Through the zeal and influence of Narvaez and their mother’s prudence and perseverance, the Queen was finally induced to take the young girls into her court, but their position there was by no means an enviable one. As daughters of a woman who in spite of her personal attractions was well known to have led an irregular life, they were looked upon with general suspicion; and as they constantly appeared with this mother in society, it was only natural that members of their own sex should hold aloof from them, while the men redoubled their attentions in consequence. The Countess Montijo was shrewd enough to see that she must proceed with caution if she wished her plans realized; therefore, to protect her daughters from the reefs on which her own reputation had been wrecked, she kept all undesirable cavaliers at a respectful distance. Among all those who sought the young Countesses’ favor there was only one she considered worthy to occupy the position of her son-in-law, the Duke of Berwick and Alva; him she encouraged in every way, permitting him to ride and drive with her daughters and accompany them to the theatre, giving him an intimate footing in the family. His companionship was a source of delight to both sisters, and he soon became the centre of their thoughts, possessing as he did the art of making himself so agreeable to both that each one fancied herself the object of his preference.
Eugénie adored Alva with all the intensity of a first love, endowing him with all the loftiest and most noble qualities; and, worshipping this image created by her fancy, believed herself loved in return. The mother, however, more experienced in the faithlessness of man, began to suspect that he had no intention of choosing either daughter as a companion for life; accordingly she set before him, when he came one day to call, the serious alternative of declaring himself or severing all intercourse with the family; to which ultimatum the Duke replied by requesting the hand of the elder. When Francisca, radiant with joy, hastened to her sister’s room to announce the great news she found her in bed. At first she thought her asleep, but on coming closer discovered to her horror that Eugénie’s eyes were fixed and staring, her forehead covered with beads of moisture, her features drawn and convulsed—she had taken poison! Francisca’s screams of distress quickly brought her mother and the maid to the scene. A physician was summoned, and Eugénie was restored to consciousness. A long and serious illness followed. In her delirious ravings she betrayed the fact that, hidden behind a door, she had overheard the Duke’s avowal and in despair had tried to end her life. Her recovery was slow and tedious. Even after she had been pronounced out of danger, her nervous system showed traces of the shock in a slight trembling, a nervous quiver of the eyelids, that never entirely left her. The sudden attacks of depression, the fits of weeping that sometimes seized her in after years, even in the midst of some festivity, may also be ascribed to the effects of the poison taken in her youth.
Still deeper were the traces left on the young girl’s character by this unhappy experience. Though taught by pride to conquer her love for the husband of her sister, she was forced to be a daily witness of that sister’s happiness and to endure the pity with which she was universally regarded, added to which was the galling conviction that the Duke himself suspected her secret. The once shy and modest maiden became a bold, forward coquette, striving to forget her sufferings in a whirl of pleasure and amusement, craving admiration, ambitious and frivolous. As a child she had always preferred boys’ sports to the usual occupations of girls, and excelled in riding, swimming, and fencing. Now she might be seen any afternoon galloping bareback through the streets of Madrid, smoking a cigar or a cigarette. She devised all sorts of fanciful costumes that only she could wear, often appearing in the Andalusian national dress. She was a frequent visitor at the theatre and all public places of amusement, and had a passion for bull-fights. One of the toreadors, for whom she embroidered a splendid cloak, was her declared lover. She rarely missed one of these gory festivals; and, seated on the lowest tier among the most enthusiastic spectators, in her Andalusian costume, she was always the centre of attraction. The womanly modesty that had made Eugénie so charming in her early girlhood had vanished, but she was even more beautiful and fascinating. She was surrounded by admirers, and encouraged the addresses of dukes and princes till her coquetries aroused the jealousy of the Queen. But no one paid court to her seriously. Suitors were naturally shy of choosing a wife who often appeared in masculine attire, who wore the most startling and conspicuous bathing costumes to excite admiration while in the water, and whose hand was as familiar with riding-whip and stiletto as with fan or bouquet.
In spite of her many extravagances, however, Eugénie’s youth was marked by a gay thoughtlessness and daring that were most attractive. Her self-reliant nature could brook no restraint. She scorned prudence and yielded rashly to every impulse. The attention she attracted could not fail to furnish food for gossip, and malicious tongues were soon busy with her reputation—a fact which did not deter her in the least from pursuing her fondness for adventure. This indifference to public opinion also led her, unfortunately, to defy custom and snap her fingers at the strict etiquette prescribed at court. At last she went out alone one evening with one of the young pages for a long walk. Whispers of this romantic promenade soon reached the ears of Queen Isabella, who, though setting the worst possible example herself in regard to morals, insisted on the strictest propriety in the behavior of her ladies; and both culprits were summarily dismissed from her service.
Like all Spanish girls, Eugénie had been brought up from her earliest years a devout Catholic, with the deepest reverence for the Pope and the Roman religion, a devotion that in time became almost fanaticism and furnished her enemies with a weapon of attack against which she was powerless to defend herself. After her dismissal from court she began to reflect on the difference between a religious life and one of idle pleasure. While at the convent, the contrast between the unselfish devotion of the nuns and the atmosphere of her parents’ disordered household made a deep impression on the young girl’s mind, and the Church seemed a blissful refuge from the storms of life. Now—feeling more and more conscious of the void within her—a passion for religion seized her, a longing to escape from the world of lies and slander in which she lived, into a purer atmosphere, a new field of activity. The Church held out its arms to her, and in them she determined to seek relief and to find strength to devote her life to the poor and suffering. It is said that when Eugénie went to the convent prepared to take the vows, an old half-witted nun approached, gazed at her with dull, vacant eyes, and suddenly exclaimed, “My daughter, do not seek shelter behind our walls. You are destined to adorn a throne!”
In her state of religious ecstasy these words could not fail to impress Eugénie deeply. It seemed a voice from heaven, speaking to her through the nun and consecrating her to the world. The Countess Montijo, too, did all she could to strengthen her daughter in this conviction, and persuaded her at length, instead of burying herself in a cloister, to travel abroad with her again.
Chapter II
Eugénie’s Marriage to Louis Napoleon
As a child, Eugénie was seldom seen without a knot of violets in her hair or in her belt; and when the scorching summer sun of Spain made these blossoms scarce, a shepherd boy was commissioned to bring them to her from the heights of the Sierra Nevada. Even when older, she still wore her favorite flowers on all occasions, for a gipsy had foretold that her fortune “would flourish with the violet.” So on that memorable evening toward the end of the thirties, when at a Spanish watering-place Napoleon and Eugénie (she, then, almost a child) saw each other for the first time, she wore a wreath of violets in her hair.
“I shall never forget,” said an eye-witness of the scene, “the way in which the Prince gazed at the young Countess when she was presented to him.”
The acquaintance was renewed some years later during a winter residence in London (1847-48), and it was only natural that these two, brought together by chance, should be attracted to one another. Both were of noble rank; both had a longing for fame and splendor; both were unfaltering in the pursuit of their ambitions; both were rich in hopes, yet poor in worldly possessions; and though full of courage and faith in the future, both were in reality adventurers. They were soon on terms of intimacy, and Louis Napoleon could no doubt have won the hand of Eugénie at that time. But his future was still uncertain. He was poor and heavily in debt, with the reputation of leading a dissipated life; and although she returned his love, she was prudent enough to renounce for the time being the opportunity of becoming a princess. Convinced that her lover’s aspiring dreams would be realized, however, and wishing to have a claim on his gratitude as well as his affections, she wrote him as follows, on their parting:—