympathy for him.

Conneau had voluntarily asked to be allowed to share the Emperor’s captivity at Ham, and it was thanks to him that the latter contrived to escape from that fortress disguised as a workman, with a plank on his shoulder, behind which he hid his face. Whilst Napoleon was hastening towards the Belgian frontier, Conneau did his best to hide his flight from the authorities, declaring to those who wanted to see him that he was ill and asleep in his bed. Conneau had cunningly arranged the pillows in such a way that they appeared to represent a body wrapped up in blankets. He knew very well that in doing this he was running a great risk, but nothing stopped him, and it is certain that to his bold initiative Napoleon III. owed first his escape and afterwards his Imperial Crown.

Conneau never left the Emperor, who breathed his last in that faithful servant’s arms, murmuring before doing so: “Conneau, were you at Sedan?” thus showing how incurable had been the wound received on that fatal day which saw the fall of his throne and of his dynasty.

Conneau, with perhaps the exception of M. Mocquard, Napoleon’s private secretary, was the person who knew the best of the Emperor’s character, and he remained faithful to him to the last. One day a friend asked him whether he was sorry not to have died before the fall of the Empire, and to have witnessed the terrible catastrophes that accompanied it. Conneau immediately replied: “I am sorry for myself, but glad for the Emperor who would have had one friend less around him in his misfortune.” The remark is characteristic of the man.

Mocquard also belonged to the few friends of Napoleon III. who had known his mother Queen Hortense, and who had devoted his life to the cause of the Bonapartes. He was one of the pleasantest men of his day, always on the alert to learn or to hear everything that could be useful to his Imperial master. Gifted with singular tact, he was able with advantage to come out of the most entangled and awkward situations. His reply to Berryer, who had written to him telling him that his political convictions prevented him from asking to be presented to the Emperor on his election to the French Academy, is well known, and proves his ability in that respect. The great advocate, in writing to Mocquard, had appealed to him as a former colleague. Napoleon’s private secretary at once responded to his request, and gave him the most courteous and most respectful reproof, in which the dignity of his Sovereign and that of the great advocate were equally taken into account.

“The Emperor,” wrote Mocquard, “regrets that M. Berryer has allowed his political leanings to get the upper hand of his duties as Academician. M. Berryer’s presence at the Tuileries would not have embarrassed His Majesty, as he seems to dread. From the height on which he finds himself raised, the Emperor would only have seen in the new Academician an orator and a writer; in to-day’s adversary, the defender of yesterday. M. Berryer is perfectly free to obey the general practice imposed by the Academy, or to follow his personal repugnances.”

A friend of Berryer, who happened to be with him when that letter reached him, related to me later that that famous ornament of the French Bar for once in his life felt embarrassed, and acknowledged his regret at thus having drawn upon himself a well deserved and tactfully administered rebuff.

When Mocquard died his place was taken by M. Conti, also a clever man, who was in possession of the post at the time I arrived in Paris. He did not succeed in gaining the confidence of the Emperor, as his predecessor had done, and I believe never felt quite at ease in his difficult position. I do not know what became of him after the fall of the Empire.

General Fleury was already Ambassador in St. Petersburg at the time of which I am speaking. He had been, and still was, one of the most intimate friends of the Emperor, but he was not liked by the Empress, whose influence he had always tried to thwart. Eugénie was delighted when he was sent on his foreign mission; she had never got used to the General: perhaps he knew too many things relating to that distant time when Mademoiselle de Montijo had never dreamt that fate held a crown in reserve for her. And then one of the Empress’s closest acquaintances, the Comtesse de Beaulaincourt, the daughter of the Marshal de Castellane, and formerly Marquise de Contades, had an undying grudge against General Fleury. It must be owned that he had not behaved altogether well in regard to her, and she used her best endeavours to harm him in the mind of the impressionable Eugénie, to whom she represented the General as one of her worst enemies. This was not the case; but Fleury had no sympathy for the Empress, and certainly did nothing to further her views or her opinions in regard to politics, as she would have liked him to do. To him is credited the most severe comment that ever was made on the subject of the marriage between the Emperor and the lovely Spaniard who had captivated his fancy; that comment was revealed to the world through the indiscretion of Madame de Contades, as she was at that time. Fleury had been asked why he objected so much to his future Sovereign: “I do not like her,” he replied, “because I feel that she will insist upon wearing her crown in her bed and her night-cap in public.” This bitter remark being repeated to the person whom it most concerned, was never forgiven by her.

Fleury, Persigny, and Morny had been the most trusted advisers of Napoleon III., but unfortunately I never had opportunity to meet any of them. With their removal from the political scene, the Empire lost its most solid supports. The ability of M. Rouher could not stave off the supreme calamity that was to cast it into the abyss; and as for M. Emile Ollivier, about whom I shall have more to say presently, he had neither the energy nor the moral courage to resist the current that went against him and that swept away a regime.

