The Queen's yacht had been timed to enter the harbour at one, but it was within a minute or so of two before it was moored amidst the salutes from the forts. The Emperor, who had been on horseback the whole of the morning—who, in fact, preferred that means of locomotion on all important occasions, as it showed him off to greater advantage,—had been standing by the side of his charger. He crossed the gangway, beautifully upholstered in purple velvet and carpet to match, at once, and, after having kissed her hand, offered her his arm to assist her in landing, Prince Albert and the royal children coming immediately behind the Imperial host and his principal guest. A magnificent roomy barouche, capable of holding six persons and lined with white satin, but only drawn by two horses—such horses! for in that respect Napoléon had spent his time to advantage in England,—stood waiting to convey the Royal family. The Emperor himself, though, mounted his horse once more, and took his place by the right of the carriage, the left being taken by Marshal Baraguey-d'Hilliers. The head of the procession started amidst tremendous cheers from the crowd, but we who came on behind heard some curious comments upon this popular manifestation. Knowing that there would be a considerable delay in getting the train off, I walked instead of driving. I was accompanied by Lord ——, who was never averse to having his little joke. "Hé bien, mon ami," he said to an old weather-beaten sailor, who was short of his left leg—"hé bien, mon ami, nous voilà réconciliés."
"Oui, oui, je t'en fiche," was the answer; "mais puisqu'ils en sont à se faire des m'amours, ils devaient bien me rendre ma jambe que j'ai perdue dans leurs querelles."
"Imbécile," remarked an old soldier-looking man, who, though old, was evidently younger than the first speaker, and who was short of an arm, "ta jambe ne t'irait pas plus que mon bras; c'était ta jambe de garçon."
"C'est vrai," nodded the other philosophically; "tout de même, c'est drôle que nous nous soyons battus comme des chiens," pointing across the Channel in the direction of England, "pour en arriver à cela. Si le vieux (Napoléon I.) revenait, il serait rudement colère." And I may say at once that, notwithstanding the friendly attitude throughout of the rural as well as of the Parisian populations, that was the underlying sentiment. "Waterloo est arrangé, non pas vengé," said a Parisian; "il paraît qu'il y a des accommodements avec les rois, aussi bien qu'avec le ciel."
As a matter of course, we did not leave Boulogne much before three—the original arrangement had been for half-past one,—and when we reached Paris it was dark, too early for the illuminations which had been projected along the line of boulevards from the recently open Boulevard de Strasbourg to the Madeleine, not so much as a feature in the programme of reception, as in honour of the Queen generally. On the other hand, there was not sufficient daylight for the crowds to distinguish the sovereign's features, and a corresponding disappointment was the result. The lighted carriage lamps did not improve matters much. But the Parisians—to their credit be it said—knowing that Queen Victoria had expressed her wish to be conveyed to St. Cloud in an open carriage, instead of the closed State one used on such occasions, took note of the intention, and acknowledged it with ringing cheers. Victor Hugo has said that the Parisian loves to show his teeth—he must either be laughing or growling; and at the best of times it is an ungrateful task to analyse too thoroughly such manifestations of enthusiasm. There are always as many reasons why nations should hate as love each other. The sentiment, as expressed by the sailor and soldier alluded to just now, did exist—of that I feel sure; but amidst the truly fairy spectacle then presented to the masses that crowded the streets, it may have been forgotten for the moment.
For, in spite of the gathering darkness, the scene was almost unique. I have only seen another one like it, namely, when the troops returned from the Franco-Austrian War; and people much older than I declared that the next best one was that on the occasion of the return of the Bourbons in 1814.
