The latter proposition hardly admitted of discussion. The sight was truly worth coming for. Though the Imperial suite never made its appearance before one, the main arteries of the forest became crowded as early as eleven. Half an hour later came La Trace and La Feuille with their équipage.[71] The kennelmen and huntsmen in full dress gathered round a roaring fire, their hounds lying at their feet. The stablemen and grooms, in undress livery of green and brown, walking the hunters of the Emperor and his suite to and fro, presented a picture full of colour and animation.
As a rule the Imperial cortége was punctual on those occasions, though it was often remiss in that respect at gatherings of a different nature. Among the familiars at the Tuileries the blame for this general unpunctuality was attributed in an equal measure to both the Emperor and the Empress. The latter dressed very slowly, and the former wanted to dress too quickly. The result of this difference of habit was always manifest to the most casual observer. The Empress, after the most fatiguing day or soirée, always looked as if she had just left her dressing-room, the Emperor at the beginning of the same as if he had scarcely been in it. But on "grand hunt-days" the Empress was never a minute late; and the reason, apart from the natural wish to exercise "la politesse des rois," exactitude, was a curious one, but for the truth of which I can vouch. It gets dark early in November, and the Empress dreaded to be overtaken by darkness in the forest, even amidst a crowd. It reminded her of a disagreeable episode during her first stay at Compiègne, when she was still Mdlle. Eugénie de Montijo. She and her future husband had got separated from the rest of the party. It was never accurately known what happened, but she was found sitting quietly but sorely distressed on her horse by M. de Saint-Paul, the sub-ranger, who escorted her back to the Château. She explained her lonely and uncomfortable position by the fact that her companion's horse had suddenly taken the bit between its teeth. The explanation was a lame one, seeing that the Prince-President, on his return, hours before, had looked perfectly composed and not as much as mentioned her name. The truth leaked out afterwards. Enraged at Mdlle. de Montijo's refusal to grant him a clandestine interview for that night, her princely suitor had left her to find her way back as best she could.
Invariably, then, at the stroke of one, the Imperial procession was signalled, for it was nothing less than a procession. At its head rode the chief ranger of Compiègne, Baron de Wimpffen, in a magnificent hunting-coat of green and gold, the laced tricornered hat, surmounted by a bunch of black plumes, jackboots, and white doeskins. Then came the Imperial break, drawn by six horses, mounted by postilions in powdered wigs, the Imperial host and hostess on the front seat, the members of the family, or some illustrious guests, behind; the rest of the breaks were only four-horsed, and the procession was closed by the carriage of M. Hyrvoix, the chief of the secret police. In Paris this arrangement was reversed, and M. Hyrvoix, who had the rank of a prefect, and took his place as such at all public functions, preceded instead of following the Imperial carriage.
I am inclined to think, notwithstanding the frequent outcries against the secret police during the second empire, that M. Hyrvoix was a thoroughly upright and conscientious servant. Unfortunately for himself and his Imperial masters, his position was a difficult one; for though professedly employed to gauge public opinion with regard to the dynasty, his reports to that effect were not always received with the consideration due to honest truth, at any rate by the Empress. Throughout these pages, I have endeavoured as far as possible to jot down my recollections in a kind of chronological order, rather than in the order they occurred to me; but in this, as in many other instances, I have been obliged to anticipate the course of events lest they should slip my memory, for I had no documents to go by, and also to avoid unnecessary repetitions. This particular part of my somewhat disjointed narrative was meant to deal with the festivities at Compiègne and the company there; on reading it over, I find that it has developed into a fragment of biography of the Emperor and his Consort. As such, the following stories will throw a valuable side light on their different dispositions.
When the news of Emperor Maximilian's death reached Paris, there was the rumbling of a storm which foreboded no good. For days before, there had been vague rumours of the catastrophe. It had been whispered at the annual distribution of prizes at the Collége de France, where one of the young Cavaignacs had refused to receive his reward at the hands of the Prince Imperial. In short, indignation was rife among all classes. The Empress, on hearing of the insult, had burst into hysterical tears, and been obliged to leave the reception-rooms. In short, a dark cloud hung over the Tuileries. I have spoken elsewhere of the Mexican expedition, so need not enlarge upon it here. We will take it that both Napoléon and his wife were altogether blameless in the affair—which was by no means the case,—but a moment's reflection ought to have shown them that appearances were against them, and that the discontent expressed was so far justified. I am under the impression that Napoléon himself looked at it in that way; he bowed to the storm; he regretted, but did not resent people speaking ill of him. Not so the Empress; the truth was only welcome to her when it flattered her; she really fancied herself an autocrat by the Grace of God, as the previous Bourbons interpreted the term. In spite of all that has been said about her amiability, about her charity, Eugénie was in reality cruel at heart. No woman, not cruel, could have taken the principal part in a scene which I will describe presently. But she was vindictive also, and, what was worse, blindly vindictive. Though firmly convinced that she reigned by right divine, she had felt more than once that private revenge on "the people" who abused her was beyond her power. She not only fretted accordingly, but often vented her wrath on the first victim that came to hand, albeit that the latter was generally the mere innocent conveyance through which the voice of "the people" reached her. M. Hyrvoix, in virtue of his functions, often found himself the echo of that voice. He was generally the first of all the officials to present his daily report. The Emperor gave him his cue by asking, "What do the people say?"
On that particular morning, after the death of Maximilian had become known, the answer came not as readily as usual; for the chief of the secret police was not in the habit of mincing matters. This time, however, M. Hyrvoix kept silent for a while, then replied, "The people do not say anything, sire."
Napoléon must have noticed the hesitating manner; for he said at once, "You are not telling me the truth. What do the people say?"
"Well, sire, if you wish to know, not only the people, but every one is deeply indignant and disgusted with the consequences of this unfortunate war. It is commented upon everywhere in the selfsame spirit. They say it is the fault of ——"
"The fault of whom?" repeated Napoléon.
Whereupon M. Hyrvoix kept silent once more.