In general, when I look back upon those last two years of the Second Empire, and try to recapitulate all that I saw, I cannot find anyone, with the few exceptions already mentioned, who was really the friend of either the Emperor or the Empress. Surrounded by flatterers, admirers, courtiers, they had around them no really devoted people willing to risk anything in order to prove their affection. The Tuileries seemed to be one vast Liberty Hall, inhabited by men and women who knew very well that they had but a short time before them to enjoy the good things of this world, and whose only care was how they could escape with the most advantage from situations which all the time they felt to be shaking under their feet. Indeed, the Court reminded one of a vast cuvée out of which everybody tried to snatch some prize. It was a case of eating, drinking and being merry, but without thinking that for all these things there would one day be a reckoning.

CHAPTER III

Fontainebleau and Compiègne

I must confess at once that I arrived in France with certain prejudices against the regime, and I did not examine it at first with over-indulgent eyes. But as I grew to know the Emperor and the Empress well, many of these prejudices vanished. The kindness of the Emperor, and his boundless generosity, could not but impress favourably, and as for Eugénie, her powerful charm made one forget other sides of her character. When in their presence it was difficult to realise that they were Sovereigns, or to have the feeling, whether at the Tuileries, at Compiègne, or at Fontainebleau, that one was at a Royal Court. A mixture of formality and of gaiety without restraint was prevalent, which entirely upset one’s notions of what should constitute the atmosphere of a Court. Eugénie was an incomparable hostess, even if sometimes eccentric; Napoleon was the most thoughtful of hosts, though restless at times, and showing some impatience at different vagaries indulged in by his guests; still, though each was addressed as “Your Majesty,” it was in much the same spirit that one would have said “Monsieur” or “Madame”; deference was lacking.

In spite of the shade of Bohemianism which presided over the annual gatherings at Compiègne and at Fontainebleau, the invitations were always coveted, and with reason, for a week spent at either place was certainly most enjoyable. The autumn season generally saw the Sovereigns at Compiègne, which the Empress liked very much, and there could be met all the celebrities of modern France and a good many foreigners, whom the Imperial couple liked to encourage to visit France, and on whom they lavished every attention. They were generally asked to stay a full week, and privileged persons were sometimes invited to extend their sojourn. Life was very pleasant in this old home of the Bourbon dynasty, and the liberty left to the guests to do what they liked added to its charm. One rode, one hunted, one drove, and one flirted to one’s heart’s content, and the only thing which was asked was punctuality at meals and admiration for the beauty of the Empress.

The exceeding charm and beauty of the Empress was never more seen to advantage than in one of her country homes, where she felt more at her ease than in Paris. She used to ask privileged persons among her guests to drink tea with her in the afternoon. On these occasions she appeared at her best, talking on every subject, and discussing all the new books. She rather prided herself on being what French people call “un bel esprit,” and of caring for literature; she considered it a part of her duty ostensibly to interest herself in the literary and scientific movements of the day. She liked to make herself popular among writers and artists, of whom there was generally a good sprinkling at Compiègne. Among her favourites were Octave Feuillet, Mérimée, and Carpeaux. More than once Carpeaux implored her to allow him to carve her bust, to which, however, she would not agree. Mérimée had been a friend of her mother’s, the Countess de Montijo, and had known her as a little girl; indeed, people whispered softly that he had had a good deal to do with her elevation to the throne, having admirably advised her at that critical period of her existence when first she became the object of Napoleon’s adoration.

Mérimée was a charming man in spite of his misanthropic tendencies and his fits of bad temper, which caused him sometimes to say the rudest things imaginable, but which in reality he did not mean at all. He was, however, a privileged person, being customarily forgiven words which would not have been tolerated in anyone else. He was, perhaps, amidst the crowd which congregated in the vast halls and galleries of Compiègne, the one who judged most clearly what was going on around him, and I remember that one evening, when we were discussing the political situation, he suddenly asked me: “Et vous croyez que cela durera?” (“And you think that all this will last?”) Noticing my surprise, he did me the honour of a lengthy explanation: “You see, my friend, here in this beautiful France of ours we never look beyond the present day; we enjoy ourselves without any thought of what the morrow may bring. We have seen so many changes, so many revolutions, that we have entirely lost the feeling of stability, without which no nation can achieve really great things. In politics one must have either stability, faith in the principles which one is called upon to defend, or else enthusiasm like that felt by our troops at Marengo. Now can you imagine a spirit of enthusiasm for our master here?” And he winked in the direction of the Emperor’s private apartments. “He is good, and kind, and weak, but though the nation and the army shout ‘Vive l’Empereur’ when they see him, it is very doubtful whether they would sacrifice anything beyond the interests of their neighbours for him. And the Empress, she is as much to be pitied as she is to be envied. I am sorry to have to say so, because I am really attached to her, but what can one do! She does not realise that she is not by birth the equal of the other Queens of Europe, and there lies her great mistake. She is so beautiful that one would have worshipped at once Mademoiselle de Montijo, but the nation could not bring itself to respect the Comtesse de Téba in the same way as had she been a Princess born. Now, don’t betray me, please,” he added, “but I know that you are discreet, and, besides, who minds the sayings of that old grumbler Mérimée!”