Though the new northern station, erected on the site of the old, had been virtually finished for more than a twelvemonth, the approaches to it were, if not altogether magnificent projects, little more than magnificent mazes, stone and mortar Phœnixes, in the act of rising, not risen, from Brobdignagian dust-heaps, and altogether unfit for any kind of spectacular procession. Consequently, it had been decided to connect the northern with the eastern line immediately after entering the fortifications. The Strasbourg Station did not labour under the same disadvantages; the boulevard of that name stretched uninterruptedly as far as the Boulevard St. Denis, although, as yet, there were few houses on it. I have seen a good many displays of bunting in my time; I have seen Turin and Florence and Rome beflagged and decorated on the occasions of popular rejoicings; I have seen historical processions in the university towns of Utrecht and Leyden; I have seen triumphal entries in Brussels; I was in London on Thanksgiving day, but I have never beheld anything to compare with the wedged masses of people along the whole of the route, as far as the Bois de Boulogne, on that Saturday afternoon. The whole of the suburban population had, as it were, flocked into Paris. The regulars lined one side of the whole length of the Boulevards, the National Guards the other. And there was not a single house from the station to the southernmost corner of the Rue Royale that had not its emblems, its trophies, its inscriptions of "welcome." With that inborn taste which distinguishes the Parisians, the decorator had ceased trying to gild the gold and to paint the lily at that point, and had left the magnificent perspective to produce its own effect—a few Venetian masts along the Avenue de Champs-Élysées and nothing more. Among the notable features of the decorations in the main artery of Paris was the magnificent triumphal arch, erected by the management of the Opéra between the Rue de Richelieu and what is now the Rue Drouot. It rose to the fourth stories of the adjacent houses, and looked, not a temporary structure, but a monument intended to stand the wear and tear of ages. No description could convey an idea of its grandeur. The inside was draped throughout with bee-bespangled purple, the top was decorated with immense eagles, seemingly in full flight, and holding between their talons proportionately large scutcheons, bearing the interlaced monograms of the Imperial hosts and the Royal guests. In front of the Passage de l'Opéra stood an allegorical statue, on a very beautiful pedestal draped with flags; and further on, at the back of the Opéra-Comique, which really should have been its front,[75] an obelisk, the base of which was a correct representation, in miniature, of the Palais de l'Industrie (the then Exhibition Building). By the Madeleine a battalion of the National Guards had erected, at their own cost, two more allegorical statues, France and England. A deputation from the National Guards had also presented her Majesty with a magnificent bouquet on alighting from the train.
By a very delicate attention, the private apartments of the Queen had, in many ways, been made to look as much as possible like those at Windsor Castle; and where this transformation was found impossible by reason of their style of decoration—such as, for instance, in the former boudoir of Marie-Antoinette,—the mural paintings and those of the ceiling had been restored by two renowned artists. In addition to this, the most valuable pictures had been borrowed from the Louvre to enhance the splendour of the reception and dining rooms, while none but crack regiments in full dress were told off for duty.
The day after the Queen's arrival being Sunday, the entertainment after dinner consisted solely of a private concert; on the Monday the Queen visited the Fine Arts' Section of the Exhibition, which was located in a separate building at the top of the Avenue Montaigne, and connected with the main structure by beautifully laid-out gardens. The Queen spent several hours among the modern masterpieces of all nations, and two French artists had the honour of being presented. I will not be certain of the names, because I was not there, but, as far as I can remember, they were Ingres and Horace Vernet.
While on the subject of art, I cannot help digressing for a moment. I may take it that in 1855 a good many Englishmen of the better middle classes, though not exactly amateurs or connoisseurs of pictures, were acquainted with the names, if not with the works, of the French masters of the modern school. Well, in that same year, the English school burst upon the corresponding classes in France like a revelation—nay, I may go further still, and unhesitatingly affirm that not a few critics, and those of the best, shared the astonishment of the non-professional multitude. They had heard of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Gainsborough, perhaps of Turner, but Constable and Moreland, Wilkie and Webster, Mulready, and the rest of the younger school, were simply so many names. But when the critics did become aware of their existence, their criticisms were simply a delightful series of essays, guiding the most ignorant to a due appreciation of those Englishmen's talents, not stinting praise, but by no means withholding blame, instinctively focussing merits and defects in a few brilliant paragraphs, which detected the painter's intention and conception as well as his execution both from a technical, as well as dramatic, graphic, and pictorial point of view; which showed, not only the influence of general surroundings, but dissected the result of individual tendencies. Many a time since, when wading through the adipose as well as verbose columns dealing with similar subjects in English newspapers, have I longed for the literary fleshpots of France, which contained and contain real nourishing substance, not the fatty degeneration of an ignoramus's brain, and, what is worse, of an ignoramus who speaks in numbers from a less valid reason than Pope's; for the most repellant peculiarity of these effusions are the numbers. It would seem that these would-be critics, having no more than the ordinary auctioneer's intellect, endeavour as much as possible to assimilate their effusions to a catalogue. They are an abomination to the man who can write, though he may know nothing about painting, and to the man who knows about painting and cannot write. The pictorial art of England must indeed be a hardy plant to have survived the approval and the disapproval of these barbarians.