Among the foreigners of distinction received at the Imperial Court in 1861-62 were the members of some leading Mexican families, who found in Paris a haven of refuge. The Empress, as a Spaniard, welcomed these visitors and condoled with them when the intended expedition was no longer a secret. They saw in her the liberator of their country. In the minds of the Sovereigns there was already the germ of an idea of offering Austria, in revenge for the loss of her Italian possessions, an Empire for one of her Archdukes.
Very reserved at the outset concerning an eventuality flattering to the House of Austria, but which might result in illusions, the Prince de Metternich studied the question during a visit to Vienna and discussed it with his Emperor, who appeared to be not unfavourable to the plans of Napoleon III. Metternich wrote to the Empress Eugénie expressing his enthusiasm for her personally, and on his return to France co-operated zealously in an expedition for which some have asserted the Empress was wholly responsible.
From the year in which she first appeared in Paris as the wife of the Austrian Ambassador, Mme. de Metternich aroused criticism. “She gave us the impression,” says M. de Lano, “of one who had set herself the task of publicly discrediting the imperial Court by her eccentricities, her lightness, and the equivocal style of dress which she made fashionable at the Tuileries. Her influence had not a favourable effect on the destinies and the undertakings of Napoleon III. and his consort; and if this were the place to inquire into the sincerity of the sentiments professed by the Prince and Princess for the Emperor and Empress, one might be disposed to ask if the Ambassador and his wife did not from the first enact a comedy—the comedy of friendship—the better to aid in the downfall of a man whom, au fond, they could not love.”
Irreproachable as a wife, the Princess brought “trouble, and almost indecency,” to the Court of the Tuileries. The Empress saw only with the Princess’s eyes, and heard only with that lady’s ears. The Court ought to have been able to reply to the raillery of foreign Courts by an absolute correctness; but the Princess made the Tuileries a sort of school-boy’s playground. Mme. de Metternich took lessons of the café-concert singer, Thérèsa,[70] took her to the Tuileries, and gave “imitations” of her at the Palace, to the dismay of some, whom these displays saddened, and to the amusement of not a few feather-headed folk. Entirely owing to the influence of the Princess, Thérèsa was made acceptable to—at all events, was accepted by—some of the aristocrats of the old Faubourg, and one night, at a ball given by the Duchesse de Galliera, the Princess presented her café-concert friend to the Duchess’s guests, who waxed indignant.
As Thérèsa came forward to sing, a young lady, Mlle. de L——, rose, and, going up to the Duc d’H——, a very witty man, said: “Do you think, Monsieur le Duc, that the moment has come when a young girl should retire?” He smiled, and, pointing to Mgr. Chigi (the Papal Nuncio), who did not withdraw at the appearance of the comic singer, said: “Why should you retire, mademoiselle? Where the Nuncio is to be seen, I suppose a young lady is in no danger!”
When the incident was reported to Mme. de Metternich, she said: “Ah! these old heads upon young shoulders! It seems that I have rather upset them!” She not only coped with the suggestive “cancan,” but one evening, in a charade, appeared as, and in the dress of, a cabman.
M. de Lano affirms that “these incohérences, these insane manifestations of a decadent society, pleased the Empress, who encouraged and authorized them with the unconsciousness of a pretty woman, intoxicated by unforeseen happiness and her unhoped-for royalty.” The intimacy with the Empress, resulting from Mme. de Metternich’s “originality”—which perhaps was studied and calculating—doubtless made her the clever collaboratrice of her husband in his ambassadorial labours, enabling her, it was said, to snatch precious secrets from one[71] who regarded her as a devoted friend. “This, apparently, is the explanation of those checks so often sustained by the Emperor and his Ministers in their negotiations with foreign diplomatists.”
Enemies abroad, intriguing ladies at the imperial palaces, an Emperor “using himself up” by his indiscriminate “affairs,” an unsuspecting and too-good-natured Empress—what were all these but precursors of ultimate dynastic ruin?
It was the Princesse de Metternich who, after the Empress had been singing the praises of Marie Antoinette, said: “Je voudrais bien être votre Princesse de Lamballe”—a doubtful compliment, if all that has been recorded of that lady can be believed.
Princesse Pauline de Metternich is[72] the daughter of Comte Sandor, a Hungarian grand seigneur, and granddaughter of the celebrated President of the Congress of Vienna. In the sixties she was as much a Parisienne as a grande dame, and she had the courage of her opinions. Needless to say, she was severely criticized. She had her own method of answering her assailants, one of whom she sought out and thus addressed: “Sir, in what you have publicly printed about me you have absolutely lied, for you know that I am incapable of acting in the manner you have described.”