This boutade left a deep impression on my mind at the time I heard it; it resounded like the “Mene, Tekel, Upharsin” of the Empire, uttered as it was by a man who was well known to have personally a great and sincere devotion for the fair Spaniard whom he had helped to place on the throne of France. Poor Mérimée was not destined to survive the fall of that Imperial regime of which he had been one of the strongest supporters. He died broken-hearted a few days after the disaster of Sedan, writing pathetically to one of his friends just before his end: “I have tried all my life to fight against prejudices, and to be a citizen of the world before being a Frenchman. But all these cloaks of philosophy are now of no avail to me. I bleed to-day of the same wounds as these idiots of Frenchmen, and I weep over their humiliation.”

Octave Feuillet was a great favourite of the Empress. He was a charming man, but always ill and always preoccupied with nursing his health, and his malade imaginaire. His novels were undoubtedly pretty, and created a great sensation at the time. He was the fashionable novelist of his generation, and certainly some of his works deserve to pass to posterity because of their fine observation. He was middle-class to the core, and this made him worship everything that seemed to be above him. He took himself far too much in earnest, and even carried so far his appreciation of his own merit that he wrote once or twice to the Emperor, proffering unsought his advice in political matters. Napoleon III. was far too kind to rebuff him, and sometimes even replied to him, flattering his vanity, as he was accustomed to flatter writers and journalists, in whom he saw the manufacturers of public opinion, and whom he liked to conciliate as far as possible. Octave Feuillet professed a great admiration for the Empress, and he must be given his due—he remained faithful to her after her fall. He was one of the few who went to Chislehurst to present their respects to the exiled and dethroned Sovereigns.

In violent contrast to his behaviour can be instanced that of the architect Viollet-le-Duc, who, after having been loaded with money and kindnesses by the Emperor and his Consort, turned his back upon them after the fall of the Empire, and even tried to make excuses for ever having known them. Unfortunately, he was but one of many, and bitter must have been the thoughts of Napoleon III. and Eugénie when they saw that all the good they had done, the boundless generosity they had exercised, had only made them a few more enemies among the ranks of those who owed them so much.

Carpeaux, in spite of his rudeness, was very much appreciated at Compiègne, and I often saw him there, as indeed I met also most of the illustrious Frenchmen the Empire could boast of at that time. These celebrities, and the number of pretty women who were also invited, made the gatherings unique. The members of the fair sex who were nearly always present were the Princess Metternich, the pretty Comtesse Mélanie de Pourtalès, the Marquise de Galiffet, then separated from her husband, who had already struck up that strange friendship with the Princesse de Sagan, née Seillères, which gave rise to so much talk later on. Mme. de Galiffet was one of the loveliest women of the Imperial Court, and certainly the one who knew the best how to dress. She was an élégante before everything else, and I believe cared even more for her dresses than for her lovers. Her relations with General Galiffet were most strange. They used to meet sometimes in society, and he was always most polite towards her; it was even said that the warmest admirer the Marquise de Galiffet had ever had was her husband. This did not prevent them never agreeing upon any subject save one, and that, it was rumoured, reunited them sometimes, not under the same roof, but under the same tent, as the Marquise de Caux once said with more wit than kindness.

Another habitué of Compiègne was the Baronne de Poilly. She was a daring horsewoman, an eccentric character, full of brusquerie and kindness, but not liked, and very much talked about. She was, with the Comtesse de Beaulaincourt, ex-Marquise de Contades, one of the most dreaded persons in the whole of Paris society.

Speaking of Madame de Beaulaincourt reminds me of various episodes in that lady’s career, which set me wondering how the strict Faubourg St. Germain, as well as the frivolous society of the Second Empire, could have taken her to their hearts in the way they did. She was bad for badness’ sake, as unsparing in her words as in her judgments; always on the look out for something evil to do, or something unpleasant to say. Full of wit with it all, this last circumstance only made her the more dangerous. She was a rare example of a vicious woman who had no charitable instincts; it seemed as if she condemned others the more bitterly because she knew that there was needing much pardon in herself. Nevertheless, Madame de Beaulaincourt was one of the most remarkable personalities at the Court of the Emperor Napoleon III., and as such she deserves to be remembered.

The members of the Cabinet and their wives were generally asked to Compiègne in turn. At Fontainebleau, where the Court used to spend the summer months, this was rarely the case. St. Cloud was too near Paris to be really pleasant as a summer residence. Fontainebleau was quite in the country, and its lovely forest afforded many opportunities for riding, driving, or hunting, which appealed to Eugénie’s tastes. There she used to live a family life free from the restraints of the Court, with the guests whom she asked to share her villégiature. At Fontainebleau, too, the Emperor, always a great stickler for etiquette, allowed it to be relaxed, considering his stay there as a kind of holiday. He was more often in the company of his guests than at Compiègne, and his presence was very much appreciated. When he liked, Napoleon III. could be a charming man and an interesting talker, but it was not often that he allowed himself to become expansive.

