France from Behind the Veil: Fifty Years of Social and Political Life

by Princess Catherine Radziwill

As to Prince Pierre, the cause of all this perturbation, he left France after his acquittal, settled in Brussels, and after the fall of the Empire married the mother of his children, and spent his life in comparative poverty until the marriage of his son Roland Bonaparte with the youngest daughter of the celebrated Blanc, of Monaco fame, which brought back financial prosperity to that branch of the family. He did not enjoy it long, because he died a few months later, and was followed very quickly to the grave by his young daughter-in-law. His widow, the washerwoman whose introduction into his family Napoleon III. had deeply resented, went on living with her son Roland, devoting herself to him and to his baby daughter. She never could learn what manners were, but she was kind-hearted in spite of her vulgarity, and did good in every way she could. Prince Roland, on his side, had the tact never to be ashamed of the humble origin of his mother, to surround her always with the greatest respect, and to treat her with the most tender affection. She did the honours of his house as well as she could, and unfortunately for her, died before the marriage of her granddaughter, the Princess Marie Bonaparte, with Prince George of Greece, an event which, had she only lived long enough to witness it, would have proved the supreme happiness of her life.

This digression has led me far away from M. Emile Ollivier. I had the opportunity to see him on the day following the acquittal of Prince Pierre Bonaparte, and was surprised to find him considerably irritated against M. Rouher, whom he accused of trying to influence the Emperor in a direction contrary to the resolutions which the Sovereign had taken in conjunction with Ollivier himself. He seemed as if he wanted to find someone on whom he might vent his anger at his own mistakes. A phrase which he uttered on that day, but to which I did not pay any attention at the moment, struck me later on as the expression of a desire to regain a popularity he had lost:

“Il nous faut maintenant à tout prix regagner notre popularité” (“We must now at all costs win back our popularity”).

It was immediately after these troubled days that the important question of the Plebiscite was raised. It was violently opposed by M. Thiers and his followers, and also by several of the Emperor’s personal friends, who dreaded what it might mean to him. Even when its result ratified the country’s confidence in the Empire and in the Emperor, they were not inspired with any greater confidence in the future. I remember that at a dinner which took place at the house of Marshal Canrobert and at which I was present, M. Rouher, who was among the guests, remarked sadly that there was nothing to be so very proud of in the results of the Plebiscite, because Paris had proved by its vote that it was distinctly hostile to the Government. “Et c’est Paris qui fait les révolutions et renverse les gouvernements” (“And it is Paris which makes revolutions and upsets governments”), he concluded with a sigh.

Without being on intimate terms with him, I liked M. Rouher exceedingly. For one thing, he was really the Emperor’s friend, and for another, when all is said and done, he was a statesman. It is not to be denied that he was ambitious and liked power for power’s sake. He did not care so much for the welfare of France as he did for that of the Bonaparte dynasty, but he had a clear apprehension of all the political necessities of the moment, and saw farther than those who were listened to with greater attention than himself. He did not perhaps like the Empress very much, but he remained faithful to her, and out of respect for the place which she occupied and the crown which she wore, always tried to uphold her prestige. He loved Napoleon III. truly and sincerely, and always gave him disinterested advice. Like all strong men he had enemies, and like all sincere people he was accused of dissimulation and intrigue by those who did not understand that to tell the truth is sometimes the best way not to be believed.

He has been accused of having gathered immense riches whilst he was in power. I can testify that this has not been the case by far, and that when the “Second Emperor,” as he was sometimes called, died, he was comparatively a poor man.

Socially, M. Rouher was charming, and his conversation was most enjoyable. He had what French people call “le mot pour rire,” as well as a marvellous skill for parrying questions addressed to him, and replying without answering anything. He had dignity, and gave constant proofs of it in his presidency of the Senate, where he displayed the rarest qualities of tact and skill.

Talking of tact, leads me to say a few words respecting a personage who, to his own misfortune, as well as to that of other people, did not know the significance of that word. It is of Prince Napoleon, Prince Plon Plon, as the Prussians called him, that I am thinking.

This first cousin of the Emperor was certainly a remarkable personage, and undoubtedly a most clever man. But evidently, also, a bad fairy had presided at his birth, and blighted with her magic wand all the great qualities with which nature had endowed him. His was essentially a restless nature, incapable of contentment, even when it had what it wanted. Had he been Emperor he would have lived in opposition to himself, faute de mieux. Of ambition he had a lot; of desires and passions even more, but he lacked an evenly balanced mind, and that most essential of all qualities, submission before accomplished facts and the things that human will cannot change. His intelligence was sharp, bright, and clear; he was capable of resolution, and had initiative in his character. He was gifted with rare eloquence, and, possessing also an easy pen, wrote pages that great writers would have felt proud to sign. He was brilliant, too, in conversation, and to all these talents he added qualities that, joined with the prestige of his name, and of his position, might have called him to great destinies, could he but have learned how to use them. His existence was essentially one aptly described by the French expression “une vie manquée,” and he was his own worst enemy. Always in opposition to his cousin he succeeded in rousing in revolt against himself not only the advisers of the Crown, but also the Emperor, and especially the Empress. Eugénie, with whom he had been ardently in love when she was still Mademoiselle de Montijo, was the object of his especial animosity later on, and he never lost an opportunity of displaying it, forgetting even that she was a lady, and that he should have shown himself a gentleman in his behaviour towards her. Among the survivors of the time none will have forgotten the scandal he caused at Compiègne when he refused to propose the health of the Empress on the day of St. Eugénie, when the Emperor asked him to do so. On that occasion as on many others, he quite lost sight of the politeness which a Sovereign and a woman has the right to expect, even from her worst enemies.

Prince Napoleon was all his life in opposition to somebody or something, and by poetic justice before his death he was to experience the sorrow of finding his own son oppose him and his principles. Deception dogged his footsteps, disappointment seemed to pursue him, for which he himself was partly responsible, and partly the victim of circumstances. He is more to be pitied than anything else. His life seemed to be spent in seeing withdrawn from his lips the cup that a wicked fairy kept presenting to him in order to tempt him with its contents.