As the squadron was to go into winter quarters at Toulon, and as the BELLE-POULE had to repair a great many damages, I went back to Paris towards the end of January, 1842, and plunged joyfully into that most precious of all possessions amidst the storms and vicissitudes of politics, my home life. This notwithstanding, the pleasures of the gay world, then a fairly brilliant one were by no means indifferent to me. There was a numerous succession of festivities. My brother, the Duc d'Orleans, gave a magnificent fancy ball in the Pavillon Marsan. All the elegant and artistic world of Paris was there, dressed either in historical costumes, faithfully copied from pictures in the museums, or else in fantastic garments which especially set off the beauty of their feminine wearers. Mesdames de Contades, de Murat, and Place had adopted Eastern dress. Madame Thiers wore a rich moyen age costume; Madame de Plaisance headed a whole quadrille of hunters and huntresses. The Comtesse Duhesme another, in which both gentlemen and ladies wore the charming costumes brought into fashion by Giraud's picture, La Permission de Dix Heures. The beautiful Madame Liadieres shone in a quadrille of light cavalry men of the time of Louis XV, and shepherdesses dressed a la Pompadour. The foreigners and members of the diplomatic body of both sexes were for the most part in dresses taken from their own national history. Among the artists, Eugene Sue, Henriquel-Dupont, Tony Johannot, and Louis Boulanger had chosen the style of Louis XIII. Eugene Delacroix wore a Moorish dress, Horace Vernet an Arab costume. Winterhalter represented a Florentine of the fourteenth century, while Amaury Duval, Jadin, Eugene Lamy, Gudin, Raffet, &c., &c., were all got up with the most studied correctness. When we went into supper the band of my brother Aumale's regiment, the 17th Light Infantry, transformed into a posse of Arab musicians, stationed on the staircase, played a whole series of Algerian airs, which the good fellows had learnt at Mouzala and Medeah, in the olive woods, or under the blaze of the sun and the heat of the Arab fire. The guests took their seats round a table on which was the famous centrepiece, executed after Chenavard's design, by Barye, Pradier, Klagman, Moine, my sister Marie, and by Ary Scheffer and Paul Delaroche as well, who laid aside their painters' brushes for the nonce, and wielded the sculptor's point. It was an admirable piece of work, worthy of Benvenuto Cellini, broken up, alas! cast to the four winds of heaven, and lost to France, after the revolution of February.
This fete was THE FETE of that winter. One of those unique and original entertainments the memory of which lingers with one for long. But there were others besides.
The King gave a series of concerts and large and small dances every winter. At these last only a very restricted number of guests assembled, chosen exclusively among the diplomatic body, the foreigners chancing to pass through Paris, and young dancing people, especially those young ladies who ranked high for elegance and beauty. People used to crowd, at these small dances, to watch the Princess de Ligne dancing the mazurka with her incomparable Polish grace; just as at the big balls, which were rather crushes, there would be a crowd, more curious than admiring, to watch the steps and capers of the Prince de Craon, the last remaining exponent of that pretentious school of dancing of which Trenis had been the leader, under the Directoire. These large crowded balls used to be a great bore, especially to us, who had to take it in turn to do the honours to the very end of the evening. Yet I recollect laughing heartily one evening, when this duty had fallen to me, at seeing an officer of the National Guard, in his cocked hat and big feather, whose vision had somewhat suffered from the supper he had just consumed, trying to insist on persuading the Suisse standing at the door of the ball-room with his cross belts and halbert, to be his partner in the dance. He made frenzied attempts to drag him away, and only interrupted them to try the seductive power of the most eccentric of dancing steps which he performed before him.
Nowadays the race known as the Grand Prix de Paris marks the close of what people are pleased to call the season. Under the July Monarchy it was the "Fete du Roi" with its firework display, and its official receptions, which were tiresome to the last degree. Revolutions may succeed each other, governments may change, but all the tiresome things go on for ever. Under the monarchy, the empire, or the republic alike, it is indispensable, so it would appear, that once in the year at least, the diplomatic body, clergy, Chambers, officers of the land and sea forces, and companies and corporations of every kind, should pass before the chief ruler, whoever he may be, and make a series of official speeches to him, expressing good wishes which are for the most part utterly lacking in sincerity, and which the unlucky recipient is obliged to acknowledge in every sort of commonplace formula. My father had quite a special talent for varying these answers of his, which he always extemporised. They were taken down in shorthand, and made over to Vatout to have a final polish put on them before being sent to the Moniteur. The witty academician abhorred this duty, which he irreverently styled "dressing the royal macaroni." For lay figures like myself, the only interest about these receptions, which were practically got up for effect, lay in watching the personages we saw pass. Two long-haired peers of France, who always were among the last of their Chamber to pass by, used to attract our attention particularly. They were Victor Hugo and Montalembert; then among the members of the Paris Municipal Council, Victor Considerant, too, used to be pointed out to us. Then there was a member of the Institute in a green coat and black breeches, whose advent we looked forward to with delight. This worthy gentleman used to come up with three or four deputations in succession. He would arrive with the first, bow, applaud enthusiastically after the address, and then, while his deputation was leaving by the door of exit, he was stepping backwards to the entrance door to reappear with a second and third party, coming forward each time with the same low bows and the same demonstrations of enthusiasm.
