One day I had several ladies whom I didn't know at all, wives of deputies, or small functionaries at some of the ministries. One of my friends, Comtesse de B., was starting for Italy and Rome for the first time. She had come to ask me all sorts of questions about clothes, hotels, people to see, etc. When she went away in a whirl of preparations and addresses, I turned to one of my neighbours, saying: "Je crois qu'on est très bien à l'Hôtel de Londres à Rome," quite an insignificant and inoffensive remark—merely to say something. She replied haughtily: "Je n'en sais rien, Madame; je n'ai jamais quitté Paris et je m'en vante." I was so astonished that I had nothing to say, but was afterward sorry that I had not continued the conversation and asked her why she was so especially proud of never having left Paris. Travelling is usually supposed to enlarge one's ideas. Her answer might have been interesting. W. wouldn't believe it when I told him, but I said I couldn't really have invented it. I used to go into his cabinet at the end of the day always, when he was alone with Pontécoulant, and tell them all my experiences which W. forbid me to mention anywhere else. I had a good many surprises, but soon learned never to be astonished and to take everything as a matter of course.
The great interest of the summer was the Exposition Universelle which was to take place at the Trocadéro, the new building which had been built on the Champ de Mars. The opening was announced for the 1st of May and was to be performed with great pomp by the marshal. All Europe was represented except Germany, and almost all the great powers were sending princes to represent their country. We went often to see how the works were getting on, and I must say it didn't look as if it could possibly be ready for the 1st of May. There were armies of workmen in every direction and carts and camions loaded with cases making their way with difficulty through the mud. Occasionally a light case or bale would fall off, and quantities of small boys who seemed always on the spot would precipitate themselves, tumbling over each other to pick up what fell, and there would be protestations and explanations in every language under the sun. It was a motley, picturesque crowd—the costumes and uniforms making so much colour in the midst of the very ordinary dark clothes the civilised Western world affects. I felt sorry for the Orientals and people from milder climes—they looked so miserably cold and wretched shivering under the very fresh April breezes that swept over the great plain of the Champ de Mars. The machines, particularly the American ones, attracted great attention. There was always a crowd waiting when some of the large pieces were swung down into their places by enormous pulleys.
The opening ceremony was very brilliant. Happily it was a beautiful warm day, as all the guests invited by the marshal and the Government were seated on a platform outside the Trocadéro building. All the diplomatic corps, foreign royalties, and commissioners of the different nations who were taking part in the exposition were invited. The view was lovely as we looked down from our seats. The great enclosure was packed with people. All the pavilions looked very gay with bright-coloured walls and turrets, and there were flags, palms, flowers, and fountains everywhere—the Seine running through the middle with fanciful bridges and boats. There was a curious collection of people in the tribunes. The invitations had not been very easy to make. There were three Spanish sovereigns, Queen Isabella, her husband, Don François d'Assizes, and the Duc d'Aosta (King Amadée), who had reigned a few stormy months in Spain. He had come to represent Italy at the exposition. The marshal was rather preoccupied with his Spanish royalties. He had a reception in the evening, to which all were invited, and thought it would be wise to take certain precautions, so he sent one of his aides-de-camp to Queen Isabella to say that he hoped to have the honour of seeing her in the evening at the Elysée, but he thought it right to tell her that she might perhaps have some disagreeable meetings. She replied: "Si c'est mon mari de qui vous parlez, cela m'est tout à fait égal; si c'est le Duc d'Aosta, je serai ravie de le voir."
She came to the reception, but her husband was already gone. The Due d'Aosta was still there, and she walked straight up to him and kissed him on both cheeks, not an easy thing to do, for the duke was not at all the type of the gay lady's man—very much the reverse. He looked a soldier (like all the princes of the house of Savoy) and at the same time a monk. One could easily imagine him a crusader in plumed helmet and breastplate, supporting any privation or fatigue without a murmur. He was very shy (one saw it was an effort for him every time that any one was brought up to him and he had to make polite phrases), not in the least mondain, but simple, charming when one talked to him.
I saw him often afterward, as he represented his brother, King Humbert, on various official occasions when I too was present—the coronation of the Emperor Alexander of Russia, the Jubilee of Queen Victoria. He was always a striking figure, didn't look as if he belonged to our modern world at all. The marshal had a series of dinners and receptions which were most brilliant. There was almost always music or theatricals, with the best artists in Paris. The Comédie Française was much appreciated. Their style is so finished and sure. They played just as well at one end of a drawing-room, with a rampe of flowers only separating them from the public, as in their own theatre with all the help of scenery, acoustics, and distance. In a drawing-room naturally the audience is much nearer.
I remember one charming party at the Elysée for the Austrian crown prince, the unfortunate Archduke Rudolph. All the stars of the Théâtre Français were playing—Croizette, Reichemberg, Delaunay, Coquelin. The prince seemed to enjoy himself. He was very good-looking, with a slight, elegant figure and charming smile—didn't look like a man whose life would end so tragically. When I saw him some years later in London, he was changed, looked older, had lost his gaiety, was evidently bored with the official entertaining, and used to escape from all the dinners and receptions as soon as he could.
The late King Edward (then Prince of Wales) won golden opinions always. There was certainly something in his personality which had an enormous attraction for Parisians. He always seemed to enjoy life, never looked bored, was unfailingly courteous and interested in the people he was talking to. It was a joy to the French people to see him at some of the small theatres, amusing himself and understanding all the sous-entendus and argot quite as well as they did. It would almost seem as if what some one said were true, that he reminded them of their beloved Henri IV, who still lives in the heart of the nation.
His brother-in-law, the Prince of Denmark, was also most amiable. We met him often walking about the streets with one or two of his gentlemen, and looking in at the windows like an ordinary provincial. He was tall, with a slight, youthful figure, and was always recognised. It was a great satisfaction and pride to Parisians to have so many royalties and distinguished people among them again.
Those two months of May and June gave back to Paris the animation and gaiety of the last days of the Empire. There were many handsome carriages on the Champs-Elysées, filled with pretty, well-dressed women, and the opera and all the theatres were packed. Paris was illuminated the night of the opening of the exposition, the whole city, not merely the Champs-Elysées and boulevards. As we drove across the bridge on our way home from the reception at the Elysée, it was a beautiful sight—the streets full of people waiting to see the foreign royalties pass, and the view up and down the Seine, with the lights from the high buildings reflected in the water—like fairy-land.
[Illustration: His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales, in 1876.
From a photograph by Lock & Whitfield, London.]