That year, '56-'57, was a very important time in my life in many ways. I received an invitation to a ball at the Tuileries, engraved in the usual style, on a card a foot square, and bearing the enormous seal of the Second Empire. For the first time in my life I appeared in borrowed plumes. I hired what I call a "flunkey" suit, and paid forty-five francs for it. In this I was presented. It was not a civil nor a military suit, but a sort of mongrel affair, that served me as a court costume. Of course, my wife appeared in proper evening dress. There were four thousand persons present, the highest in the society of Paris, military and civil—ambassadors in their regalia, regimental officers in their different uniforms, and the aristocracy in their robes. There were also Algerian officers. Although the Tuileries was very large, the four thousand guests found themselves in much crowded rooms.
During this reception and ball I suddenly felt some cold substance going down my back. Putting my hand to my neck, I found there a cupful of ice-cream that an Algerian officer had dropped, with the usual "Pardon, monsieur." I assured him it was all right, but the ice-cream gave me a decidedly boreal feeling.
The ball was in the usual court style, and I shall not undertake to describe it. After some time had passed, all at once there was silence, instead of the terrible hum. It was the presage of something important, I felt sure. The wax candles in the chandeliers burned brilliantly, and we were all on the qui vive to know what was coming. Looking toward the great folding doors at the end of the hall, a lady appeared. It was the age of crinoline, and she must have had a circumference of eight feet. She was the Emperor's favorite, the Countess Castiglione. The sensation she made was tremendous.
I should mention that before this happened I had been presented to the Empress. We were all ranged in diplomatic order for presentation, and when it came my turn she seemed particularly courteous, saying in English to me: "You speak French very fluently." To this I replied: "When I am able to speak French, your Majesty, as well as you speak English, I shall be willing to trust myself in that language. In the meanwhile let me ask you to talk as you prefer." All those presented seemed surprised to see me talking with the Empress, as it was, I believe, unusual for a foreigner and a newcomer to be thus honored. She was very gracious, and made me feel as much at home as if I had been in my own family. The introduction of the crinoline had been made by the Empress before the birth of the Prince Imperial. Anti-Imperialists had been busy gossiping about the coming event, and intimated that it was impossible the Emperor could become the father of a child.
After the Countess Castiglione appeared in such dare-devil fashion, in the presence of the whole court, the Empress appeared in much different mood. The next day she went to England, and became the guest of the Queen for three weeks.
The Italian war was then going on, and I was desirous of mastering the Italian language, in order to carry out certain contracts I had made with the Emperor. McHenry was my partner, and I had written to him that the Emperor wanted a half dozen steamers immediately. The French needed the boats for the transport of provisions. McHenry was in London, and in my letter I told him there was no doubt that the war would eventually be won by France and Italy. This was just after the great battles of Magenta and Solferino. He sent me back this despatch: "La paix est signé." You can imagine my surprise. It shows that the most careful of men sometimes make mistakes.
Mr. Seward, afterward Secretary of State, was in Paris in '56-'57, and I showed him as much of Paris as I dared. There were certain places to which I did not feel authorized to take him, but I managed to make him see a great deal of Paris that would have been sealed to him had he undertaken to go about this microcosmic city without a guide.
Mr. Seward astonished me very much one day by a remark showing his detachment from the great world of European thought and power. I said to him: "Mr. Seward, how would you like to see M. Lamartine?" "Which Lamartine?" he coolly asked, as if there could be more than one. "Why, Alphonse de Lamartine," said I. "There is only one Lamartine in France or in the world." He asked if I knew him. I replied that Lamartine gave receptions twice a week, and that I had attended them during the winter. As there was a reception that day, I asked Mr. Seward if he cared to go. He very gladly accepted the invitation, and we went together.
Lamartine, it will be remembered, married an English lady, a most charming, lovely woman; but he had never learned to speak English. He was like Hugo in this respect, and thought it was not worth while to struggle through the intricacies and difficulties of the spelling and pronunciation. But Madame Lamartine spoke French very fluently and accurately.
I have observed as an invariable rule, from one end of the world to the other, that if one person addresses another in a language the second person does not understand, the talker thinks he can make himself understood by simply bawling out his sentences like a town-crier. Mr. Seward was no exception to this common frailty among mankind. When he saw that Lamartine did not understand his English, he placed his hand over his mouth, and shouted into M. Lamartine's ear. The great Frenchman smiled at each discharge, but could not reply. At last I said, "Mr. Seward, M. Lamartine is not deaf, but he does not understand English. If you will permit either Madame Lamartine or myself to interpret for you, there will be no difficulty." Mr. Seward continued to shout for some time, but finally broke down. Madame Lamartine and I then translated his remarks to Lamartine. After this we got along finely, and a most delightful conversation followed between the two men.