Life at Fontainebleau as well as at Compiègne was almost uniform in its round of gaieties. The company assembled for breakfast at noon, after which the guests followed their own inclinations during the afternoon. A few privileged ones, however, were asked to drive or walk with the Empress, and afterwards to have tea with her. All guests enjoyed perfect liberty, but this did not prevent them from watching their neighbours to find out their little weaknesses, for gossip was rife both at Compiègne and at Fontainebleau, and many unpleasant rumours concerning the Emperor and the Empress were started there. The manners and customs that prevailed among the recipients of the Imperial hospitality were publicly criticised, the feeling being that it would certainly have been better had more discrimination been exercised. There was little dignity though much ceremony during these “series,” as they used to be called, and the extreme liberty granted was the source of all kinds of unmerited rumours concerning what happened in those vast halls. Somehow it savoured of desecration to see the gay company of careless men and fashionable women who thronged Fontainebleau without giving a thought to the great events which its walls had witnessed.

One evening at Fontainebleau, after the rest of the world had retired, I was returning late to my bedroom from an enjoyable stroll in the lovely park. There was a beautiful moon, and it lit up the old castle of François I., with its many turrets, its old gables, its whole aspect speaking of the grandeur of many ages. I thought myself the only one to indulge in such an eccentricity, when suddenly I came face to face with the Chevalier Nigra, then one of the great admirers of the Empress, and a general favourite both at Court and in Society. Chevalier Nigra had been the private secretary of Count de Cavour, and was considered one of the stars of Italian diplomacy. He professed the greatest devotion for Eugénie, knew exactly how to flatter her and thus to glean information as to what was going on in the French Cabinet. More clever than lovely Madame de Castiglione, who thought that one of her glances was sufficient to keep the Emperor enchained to her chariot, Nigra did not attempt to play the lover, but rather the worshipper of the Empress, whom he used to tell he had set upon a shrine whence he hoped she would condescend from time to time to smile upon him. He had all the subtlety of the Italian, and had read, and, what is better, thoroughly digested and understood, the philosophy expressed by Machiavelli in his works. He was an ardent patriot, and when he accepted the appointment to Paris it was with the firm intention of using his best endeavours to bring about the completion and recognition of Italian unity.

Nigra was an extremely pleasant man, with a sufficient tincture of cynicism to make him amiable without being aggressive. He rarely spoke the truth, and never said what he thought; but he had the talent of convincing people of his entire sincerity. A keen observer, he had judged better than any of his colleagues the frailty of the Imperial regime, and was only watching for the moment when the house of cards should collapse. On the evening I am referring to he was smoking a big cigar and walking slowly in the flower-garden which stretched in front of the private apartments of the palace, enjoying the scent of the roses, and from time to time raising his eyes towards the only row of windows still showing a light amidst the darkness that enveloped the venerable pile.

When he saw me, he pointed upwards with his finger to these windows, saying at the same time:

“She is not sleeping; she is always the last one to go to rest.”

“I wonder what she is doing so late,” I replied.

“Thinking about her dresses, or the last sermon she has listened to,” was the remark of Nigra. “How little the Empress understands her situation.”

“She gathers her roses whilst she can,” was my reply.

“Yes,” retorted the Italian diplomatist, “and perhaps she does the best thing under the circumstances; all this cannot last.”

“You do not believe in the durability of the Empire?” I asked him.

“No,” was the reply. “I do not believe in it at all. The Italian question will overthrow it sooner than one thinks.”

“You do not admit the possibility of a war between Italy and France on the subject of the integrity of the Holy See?” I inquired.

“Certainly I don’t,” said Nigra, “but I know one thing; the Emperor has no likelihood of keeping his crown, or of passing it to his son, unless he makes up his mind to fulfil the promises which he gave, perhaps in an unguarded moment, and without thinking of the consequences, but which he gave all the same. This hesitation of his has not only entirely destroyed his popularity in Italy, but it has also thrown Italian politicians into the arms of his foes. You see, we cannot prevent the natural course of events taking place; the supremacy of the Pope has had its day, and the Bourbons also have achieved their destiny. Italy, if she is to be regenerated, can only be so under the sway of an Italian dynasty. The Bourbons are not Italians; they are French, with a large admixture of Austrian blood, and their temperament is distinctly hostile to that of the Italian people. The House of Savoy, on the other hand, has everything that appeals to the mind and to the imagination of my country; it will welcome Victor Emmanuel with joy wherever he may appear. You must not forget, either, a thing of which people generally lose sight: Italians are superstitious; they are not at all religious, and they more or less look upon the Pope in the same light as they do the small princes and dukes who have ruled them for so long. Temporal Power has far more prestige abroad than is the case with us, and Italians will only feel wrathful against those who may try to force it upon them. The people of Italy instinctively guess that the Emperor is afraid to go against the popular feeling in France, and that he will at a given moment refuse to help their ambitions if he finds that they clash with his own personal interests. That is where he makes his mistake,” continued Nigra, who had become excited, a rare thing with him; “that is where he makes his mistake. If he upheld our national ambitions he would find us at his side when his hour of peril will strike, whereas now we shall merely look on and do what he did in 1859—seek our own advantage, heedless of the danger in which he may find himself placed.”

I looked at him attentively.

“So you believe that this hour of danger is fast approaching?” I asked.

“Of course it is,” was the reply; “its warning rang long ago, after Sadowa, and when the bullets of Juarez struck the breast of Maximilian at Queretaro. It is only blind people, blinded by vanity, like those who are in power here, who do not see the menace that the armaments of Prussia constitute for the whole of Europe.”