Among the general officers and diplomats out of active service who took part in these ceremonies, I used to remark two British admirals, Sir Sydney Smith and Lord Cochrane, who never failed to attend. They had each had a brilliant career. The first, with Djezzar Pasha, had defended St. Jean d'Acre against General Bonaparte's forces. The second, a tall, fine, bold-looking man, had covered himself with glory by the most gallant behaviour, both in Europe and Chili, where the tradition of his valour still survives. Both had done great service to their country, yet neither, it was said, could return to it. Wherefore?
The reception of the clergy had a quaintness all its own. The archbishop's discourse was invariably and utterly inaudible. Whether by accident, or by an unlucky coincidence, it was always drowned by the noise of the tremendous morning serenade given in the courtyard by the twelve or fifteen hundred drums of the National Guard and the Paris garrison, all beating in unison under the guidance of a single drum-major.
Finally, in the evening, we had the clou of the performance, the reception of the diplomatic body. There was a certain amount of pomp about it. The members of the corps assembled in a drawing-room near the Pavillon Marsan, where a collation was prepared. Thence the King's aides-de-camp went and fetched them, conducting them through all the galleries of the Tuileries to the Throne-room, near the Pavilion de Flore. When all these ambassadors and ministers, with their suites, appeared at the door of the Throne-room, in their varied uniforms, all glistening in the candle-light, and slowly moved towards the King, with three successive bows, the scenic effect was really superb. The only shadow on the picture was the Introducer of Ambassadors, who filled the part of master of the ceremonies. I never could make out why, for that very theatrical part, we had chosen a hideously ugly man with no nose! We ought to have had some fine handsome fellow to face those representatives of all the nations in the world. When once the speeches had been made, and the King and Queen had gone round the circle, the diplomatic body retired backwards with the same three bows as on entering, and passed out very slowly, for at the time of which I speak it was exceedingly numerous. Besides the ambassadors of the Great Powers there were family ambassadors. And then there were ministers from every country in the world, including those of the small German and Italian States, which have now been swallowed up in German and Italian unity. All these embassies and legations had innumerable attaches, generally young men of great families attracted by the gaieties of Paris, and glad to have a uniform and the right of admittance to all the entertainments at court, at the embassies, and in society in general. For in those days society did still exist, our divisions and revolutionary laws having not yet succeeded in destroying it.
Of all these diplomats, the most liked and the most likeable, beyond all contradiction, was the Austrian Ambassador, Count Apponyi, a magnificent Hungarian magnate. The long duration of his mission, his truly high-bred kindliness, and the salon which his wife, his winning daughter, his sons, and nephews had been clever enough to make the first in Paris, had combined to render Count Apponyi most congenial to us. His English, Russian, and Prussian colleagues confined themselves exclusively to their official {{Illustration to the right of the text above with no caption}} duties and to the coolest politeness. It would have been hard for Lord Cowley (a Wellesley), even had he desired it, to wipe out the memory of his predecessors, Lords Granville and Stuart de Rothesay, and above all of the charming daughters of the last-named peer—beautiful, lovable, and artistic—who became Lady Waterford and Lady Canning respectively. Among the ministers I still seem to see the form of Coletti, resplendent in his Greek costume—a true patriot and a devoted friend to France—and then there was the Swedish Minister, Comte de Loevenhielm, a charming old gentleman, who had been page-in-waiting on Gustavus III. the night he was murdered. The Spanish Ambassador changed with every pronunciamiento. I do not remember the name of any one of them.
As a novelty, we had a Turkish Ambassador. For centuries there had been none but temporary Ottoman missions. The first permanently appointed ambassador we had, before Namick and Reschid Pashas, who both spoke French very well, was Ahmed Fethi Pasha. He did not know a single word of our language. I was present at a great dinner in his honour at the Tuileries, and this is what took place. Of course he had been placed on my mother's right hand at table, with a Foreign Office interpreter, all gold lace and decorations, on his other side. As soon as dinner began, the pasha conceived it incumbent on him to address my mother with a fine Turkish compliment, which, judging by the way he turned up his eyes, and laid his hands on his heart, and the bows he made her, must have been adorned with every flower of Oriental poetry. When his speech was finished, the pasha turned to the interpreter for him to translate it to my mother, and this he proceeded to do, the pasha accompanying and accentuating his remarks with more bows and grimacing and pressure of his hands to his heart.
Now, behold the translation, which the dragoman, who no doubt had perused the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, delivered to the Queen. "Madam, I have a daughter whom I am very anxious to get into the Maison de St. Denis. To do that I need your Majesty's powerful support. Your Majesty will understand my seizing this unequalled chance of making my request."