Hohenlohe was always pleasant and easy. I think he had a real sympathy for France and did his best on various delicate occasions. The year of the exposition (1878) we dined out every night and almost always with the same people. Hohenlohe often fell to me. He took me in to dinner ten times in succession. The eleventh time we were each of us in despair as we filed out together, so I said to him: "Don't let us even pretend to talk; you can talk to your other neighbour and I will to mine." However, we did talk chiffons, curiously enough. I had waited for a dress, which only came home at the last moment, and when I put it on the corsage was so tight I could hardly bear it. It was too late to change, and I had nothing else ready, so most uncomfortable I started for my dinner. I didn't dare to eat anything, hardly dared move, which Hohenlohe remarked, after seeing three or four dishes pass me untouched, and said to me: "I am afraid you are ill; you are eating nothing." "No, not at all, only very uncomfortable"—and then I explained the situation to him—that my dress was so tight I could neither move nor eat. He was most indignant—"How could women be so foolish—why did we want to have abnormally small waists and be slaves to our dressmakers?—men didn't like made-up figures." "Oh, yes, they do; all men admire a slight, graceful figure." "Yes, when it is natural, but no man understands nor cares about a fashionably dressed woman—women dress for each other" (which is perfectly true).
[Illustration: Prince Hohenlohe. After the painting by F.E. Laszlo.]
However, he was destined to see other ladies very careful about their figures. The late Empress of Austria, who was a fine rider, spent some time one spring in Paris, and rode every morning in the Bois. She was very handsome, with a beautiful figure, had handsome horses and attracted great attention. Prince Hohenlohe often rode with her. I was riding with a friend one morning when we saw handsome horses waiting at the mounting-block, just inside the gates. We divined they were the Empress's horses and waited to see her mount. She arrived in a coupé, her maid with her, and mounted her horse from the block. The body of her habit was open. When she was settled in her saddle, the maid stepped up on the block and buttoned her habit, which I must say fitted beautifully—as if she were melted into it.
The official receptions were interesting that year, as one still saw a few costumes. The Chinese, Japanese, Persians, Greeks, and Roumanians wore their national dress—and much better they look in them than in the ordinary dress coat and white tie of our men. The Greek dress was very striking, a full white skirt with high embroidered belt, but it was only becoming when the wearer was young, with a good figure. I remember a pretty Roumanian woman with a white veil spangled with gold, most effective. Now every one wears the ordinary European dress except the Chinese, who still keep their costume. One could hardly imagine a Chinese in a frock coat and tall hat. What would he do with his pigtail?
The entertainments went on pretty well that year until August, almost all the embassies and ministries receiving. Queen Isabella of Spain was then living in the big house in the Avenue Kléber, called the "Palais d'Espagne" (now the Hotel Majestic). We used to meet her often driving in the Bois. She was a big, stout, rather red-faced woman, didn't make much effect in a carriage in ordinary street dress, but in her palace, when she received or gave an audience, she was a very royal lady. I asked for an audience soon after W. was named to the Foreign Office. We knew one of her chamberlains very well, Duc de M., and he arranged it for me. I arrived at the palace on the appointed day a little before four (the audience was for four). The big gates were open, a tall porter dressed in red and gold lace and buttons, and a staff in his hand, was waiting—two or three men in black, and four or five footmen in red liveries and powder, at the door and in the hall. I was shown at once to a small room on the ground floor, where four or five ladies, all Spanish and all fat, were waiting. In a few minutes the duke appeared. We talked a little (he looking at me to see if I had taken off my veil and my right-hand glove) and then a man in black appeared at the door, making a low bow and saying something in Spanish. The duke said would I come, Her Majesty was ready to receive me. We passed through several salons where there were footmen and pages (no ladies) until we came to a very large one quite at the other end of the palace. The big doors were open, and at the far end I saw the Queen standing, a stately figure (enormous), dressed in a long black velvet dress, a high diamond tiara on her head, from which hung a black lace veil, a fan in her hand (I suppose no Spanish woman of any station ever parts with her fan) and a splendid string of pearls. I made my curtsey on the threshold, the chamberlain named me with the usual formula: "I have the honour to present to Your Majesty, Madame Waddington, the wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs," then backed himself out of the room, and I proceeded down the long room to the Queen. She didn't move, let me make my two curtseys, one in the middle of the room, one when I came close up to her—and then shook hands. We remained standing a few minutes and then she sat down on a sofa (not a very small one) which she quite filled, and motioned me to take an armchair on one side. She was very amiable, had a charming smile, spoke French very well but with a strong Spanish accent. She said she was very glad to see my husband at the Foreign Office, and hoped he would stay long enough to do some real work—said she was very fond of France, loved driving in the streets of Paris, there was always so much to see and the people looked gay. She was very fond of the theatres, particularly the smaller ones, liked the real Parisian wit and gaiety better than the measured phrase and trained diction of the Français and the Odéon. She spoke most warmly of Marshal MacMahon, hoped that he would remain President of the Republic as long as the Republicans would let him, was afraid they would make his position impossible—but that the younger generation always wanted reforms and changes. I said I thought that was the way of the world everywhere, in families as well as nations—children could not be expected to see with the eyes of their parents. Then we talked about the exposition—she said the Spanish show was very good—told me to look at the tapestries and embroideries, which were quite wonderful—gold and silver threads worked in with the tapestries. The interview was pleasant and easy. When I took leave, she let me back down the whole length of the room, not half turning away as so many princesses do after the first few steps, so as to curtail that very inconvenient exit. However, a day dress is never so long and cumbersome as an evening dress with a train.