“You do not believe in the readiness of the French army in case of a war?” I asked.

“Do you?” retorted Nigra.

I remained silent.

“No, I do not believe in it,” he went on slowly, “the army is not capable of strong resistance to a well disciplined foe. How can an army be so in a country where politics are paramount? You see there is no real patriotism in France, there is only chauvinism, and that is not quite the same thing. The Frenchman will not admit that he can be conquered by anyone. Why, we have seen it at Solferino, where our troops fought desperately, and were not even thanked by the Emperor, whose soldiers could never have held out alone against the shock of the Austrian regiments. When we came up and decided the fate of the battle they were already giving way. You must not forget one thing, the French soldier gets discouraged at his first reverse, and most certainly the fate of the next campaign will be decided in its very first days.

“The Emperor also is no longer what he once was,” went on Nigra; “he is ill, broken down, either by disease or by worry, he has lost very much of his former elasticity, and is more than ever undecided in the resolutions he is called upon to make. The Empress, on the other hand, believes herself to possess political ability, and is encouraged therein by people who see a source of advantage for them in a Regency over which she would be called upon to preside. The death of the Emperor, which ten years ago would have been regarded in the light of a calamity, not only for France but for Europe, is no longer dreaded, because the feeling is that he has survived himself, that his lucky star has left him. The convinced Bonapartists think that a Liberal Empire is an anachronism; but the Emperor, who was always more or less a conspirator, dreams, on the contrary, of establishing his dynasty on new lines, in which his strong sympathies towards Liberalism will take the upper hand. When once his entourage realise this fact, which so far they do not yet suspect, they will do their best to bring matters to a crisis, and by means of a foreign war divert Napoleon’s mind from his present intentions. And that war——”

He stopped and looked at me significantly.

“That war won’t find Italy the ally of France,” I remarked.

“Certainly not, because there would be no necessity for it. Why should we lose either men or money when nothing could be gained by it? What we want is Rome, and Rome we shall get all the same, whether Napoleon allows it or not. One cannot stop the evolution of history.”

“But she—what will she do?” I asked, pointing up to the windows we had been looking at a few moments before, when, as if in reply to my question, the light suddenly went out.

Nigra shrugged his shoulders, as if this matter did not concern him at all.

“She will never resign herself to her fall, should such a thing occur,” I remarked.

“Oh yes, she will do so,” was the answer. “She will not even attempt to fight against her fate should it prove inimical to her,” he concluded philosophically.

It was during the last time the Imperial Court was at Fontainebleau that this remarkable conversation took place, and it impressed me so much that I noted it down at once when I reached my room. I was to think about it more than once subsequently, and many years later, meeting Count Nigra, as he had become then, in St. Petersburg, where he had been appointed Italian Ambassador, I reminded him of it, and asked him to tell me what had really been the conduct of the Empress Eugénie on that fateful 4th of September when he and Prince Metternich urged her to fly before the revolutionaries.

“She did exactly what I told you that night at Fontainebleau,” replied Nigra; “she declared that she would not go against the wishes of the country, and that, since it wanted her to leave Paris, she would do so. Mind, she knew nothing as to whether this was true or not; no one had told her that the country wanted her to go, one had simply drawn her attention to the fact that her life was in danger, and she believed it at once. Metternich at one moment asked her whether she would not take a few things with her, but she replied that it was not necessary, and she left the Tuileries without even taking a pocket handkerchief.”

CHAPTER IV

Political Men of the Time

The fact is that fate went against the new Prime Minister. M. Ollivier had hardly been in power when occurred an event almost forgotten to-day, but which was to sound the first knell of the Empire. Prince Pierre Bonaparte shot Victor Noir.

Till that fatal day very few people knew anything about Prince Pierre. He was a distant cousin of the Emperor, with whom his relations had never been either affectionate or even friendly. He was the black sheep of a family which at that time could ill afford a setback, and his political opinions, coupled with an irregular connection with a person belonging to an inferior class, and whom he was ultimately to make his wife, had led to his disgrace by the head of his house. Napoleon III. ignored the existence of this inconvenient kinsman, who lived in a little house at Auteuil.

Prince Pierre was a true Corsican in character: violent, and given to strong fits of passion. He professed, together with most Radical political opinions and strong Republican sympathies, an immense worship for the memory of his great ancestor, the first Napoleon, and a great respect for the family traditions of the Bonapartes. And when one day, in a small newspaper edited at Bastia, he chanced across a very vile attack on the family, he got into a rage, and replied to it in the same paper by an equally virulent attack directed against the author.

The matter did not end there, for very soon the Parisian press took part, and the occasion was used by the enemies of the Imperial regime in order to air their grievances against it. At last one of the editors of an opposition paper called La Revanche, M. Paschal Grousset, who later on was to acquire a sorry celebrity during the excesses of the Commune, sent two of his friends to Prince Pierre, to request him either to apologise in person or else to fight.

What happened during the interview no one will ever know. The versions given by the Prince and that of M. Ulric de Fonville, who together with Victor Noir had called at Auteuil at the request of Paschal Grousset, differ entirely as to what passed. The result, however, was the murder of Noir by the cousin of Napoleon III.

