When professional actors and actresses appeared at Compiègne, the great salle de spectacle was more than usually crowded, for on these occasions the audience was composed, not only of the Sovereigns’ guests, but of the officers of the garrison and many of the principal residents. The comédies de salon were represented in a gallery on the ground-floor of the Palace, where a temporary stage—technically known as a “fit-up”—was erected. These amateur performances were given for the exclusive benefit of the imperial couple’s guests, the “house-party.” On evenings when there was no acting there were “games” of various kinds, some of them very similar to those provided for children’s gatherings; or there was an informal dance, to the strains of a piano-organ, “played” by the guests in turn, and sometimes by the Emperor himself.
It was in the little theatre on the ground-floor of the château that Octave Feuillet’s piece, “Les Portraits de la Marquise,” was originally produced. This was an event, for the Empress played the principal part, which was “specially written” for her. Here, too, was given M. Legouvé’s spirituelle charade, the word being “anniversaire,” and the occasion the Festival of Ste. Eugénie (November 15).
In the autumn of 1865 (says the Marquis de Massa[66]) the little private theatre of the Palace of Compiègne was placed at my disposal for the production of a revue de circonstance, the principal scenes and the “cast” (comprising thirty characters!) having been approved of by the Empress after she had suggested a few alterations. The first volume of the Emperor’s work, “Les Commentaires de César,” had just been published, and this was the title of my revue. Of the ladies who appeared in the piece, the “star” was the Princesse de Metternich, with such charming satellites as the Comtesse Edmond de Pourtalès, the Marquise de Galliffet, the Baronne de Poïlly, and Mme. Bartholoni.[67] Baron Lambert (then “Lieutenant” of the Imperial Hunt) was the compère [the stage butt], Edmond Davilliers the manager, and Viollet-le-Duc [the eminent architect and antiquarian] the prompter. The “orchestra” was a piano, played by Prince de Metternich, who as an amateur accompanist was unexcelled. The dresses were designed by Marcelin and by Émile Perrin, director of the Opéra.
The prologue was a very simple one. The compère—a worthy tradesman arriving in Paris to witness an assault-at-arms on the Champ-de-Mars—was surprised to hear that the event was in honour of Julius Cæsar, who, having been recently exhumed, was going to review our modern legions and our centurions. As, however, the Roman General did not make his appearance, the military review was transformed into a theatrical revue, in which the events of the year were treated, with comments by the compère.
The scenes of actualité in the first act included a parody of a kicking mule, performing every evening at the Champs Elysées circus, the person who succeeded in mounting the animal receiving 100 francs. The requisite accessories had been lent to me by Jules Noriac, director of the Variétés, and the mule was represented by two of the Prince Imperial’s young friends, Conneau and Pierre de Bourgoing, who ensconced themselves in the cardboard carcass, one in front, the other behind. As they found it difficult to see where they were going, Lambert, at the first rehearsals, was obliged to raise the animal’s tail, and give them instructions by this most curious telephone. Princesse de Metternich took several characters, her best being the one called “La Chanson,” containing some verses having a direct reference to the Empress, and alluding to her presence at the bedsides of the victims of the cholera epidemic at Amiens.
A recent cordial meeting of the French and English squadrons at Plymouth formed the subject of an allegorical scene in the second act. England was represented by Mme. Bartholoni, Imperial France by Mme. Edmond de Pourtalès. The first was accompanied by an old sailor and a soldier in scarlet uniform; the second by one of the corps of the “invalides,” wearing the St. Helena medal, and a young soldier of the 90th Foot Regiment, who had been in the fighting at the taking of Puebla. In this scene the Prince Imperial appeared, in a grenadier’s uniform, as the “Future” (l’Avenir).
“Les Commentaires de César” was so successful that it was performed the next night, when the Emperor complimented me, and gave me a copy of his book, inscribed “Souvenir du Commentateur de ‘César’ au commentateur de ‘César.’” The Emperor added: “But you must not let your profession of dramatic author interfere with your military duties.” “Heaven forbid, Sire,” I replied; and I proffered a request to be sent to Mexico (where war was then raging). “Well,” said His Majesty, “I will think over it.” A few days later my request was granted.
“Some may perhaps consider,” said the Marquis, “that I have availed myself of ‘reportage,’ sprinkled with water blessed by the Court, but ‘holy water’ sprinkled sorrowfully over cinders, for what remains to-day to represent that Court of the Tuileries which was so splendid? Only some disinterested partisans, who, without conspiring, sometimes cross the frontier to salute the noble heir of the name of Napoleon. And elsewhere Pietri, the faithful and devoted secretary, and the Duchesse de Mouchy, a weeping niece—two waifs, tending with pious care, forty years after the shipwreck, an august widow, sacred by misfortune, after having worn a crown, and standing on the shore—a foreign shore—guarding two tombs.”
At Compiègne, in the autumn of 1861, the talk was mainly of Mexico and its proposed Emperor. This “Idée Napoléonienne” was quite outside the intentions of the three Powers (France, England, and Spain) as expressed in the Convention signed on October 31, 1861, and the Emperor’s idea was not suspected by the guests then at Compiègne. Among them were some of the Portuguese Princes. Consternation fell upon the Court when, in the midst of the festivities, news arrived, first of the sudden death of the Infant Don Fernando, then of the young King of Portugal, Dom Pedro V. The convenances had to be observed; there was an end of the programme of entertainments arranged for that particular “series.”
After the regulation period of the Court “mourning” for the Infant and the King (poisoning had been darkly hinted at), fêtes were organized for the next batch of guests and the following “séries,” and mingling with Princes of the Blood were many intellectual lights—Octave Feuillet and Prosper Mérimée (both quite at home at the château), Gounod and Meissonier, Camille Doucet and Paul de Musset (brother of Alfred, the poet), Jules Sandeau and Cabanel (the renowned painter). The Empress was in exceptionally high spirits, for she was aware of her consort’s secret views concerning Mexico, and rejoiced at the coming struggle. Had not her beloved Spain been grossly insulted and its Ambassador expelled? Had not Juarez disregarded treaties and shown contempt for the two Vice-Consuls of France? The expedition would be at once an avenging and a civilizing army, which would make a country in which the flag of Castille had long floated respect order and the Catholic faith. Vain dreams!