The chamberlain was waiting just outside the door, also two ladies in waiting, just as fat as the Queen. Certainly the mise en scène was very effective. The number of servants in red liveries, the solitary standing figure at the end of the long enfilade of rooms, the high diamond comb and long veil, quite transformed the very stout, red-faced lady whom I used to meet often walking in the Bois.
We dined once or twice at the palace, always a very handsome dinner. One for the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon was beautifully done—all the footmen, dozens, in gala liveries, red and yellow, the maître d'hôtel in very dark blue with gold epaulettes and aiguillettes. The table was covered with red and yellow flowers and splendid gold plate, and a very good orchestra of guitars and mandolins played all through dinner, the musicians singing sometimes when they played a popular song. We were all assembled in one of the large rooms waiting for the Queen to appear. As soon as the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon were announced, she came in, meeting them at the door, making a circle afterward, and shaking hands with all the ladies.
Lord Lyons gave a beautiful ball at the embassy that season. The hotel of the British embassy is one of the best in Paris—fine reception-rooms opening on a very large garden, and a large courtyard and side exit—so there was no confusion of carriages. He had need of all his room—Paris was crowded with English. Besides all the exposition people, there were many tourists and well-known English people, all expecting to be entertained at the embassy. All the world was there. The Prince and Princess of Wales, the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon, the Orléans princes, Princesse Mathilde, the Faubourg St. Germain, the Government, and as many foreigners as the house could hold, as he invited a great many people, once his obligations, English and official, were satisfied. It was only at an embassy that such a gathering could take place, and it was amusing to see the people of all the different camps looking at each other.
There was a supper up-stairs for all the royalties before the cotillion. I was told that the Duc d'Aumale would take me to supper. I was very pleased (as we knew him very well and he was always charming to us) but much surprised, as the Orléans princes never remained for supper at any big official function. There would have been questions of place and precedence which would have been very difficult to settle. When the move was made for supper, things had to be changed, as the Orléans princes had gone home. The Crown Prince of Denmark took me. The supper-room was prettily arranged, two round tables—Lord Lyons with the Princesses of Wales and Denmark presiding at one—his niece, the Duchesse of Norfolk, at the other, with the Princes of Wales and Denmark. I sat between the Princes of Denmark and Sweden. Opposite me, next the Prince of Wales, sat a lady I didn't know. Every one else at the table did. She was very attractive-looking, with a charming smile and most animated manner. I asked the Prince of Denmark in a low voice, who she was—thought it must be one of the foreign princesses I hadn't yet met. The Prince of Wales heard my question, and immediately, with his charming tact and ease of manner, said to me: "You don't know the Princesse Mathilde; do let me have the pleasure of presenting you to her," naming me at once—in my official capacity, "wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs." The princess was very gracious and smiling, and we talked about all sorts of things—some of her musical protégées, who were also mine. She asked me if I liked living at the ministry, Quai d'Orsay; she remembered it as such a beautiful house. When the party broke up, she shook hands, said she had not the pleasure of knowing M. Waddington, but would I thank him from her for what he had done for one of her friends. I tried to find W. after supper to present him to the princess, but he had already gone, didn't stay for the cotillion—the princess, too, went away immediately after supper. I met her once or twice afterward. She was always friendly, and we had little talks together. Her salon—she received once a week—was quite a centre—all the Bonapartists of course, the diplomatic corps, many strangers, and all the celebrities in literature and art.
With that exception I never saw nor talked with any member of that family until I had been some years a widow, when the Empress Eugénie received me on her yacht at Cowes. When the news came of the awful tragedy of the Prince Imperial's death in Zululand, W. was Foreign Minister, and he had invited a large party, with music. W. instantly put off the party, said there was no question of politics or a Bonapartist prince—it was a Frenchman killed, fighting bravely in a foreign country. I always thought the Empress knew about it and appreciated his act, for during his embassy in London, though we never saw her, she constantly sent him word through mutual friends of little negotiations she knew about and thought might interest him, and always spoke very well of him as a "clear-headed, patriotic statesman." I should have liked to have seen her in her prime, when she must have been extraordinarily beautiful and graceful. When I did see her she was no longer young, but a stately, impressive figure, and had still the beautiful brow one sees in all her pictures. One of our friends, a very clever woman and great anti-Bonapartist, told us an amusing story of her little son. The child was sometimes in the drawing-room when his mother was receiving, and heard her and all her friends inveighing against the iniquities of the Imperial Court and the frivolity of the Empress. He saw the Empress walking one day in the Bois de Boulogne. She was attracted by the group of children, stopped and talked to them. The boy was delighted and said to his governess: "Elle est bien jolie, l'Impératrice, mais il ne faut pas le dire à Maman." (The Empress is very pretty, but one must not say it to mother.)