5.
But, as I have said above, of all Queen Victoria's daughters, the one whom I knew best was the Princess Henry of Battenberg. In point of fact, she hardly ever left her august mother's side from the day when her married bliss received so cruel a blow in the tragic death of her husband and when the distress of mind found a refuge and peace in the affection of that same mother, whose heart was always filled with the most delicate compassion for every sorrow.
A close link had been formed between those two women: the Princess Henry had become the confidant of Queen Victoria's thoughts and was also, very often, the intermediary of her acts of discreet munificence. At Nice, she occupied the magnificent Villa Liserb, close to the hotel at which the Queen resided. Here I watched the games and the physical development of the princess's four children, Prince Alexander, Prince Maurice, Prince Leopold and little Princess Ena, little thinking that I should live to see the heavy crown of Charles V and Philip II placed upon the pretty, golden hair which was then still done up with pale-blue ribbons. Day after day, for many years, I saw those same children hail their grandmother's appearance with cries of delight.
The daily drive in the grounds of the Villa Liserb was in fact, one of Queen Victoria's favourite pleasures. She went there in her chair drawn by Jacquot, the white donkey, solemnly led by the Hindoo servant whose gaudy attire, like a monstrous flower, struck a loud note of colour against the green of the surrounding foliage. Slowly and smoothly, with infinite care, the little carriage advanced along the garden-paths which the pines, eucalyptus and olive trees shaded with their luxurious tresses. The Queen, holding the reins for form's sake, would cast her eyes from side to side in search of her grandchildren, who were usually crouching in the flower-beds or hiding behind the trees, happy in constantly renewing the innocent conspiracy of a surprise—always the same—which they prepared for their grandmother and which consisted in suddenly bursting out around her.
Or else a shuttlecock of a hoop would stray between Jacquot's legs.
"Stop, Jacquot!" cried the children.
And Jacquot, best-tempered of donkeys, would stop all the more readily as he knew that his patience would be rewarded with a lump of sugar.
The Princess Henry of Battenberg spent long hours in this wonderful smiling oasis, dividing her time between the education of her children, which she supervised and directed in person, and her own intellectual pursuits, to which she devoted herself ardently. She used to draw and paint very prettily, at that time; and she never forgot to take her sketch-book with her when accompanying the Queen on her drives in the neighbourhood of Nice. She sat and sketched while tea was being prepared in some picturesque spot where the royal carriage regularly made a prolonged halt.
She was a first-rate musician, played the harmonium on Sundays in the chapel of the Hôtel Regina and often went into the Catholic churches during the services in order to listen to the sacred music, which she preferred above all others. In this way, she came to appreciate more particularly the talent of a young organist called Pons, now a distinguished composer, who, at that time, used to play the organ at the church of Notre Dame at Nice. This artist, who was a native of the south of France, possessed a remarkable gift of improvisation which amazed the princess so greatly that she was always speaking of it to the Queen:
"You really ought to hear him," she would say.
"But he can't bring his organ to the hotel!" the Queen replied, laughing.
"Why should you not go to his church? I assure you that you will not be sorry."
The Queen, who was easily persuaded by her daughter, ended by consenting to visit Notre Dame one afternoon, on condition that she should be alone there, with her suite, during the little recital which the organist was to give for her benefit. Princess Beatrice, who was delighted at attaining her object, plied me with instructions so that the Queen might have a genuine artistic surprise:
"Be sure and see that there is no one in the church," she said to me, "and tell M. Pons to surpass himself."
I went and called on the rector and the organist. The former very kindly promised to take all the necessary steps for his Church to be quite empty during Her Majesty's visit. As for M. Pons, the honour which the Queen was doing him almost turned his head a little. He saw himself the equal of Bach and would have accosted Mozart by his surname if he had met him in the street.
"The Queen will be satisfied, I promise you," he declared, in his southern sing-song.
Things passed very nearly as we hoped. At the hour agreed upon, the royal landau stopped before the door of the church; the Queen, accompanied by the princess and a few persons of her suite, including myself, entered the great nave, where only a few float-lights lit up golden stars in the spacious darkness. When the Queen was seated in the arm-chair which I had sent on beforehand, Pons began to shed torrents of harmony upon our heads from his organ-loft above.
Nothing would have disturbed our meditation, but for a cat, an enormous black cat, which, after prowling behind the pillars, suddenly came up to the royal chair unperceived and jumped most disrespectfully into Her Majesty's lap! Picture the excitement! We drove it away. It returned. We tried to drive it away again. But it was stubborn in its affections and returned once more. Thereupon the Queen, who was more surprised than annoyed, resigned herself and accepted the curious adventure. She stroked the animal and kept it with her until the end of the recital.