“But,” replied Her Majesty laughingly, “when you come to a word which you may think rather strong, you can substitute for it ‘turlututu.’”
“But, Madame, the song contains——”
“What? Tell us.”
“There are scarcely any words in the song, Madame, except ‘turlututus’!”
The trumpet-call “à cheval” fortunately relieved the officer from his embarrassment.
Even a cursory study of the characters of Napoleon III. and the Comtesse de Téba shows that they belonged to the school of “romantics.” Æsthetics they assuredly were not. Romanticism as a cult had almost disappeared at the period of their marriage, but the “new” people (and both Sovereigns were very “new”) were unaware of that. The Emperor favoured the “Beaux Dunois”[62] or the “Preux de Palestine,” and in the spirit of romanticism he rebuilt Pierrefonds, the château which furnished the Empress with a travelling name which she continues to use. The Empress admired the eighteenth century, the perfumed histories (as Bouchot terms them) of Trianon or Versailles, and had a predilection for panniers, à la Belle Fermière. Hence her passion for a rural life, her love of Nature, the woods, and the fields. For the satisfaction of this craving Fontainebleau was an ideal spot—superior to Compiègne; there she could revel in royal chronicles and stories of “gallant” Courts. Fontainebleau had the dual qualities of Versailles and Trianon. There the Empress—never without her hours of melancholy—could be solitary or gay. There she was happiest.
But Fontainebleau had to be made to breathe of power—all must be luxurious—so that the Tuileries might be relegated almost to the back of the stage. All this was not to be done in a month. Even in 1860—five years after the marriage—the work was only beginning to be complete. The Sovereigns spent a week or two at Fontainebleau, and gave some visitor, like the Grand Duke Constantine, an opportunity of assisting at a hunt and a curée; but by degrees the Empress’s longing for an annual stay there was satisfied. It was there more than anywhere else that she could remain undisturbed and uninterfered with in her own room, or walk or drive out as she wished, free from all “obligations.”
Upon the arrival of the Sovereigns at their summer residence, which for splendour was not surpassed by the most fastidious of their defunct predecessors, the place was all movement from daylight. The guard was in grande tenue. Officers swarmed in the courts. From their windows peered excitedly pretty women in light toilettes. Then bugles blew, drums rolled, and cannon thundered until the walls trembled. All this meant that the imperial train was at the station. The Emperor alighted from the waggon-salon (which was surmounted by an eagle with outspread wings), and gave his hand to the Empress. Their Majesties entered their daumont, preceded by Cent-Gardes, and followed by other carriages. It was a rush to the Palace. In front of the “Adieux” steps the daumont stopped, and the officers of the household greeted the Emperor and Empress, who had for each person a word and a smile. At the top of the steps they turned, saluted à la ronde, and crossed the threshold amidst cheers.
Fontainebleau signified Liberty Hall—and not only to the Empress. How different to the Tuileries, where the walls heard and saw everything! The men of the Military Household were as light-hearted and as full of fun as schoolboys on a half-holiday. The ladies told their little stories, of much the same pattern as those told by the courtiers of the Valois or of Louis XIV.
The keynote of the life here was struck at one of the first of these villégiatures. At the Emperor’s request, M. Albéric Second wrote a humorous trifle—it was called a “saynète”—for the “Théâtre Impérial, Fontainebleau.” And the Duc de Morny “scored” with a witty impromptu in his best style, he himself taking one of the two parts. In this bagatelle the audience saw a sedate provincial, come to Paris with the laudable object of talking seriously to the Emperor on State affairs, to the Empress about her charitable works, and to M. de Morny about his able diplomacy. “How you must have bored all three!” said the “compère” (De Morny). “You don’t seem to know much about the ways of these people. The next time you come to Paris on such an important errand I advise you to talk to the Emperor about his ‘Vie de César,’ to the Empress about her crinolines, and to M. de Morny about his marvellous talent as a playwright!”