At one of the “small” dances, or, as they were called, “Mondays,” at the Tuileries—entertainments which always took place before Lent—after the author of “Colomba”[50] had regaled the chosen few who had been invited to join the “circle” with some tales drawn from the chroniques chevaleresques of ancient Spain, the Empress volunteered to tell a little story of herself when she was still Mlle. de Montijo. The scene was Estramadura. She was riding a richly-caparisoned mule, and, with her little party, stopped for a few minutes at an auberge, in front of which, taking a rest, was a man, shod in espradilles—
Plus délabré que Job, et plus fier que Bragance
—one of those lithe mountaineers, with flashing eyes, the type of Victor Hugo’s Don César de Bazan and Hernani. The young lady was parched, and asked for a vaso de agua. Struck by her beauty, the mountaineer resolved that none but himself should have the honour of serving the fair traveller, and, snatching from the landlord’s hands the jug of fresh water and the glass, he filled the latter and offered it to Mlle. de Montijo, but not until he had knelt a moment in homage. “Muchas gratias,” said the future Empress, returning to the gallant caballero the glass, in which some water still remained. Raising the glass to his lips, he slowly drained it, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lady all the while, and finally breaking the glass into fragments, in order that no one else should ever use it!
Of the score or more of those who have essayed to depict the imperial vie intime during the first years of the reign—from the marriage in January, 1853, to the “attempt” by Orsini in January, 1858—none has surpassed M. Gaston Stiegler.[51]
It is early morning, and the Emperor’s toilette is being completed by his faithful valet, Charles Thélin. The carpet is littered with opened telegrams and newspapers. His Majesty is tired, and rubs his dull eyes, while Thélin waxes the large fair moustache which covers the master’s mouth, and draws it into two fine points. After his sparse locks have been artistically combed and brushed, “washes” and pomades applied, and the pale cheeks brightened with rouge—after everything has been done as scrupulously as the most elegant petite maîtresse could have desired—Napoleon III. rises and puts on the severely cut frock-coat in which he is almost invariably seen, save when he is in uniform or hunting or shooting garb. His faithful companion, his meerschaum pipe, beautifully coloured, smiles upon him from a little table. He lights it, and joins his secretary (M. Mocquard) and Dr. Conneau, both blindly devoted to him. These morning moments were generally the best parts of his day. Mocquard and Conneau were the friends of his youth, the friends of his mother, who, on her death-bed, made the doctor promise never to leave her son.[52]
“Has your Majesty slept well?” asks Conneau.
“Not badly, thank you; but not enough, my good friend,” came from the thick voice, which did not harmonize with his air of natural distinction.
“Yes, yes; I know. You returned late—always too late. It is telling upon you.”
The Emperor took this scolding every morning very amiably. The solicitude for his health pleased him.
“Youth will have its fling,” said Mocquard, smiling.