This event, occurring as it did at a moment when the Empire was being attacked on all sides and already tottering, added considerably to the difficulties under which the Emperor was labouring. Unfortunately, neither he nor his responsible advisers calculated its consequences. Instead of following the advice given by M. Rouher, who was of opinion that Prince Pierre should have been imprisoned in a fortress until his crime had been forgotten by the public, Napoleon III. decided to have his cousin tried by a special court which assembled at Tours. The court acquitted the accused, which only added to the general exasperation against the government. M. Ollivier was reproached with having lent himself to a travesty of justice, in order to shield a relative of the Sovereign from a justly deserved punishment, and was accused by his former friends and followers of allowing himself to fall under the influence of the Court.

This was gall and wormwood to that sincere politician, and the bitterness which resulted on both sides made the head of the Cabinet lose that calmness which, more than anyone else, he required in the difficult task that lay before him.

As to Prince Pierre, the cause of all this perturbation, he left France after his acquittal, settled in Brussels, and after the fall of the Empire married the mother of his children, and spent his life in comparative poverty until the marriage of his son Roland Bonaparte with the youngest daughter of the celebrated Blanc, of Monaco fame, which brought back financial prosperity to that branch of the family. He did not enjoy it long, because he died a few months later, and was followed very quickly to the grave by his young daughter-in-law. His widow, the washerwoman whose introduction into his family Napoleon III. had deeply resented, went on living with her son Roland, devoting herself to him and to his baby daughter. She never could learn what manners were, but she was kind-hearted in spite of her vulgarity, and did good in every way she could. Prince Roland, on his side, had the tact never to be ashamed of the humble origin of his mother, to surround her always with the greatest respect, and to treat her with the most tender affection. She did the honours of his house as well as she could, and unfortunately for her, died before the marriage of her granddaughter, the Princess Marie Bonaparte, with Prince George of Greece, an event which, had she only lived long enough to witness it, would have proved the supreme happiness of her life.

This digression has led me far away from M. Emile Ollivier. I had the opportunity to see him on the day following the acquittal of Prince Pierre Bonaparte, and was surprised to find him considerably irritated against M. Rouher, whom he accused of trying to influence the Emperor in a direction contrary to the resolutions which the Sovereign had taken in conjunction with Ollivier himself. He seemed as if he wanted to find someone on whom he might vent his anger at his own mistakes. A phrase which he uttered on that day, but to which I did not pay any attention at the moment, struck me later on as the expression of a desire to regain a popularity he had lost:

“Il nous faut maintenant à tout prix regagner notre popularité” (“We must now at all costs win back our popularity”).

It was immediately after these troubled days that the important question of the Plebiscite was raised. It was violently opposed by M. Thiers and his followers, and also by several of the Emperor’s personal friends, who dreaded what it might mean to him. Even when its result ratified the country’s confidence in the Empire and in the Emperor, they were not inspired with any greater confidence in the future. I remember that at a dinner which took place at the house of Marshal Canrobert and at which I was present, M. Rouher, who was among the guests, remarked sadly that there was nothing to be so very proud of in the results of the Plebiscite, because Paris had proved by its vote that it was distinctly hostile to the Government. “Et c’est Paris qui fait les révolutions et renverse les gouvernements” (“And it is Paris which makes revolutions and upsets governments”), he concluded with a sigh.

Without being on intimate terms with him, I liked M. Rouher exceedingly. For one thing, he was really the Emperor’s friend, and for another, when all is said and done, he was a statesman. It is not to be denied that he was ambitious and liked power for power’s sake. He did not care so much for the welfare of France as he did for that of the Bonaparte dynasty, but he had a clear apprehension of all the political necessities of the moment, and saw farther than those who were listened to with greater attention than himself. He did not perhaps like the Empress very much, but he remained faithful to her, and out of respect for the place which she occupied and the crown which she wore, always tried to uphold her prestige. He loved Napoleon III. truly and sincerely, and always gave him disinterested advice. Like all strong men he had enemies, and like all sincere people he was accused of dissimulation and intrigue by those who did not understand that to tell the truth is sometimes the best way not to be believed.

He has been accused of having gathered immense riches whilst he was in power. I can testify that this has not been the case by far, and that when the “Second Emperor,” as he was sometimes called, died, he was comparatively a poor man.

Socially, M. Rouher was charming, and his conversation was most enjoyable. He had what French people call “le mot pour rire,” as well as a marvellous skill for parrying questions addressed to him, and replying without answering anything. He had dignity, and gave constant proofs of it in his presidency of the Senate, where he displayed the rarest qualities of tact and skill.

Talking of tact, leads me to say a few words respecting a personage who, to his own misfortune, as well as to that of other people, did not know the significance of that word. It is of Prince Napoleon, Prince Plon Plon, as the Prussians called him, that I am thinking.

