On the 2d of December the coronation took place. It would be difficult to describe its splendor or to enter into the details of that day. The weather was cold, but dry and bright; the streets of Paris were crowded with people more curious than enthusiastic; the guard under arms presented a fine spectacle.
The Pope preceded the Emperor by several hours, and waited with admirable patience for the long-delayed arrival of the procession. He sat upon the throne erected for him in the church, and made no complaint either of cold or weariness. The Cathedral of Notre Dame was decorated with taste and magnificence. At the far end was a splendid throne for the Emperor, on which he was to appear surrounded by his entire Court. Before setting out for Notre Dame, we were admitted to the apartment of the Empress. Our attire was very brilliant, but it paled before the magnificence of the costumes of the Imperial family. The Empress especially, sparkling with diamonds, and wearing her hair in countless curls, a style of the time of Louis XVI., did not look more than twenty-five.[[2]] She wore a white satin gown, and a Court mantle of the same material, both profusely embroidered in mingled gold and silver. Her ornaments consisted of a diadem, a necklace, earrings, and a girdle of diamonds of immense value; and all this gorgeous attire was worn with her customary easy grace. Her sisters-in-law were also adorned with a vast quantity of jewels. The Emperor inspected each of us in our turn, smiling at this luxury, which was, like all the rest, a sudden creation of his sovereign will.
His own costume was brilliant. He was to assume the Imperial robes at Notre Dame, but for the present he wore a French coat of red velvet embroidered in gold, a white sash, a short cloak sewn with bees, a plumed hat turned up in front with a diamond buckle, and the collar of the Legion of Honor in diamonds.
This superb dress became him well. The whole Court wore velvet cloaks embroidered in gold. It must be acknowledged that we paraded ourselves a little for our mutual amusement; but the spectacle was really beautiful.
The Emperor got into his carriage—it had seven glasses, and was gorgeously gilded—with his wife and his two brothers, Joseph and Louis. Then we all took our appointed places in the carriages which were to follow, and the splendid cortège proceeded at a foot-pace to Notre Dame. There was no lack of shouting on our way; and, although the acclamations of the people had not that ring of enthusiasm which a sovereign jealous of his people’s love longs to recognize, they sufficed to gratify the vanity of a haughty master, but one who was not sensitive.
On his arrival at Notre Dame, the Emperor entered the archiepiscopal palace, and there assumed his robes of state. They seemed almost to crush him; his slight frame collapsed under the enormous mantle of ermine. A simple laurel-wreath encircled his head; he looked like an antique medallion, but he was extremely pale, and genuinely affected. The expression of his countenance was stern and somewhat distressed.
The ceremony was grand and impressive. A general movement of admiration was noticeable at the moment when the Empress was crowned. She was so unaffected, so graceful, as she advanced toward the altar, she knelt down with such simple elegance, that all eyes were delighted with the picture she presented. When she had to walk from the altar to the throne, there was a slight altercation with her sisters-in-law, who carried her mantle with such an ill grace that I observed at one moment the new-made Empress could not advance a step. The Emperor perceived this, and spoke a few sharp short words to his sisters, which speedily brought them to reason.
During the ceremony, the Pope bore an air of resignation of a noble sort, the result of his own will, and for a purpose of great utility. It was between two and three o’clock when the cortège left Notre Dame, and we did not reach the Tuileries until the short December day had closed in. We were lighted by the general illuminations, and a number of torches were carried along the line of vehicles. We dined at the château, with the Grand Marshal, and after dinner the Emperor received all the members of the Court who had not yet retired. He was in high spirits, and delighted with the ceremony; he admired us all, jested about the effect of finery on women, and said to us, laughingly, “You owe it to me, mesdames, that you are so charming!” He had not allowed the Empress to take off her crown, although she had dined tête-à-tête with him, and he complimented her on the grace with which she wore it. At length he dismissed us.
Innumerable fêtes and rejoicings took place during the ensuing month. On the 5th of December the Emperor went to the Champ de Mars with the same state as on the coronation day, and distributed eagles to a number of regiments. The enthusiasm of the soldiers far surpassed that of the people; but the bad weather spoiled the effect of this second great day. It rained in torrents, but nevertheless an immense multitude thronged the Champ de Mars. M. Maret devoted the following flowery passage in the “Moniteur” to the rain of the 5th of December: “Although the situation of the spectators was distressing, there was not one among them who did not find ample compensation in the sentiment which induced him to remain in his place, and in the utterance of aspirations (vœux), to which his acclamations bore testimony.”
A common and absurd form of flattery, and one which has been resorted to in every age, is the making believe that, because a king has need of sunshine, he can secure its presence. I remember when it was a current saying at the Tuileries that the Emperor had only to fix a certain day for a review or a hunting-party, and the sky could not fail to be cloudless. Whenever it was so, the fact was eagerly remarked; but nothing was said about the days that were dull or rainy. A similar device was adopted in the time of Louis XIV. It was not, indeed, possible to say that it did not rain during the distribution of the eagles at the Champ de Mars, but I met many people who gravely assured me that the rain did not wet them.