This first cousin of the Emperor was certainly a remarkable personage, and undoubtedly a most clever man. But evidently, also, a bad fairy had presided at his birth, and blighted with her magic wand all the great qualities with which nature had endowed him. His was essentially a restless nature, incapable of contentment, even when it had what it wanted. Had he been Emperor he would have lived in opposition to himself, faute de mieux. Of ambition he had a lot; of desires and passions even more, but he lacked an evenly balanced mind, and that most essential of all qualities, submission before accomplished facts and the things that human will cannot change. His intelligence was sharp, bright, and clear; he was capable of resolution, and had initiative in his character. He was gifted with rare eloquence, and, possessing also an easy pen, wrote pages that great writers would have felt proud to sign. He was brilliant, too, in conversation, and to all these talents he added qualities that, joined with the prestige of his name, and of his position, might have called him to great destinies, could he but have learned how to use them. His existence was essentially one aptly described by the French expression “une vie manquée,” and he was his own worst enemy. Always in opposition to his cousin he succeeded in rousing in revolt against himself not only the advisers of the Crown, but also the Emperor, and especially the Empress. Eugénie, with whom he had been ardently in love when she was still Mademoiselle de Montijo, was the object of his especial animosity later on, and he never lost an opportunity of displaying it, forgetting even that she was a lady, and that he should have shown himself a gentleman in his behaviour towards her. Among the survivors of the time none will have forgotten the scandal he caused at Compiègne when he refused to propose the health of the Empress on the day of St. Eugénie, when the Emperor asked him to do so. On that occasion as on many others, he quite lost sight of the politeness which a Sovereign and a woman has the right to expect, even from her worst enemies.

Prince Napoleon was all his life in opposition to somebody or something, and by poetic justice before his death he was to experience the sorrow of finding his own son oppose him and his principles. Deception dogged his footsteps, disappointment seemed to pursue him, for which he himself was partly responsible, and partly the victim of circumstances. He is more to be pitied than anything else. His life seemed to be spent in seeing withdrawn from his lips the cup that a wicked fairy kept presenting to him in order to tempt him with its contents.

A good many of Prince Napoleon’s defects proceeded from a spirit of bravado, such as that which distinguished the Italian condottieri of old. He took a vicious pleasure in appearing to be what in reality he was not, and in defying public opinion, as in the case of his famous Good Friday dinners, when he asked his best friends to help him to eat ham and roast beef on an occasion when the gayest of gay Parisians would not have dreamt of touching anything else but fish. His unorthodoxy was more affected than sincere, more frequently it was adopted because it amused him to shock people.

His wife, the virtuous Princess Clotilde of Savoy, was a saint in her life and habits. She had absolutely no bond of sympathy with him, and made him always feel that duty alone kept her at his side. She had great, noble, and even grand qualities, but her disposition was neither amiable, nor sympathetic, and Prince Napoleon should have had a wife he could love, rather than one whom he could only respect.

When he died alone in Rome, within a stone’s throw from the palace where his distinguished relative, Madame Mère, had ended her sad existence, and within sight of the chapel where rests the mortal remains of the Princess Borghese, née Pauline Bonaparte, he was on terms of intimate friendship with a lady well known in Paris society, the Marquise de ——, whose salon is to this day the rendezvous of a certain circle of people, among whom may be seen some enjoying a great social position, and about which I shall have something more to say later on. This lady was passionately attached to Prince Napoleon, for whom she had sacrificed a good deal. She had been a beautiful woman, gifted with a splendid voice, admired by many, and loved by not a few. Her devotion to the Prince was admirable, but her presence at his bedside robbed his last hours of dignity.

His widow, the Princess Clotilde, retired to the castle of Moncalieri, where she, too, died a few years ago, after having seen her eldest son, Prince Victor, married to the Princess Clementine of Belgium. Her youngest boy, Prince Louis Napoleon, after serving for several years in the ranks of the Russian army, lives now in comparative solitude, at the castle of Prangins in Switzerland, having inherited the fortune of his aunt, the Princess Mathilde. As for Princess Clotilde’s daughter, the Princess Letitia Bonaparte, she married, under rather singular circumstances, her uncle, the Duke of Aosta, the brother of King Humbert of Italy. When I use the words “singular circumstances,” I am alluding to the popular belief that the Duke had no particular intention of marrying his niece. The Princess Letitia, however, had inherited the ardent temperament of her father, Prince Napoleon. The Duke died shortly after the marriage. At present the widowed Duchess of Aosta spends part of her time in Turin, and part in Paris, where she has an apartment in the Hotel de Castiglione, Rue de Rivoli, and enjoys herself as much as she possibly can, being a general favourite everywhere.

After the Plebiscite, it was generally felt that some changes in the Cabinet of M. Emile Ollivier had become imperative, especially as its principal members, M. Buffet and M. Daru, were not entirely in accord with M. Ollivier, being more or less under the influence of Thiers, who had been a resolute adversary of the Plebiscite. The portfolio of Foreign Affairs, becoming vacant owing to the retirement of Comte Napoleon Daru, was offered to the Duc de Gramont, who accepted.

The Duc de Gramont, among all the people who had rallied to the Empire, was the one whose adherence had caused the most pleasure at the Tuileries. He had been the favourite of the Duchess d’Angoulême, the daughter of Louis XVI. and of Marie Antoinette, and had inspired such a deep affection in that severe Princess, that she had left him a large fortune, from which he derived an income of about one million francs. All his family traditions were connected with those of the House of Bourbon, and one would have thought that nothing could have made him swerve from his allegiance to the Comte de Chambord. When he forsook his former masters, and enlisted among the followers of the Napoleonic dynasty, there was great rejoicing at this unhoped-for and unexpected defection, and great bitterness at Frohsdorf. The Empress Eugénie lavished her best and most amiable smiles on the descendant of the famous Corisande, and very soon the Duke found himself the cherished guest at all the festivities that took place, either at Fontainebleau or at Compiègne, or the Tuileries.

He was made an ambassador at Vienna, no one knew why, presumably for no other reason than that it was necessary to make something out of him, and to shower honours and dignities on his head. He did not make himself liked in Austria, and the statesmen with whom he found himself thrown into contact did not form a high opinion of his diplomatic talents. He felt himself secretly despised, and being of an ambitious turn of mind, he wanted to do something very striking in order to make himself appreciated by others to the same degree as he appreciated himself.

It was with joy he accepted the portfolio of Foreign Affairs, and the first time he presented himself before Eugénie after his appointment he told her rather theatrically: “Les intérêts de la France ont été remis en de bonnes mains par l’Empereur, Madame, soyez en sûre” (“The interests of France have been confided by the Emperor into good hands, rest assured of that, Madame”).

I did not know the Duc de Gramont well, and for that reason refrain from judging him. He has been accused of being the most guilty among the many guilty people to whom the responsibility of the unfortunate Franco-German War may be attributed. Doctor Evans, in the very interesting memoirs published after his death, relates that at the time of the Duke’s appointment at the head of foreign affairs, a foreign statesman whom he knew well used the following ominous words: “Believe me, this nomination is the forewarning of a Franco-German war.”

It would not be fair to go as far as that, but I will say that the Duke was attacked more than any of his colleagues with the folie des grandeurs. Moreover, he was suffering acutely from the national vanity which felt itself thoroughly convinced that nothing could resist the courage of the French army. It did not strike him that this courage would be of no avail in the presence of the perfect discipline of the foe it would have to meet.

I must say, when I look back on this period which preceded the war, that a general uneasiness had pervaded the public mind ever since the constitution of the Ministry presided over by Emile Ollivier. No one trusted it, even among the personal friends of its head, and as a very clever woman, the Vicomtesse de Janzé, now Princesse de Lucinge, said at the time: “Its enemies do not trust it, and its supporters do not like it.” The words were cruel, but very true.

The last twelve months of the Empire’s existence saw vanish from the political, and indeed from this earthly scene, three men who had once played a considerable part in the world, and whose names are remembered to this day: Montalembert, Berryer, and Lamartine. I never saw Lamartine, but had the honour to know Montalembert well, and to have been received often by Berryer, whose great figure considerably impressed me. It was impossible to feel for him anything else but the deepest, the most sincere respect. He was an admirable example of fidelity to principles, of convictions that the vicissitudes of life cannot change, and that even the errors of those who represent them cannot weaken. He died as he had lived, a Legitimist, believing in the divine right of kings, and determined to uphold his ideals to the end. Throughout his career he retained a wide sympathy in his estimates of men and of things, and an indulgence for the imperfections of those with whom he came into contact. Though he would permit no compromise with his own conscience, he realised very well that other people were different, and that he must make allowances. Though very disdainful, he was not vindictive in his old age, whatever he might have been in his youth, and the admirable serenity which pervaded all his judgments and opinions reminded me very often of the beautiful sunset of a beautiful day.

Montalembert, though broken by illness more than by old age, had, nevertheless, kept some of that brilliant and caustic wit for which he had been famous, and which had amused me so much when I first saw him in the early ’sixties. He was of that school of French Catholics who had never been able to shake off the influence of Lamennais, and to whom the exuberance of men like Veuillot was simply insufferable. The question of the Papal infallibility, which had been submitted by Pius IX. to the Vatican Council just before his death, had been the last great preoccupation of Montalembert, who could not reconcile himself to what, in his eyes, was a disastrous measure. His religion was of the broadest, and in his last years he looked at things with less partisan enthusiasm, and more clearness of judgment. I believe that in his inmost heart he regretted sometimes having violently separated himself from Lamennais, with whom he had worked on the famous paper L’Avenir. He never owned it, however; he always said that intentions were what must be considered and thought of, and that it was by their intentions, more than by their actions, that people ought to be judged. In his way Charles de Montalembert was just as great a figure as Berryer, whom he only survived by a few months.

As for Lamartine, his death brought back to the public mind all the events which had preceded the proclamation of the Second Empire, and that period during which he had been at the head of the Republic, whose triumph he was not destined to see. Cruel material losses had reduced him almost to penury, and his only means of existence was a pension which, unknown to many, he received from the private purse of the Emperor, who had had the delicacy to extend it to him in such a way that the poor poet never knew to whom he owed the gift.

This reminds me of one of the nicest remarks that Napoleon III. ever made in his life. When he was asked why he insisted so much on Lamartine never learning who was his secret benefactor, the Emperor replied that “France owed so much to M. de Lamartine, that it would be a great shame if he was made to feel he had need to be grateful to its Sovereign.”