Paris, during that autumn of the year 1868, was extremely congenial; indeed, it has never been so brilliant since the Napoleonic Eagle disappeared. The Sovereigns liked to surround themselves with nice people, and sought popularity among the different classes of society; they gave splendid receptions, and did their best to create around them an atmosphere of luxury and enjoyment. They frequented the many theatres for which Paris was famed, were present at the races, and in general showed themselves wherever they found opportunity to appear in public. During the summer and autumn months the Imperial hospitality was exercised with profusion and generosity, either at Compiègne or at Fontainebleau, and it was only at St. Cloud or at Biarritz that the Emperor and his lovely Consort led a relatively retired life, while they enjoyed a short and well-earned holiday.
As is usual in such cases, the Imperialistic society followed the lead given to it from above, and pleasure followed upon pleasure, festivity crowded upon festivity during these feverish months which preceded the Franco-Prussian War. In 1868 the clouds that had obscured the Imperial sky at the time of the ill-fated Mexican Expedition had passed away, and the splendours which attended the inauguration of the Suez Canal were already looming on the horizon.
The political situation as yet seemed untroubled; indeed, though the Emperor sometimes appeared sad and anxious, no one among all those who surrounded him shared the apprehensions which his keen political glance had already foreseen as inevitable. The Empress, too, appeared as if she wanted to make the most of her already disappearing youth, and to gather her roses whilst she still could do so, with all the buoyancy of her departed girlish days.
The leading spirit of all the entertainments given at the Tuileries, the Princess Pauline Metternich, was always alert for some new form of amusement wherewith to enliven the house parties of Compiègne, or the solemnity of the evening parties given in the old home of the Kings of France—that home from which Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette had gone to the scaffold, and to which their memory clung in spite of all those who had inhabited it since the day they started upon their tragic journey to Varennes.
The fair Eugénie had a special reverence for the memory of the beautiful Austrian Archduchess whose destiny it had been to die by the hand of the executioner within a few steps of the grand old palace that had been hers. With all the impressionability of her Spanish nature she used to say that she was sure a like fate awaited her, and so prepared herself to die as had died the unfortunate Princess whose place she had taken. Eugénie often spoke of what she would do when that day should come, and sometimes amused her friends with her conviction that she, too, was destined to endure tragic misfortunes and calamities. Her presentiments were fulfilled; but, alas! she did not bear them with true dignity.
At the time of which I am speaking—October, 1868—Napoleon III. had just completed his sixtieth year. In spite of the agonies occasioned by the painful disease from which he was suffering, he retained his good looks, and notwithstanding his small height and the largeness of his head, which, compared with the size of his body, would have been ridiculous in any other person, he presented a most dignified appearance, and bore himself like a Sovereign born to the purple would have done. When he chose, the expression of his face was charming, and the eyes, which he always kept half closed, had a dreamy, far-away, mysterious look that gave them a peculiar charm. He spoke slowly, as if carefully weighing every word he uttered; but what surprised one when talking with him for the first time was a German accent in speaking French—a habit retained from his early days spent in Switzerland—from which he could not rid himself, in spite of all his efforts, as well as those of M. Mocquard, his faithful secretary and friend, who, so long as he lived, gave him lessons in elocution. I believe that the slowness with which Napoleon III. expressed himself must be attributed to that circumstance more than anything else. But it is a fact that sometimes it had the effect of irritating those with whom he was engaged in conversation; they never knew what he was going to say next, and ofttimes gathered the impression that some ulterior motive actuated his speech.
With ladies the Emperor was always charming, and his manner with them had a tinge of chivalry that savoured of olden times, and generally succeeded in winning for him all that he wanted. His love intrigues were numerous, and his wife was not always wrong when she complained, though not improbably she would have done better to notice and talk of them less than she did. In general the Empress was much too fond of communicating her feelings and impressions to those whom she considered her friends without the slightest reason for thinking them to be such. Her many intimacies with ladies who bore her no real sympathy, such as Princess Metternich, for instance, did her much harm and caused her many annoyances which she could well have avoided had she shown herself more careful in what she did or said. She never realised that community in amusement does not constitute community of feelings, and that whilst one may like the society of some people because one enjoys their good dinners, or spends one’s time pleasantly in their company, it does not mean that one really cares for them, or trusts them.
Napoleon III. had been a very clever politician. I use the words “had been” intentionally, because, unhappily, it is certain that toward the end of his reign he had lost some of his former sharpness. Neither did he see so plainly the dangers of his situation, nor realise that he could not act as freely as he had done at the time of the coup d’état of December, 1852, and during the Crimean and Italian campaigns.
He felt himself weakened, in part through the mistakes of his early youth, as well as by his associations, which were beginning to tell upon him, and of which he had a nervous dread of being reminded. As an example of this the following anecdote is typical. A Russian lady, the Countess K——, who used to frequent the Tuileries, met one day an Italian statesman, whose name I won’t mention as he is still living. This gentleman suddenly asked whether it would not amuse her to frighten the Emperor. She was young and giddy, and accepted with enthusiasm. He then told her that at the next fancy ball that was going to take place at the Naval Office, the Sovereigns were to attend as the guests of the Marquis and the Marquise de Chasseloup Laubat. The lady was to approach Napoleon and to whisper in his ear the name of an Italian then in Paris, and to remind Napoleon of an interview he had had with him in a small inn near Perugia. No explanations were given to the lady, and she never asked for any, but when the ball took place she managed to approach the Emperor, who was present in a domino, and to murmur in his ear the phrase given her, without, it must be owned, attaching any special importance to it. Napoleon’s face became white, and, seizing her hand, he asked her, in an agitated voice, to tell him from whom she had obtained this information. The Countess was terrified, and replied that a domino had whispered it to her during the ball. The Emperor plied her with questions, but to no purpose, as his extreme emotion had put her on her guard. Two days later, to her surprise, she was invited to dine at the Tuileries. When the meal was over, the Empress, who had been unusually gracious, called her to her side, and taking care no one should hear them, asked her to explain from whom she had heard the incident to which she had alluded during her conversation with the Emperor, at the ball of Madame de Chasseloup Laubat. The Countess, though taken quite unawares, persisted in her assurance that she did not know the domino who had imparted it to her; that she was now very sorry for heedlessly repeating words to which she had attached no importance. Eugénie pressed her again and again, and at last exclaimed with impatience, as she rose from her chair: “People like to be asked to the Tuileries, but do not seem to consider that it is a grievous want of tact to hold converse with the enemies of the Sovereign whilst doing so.” “And,” added the Countess when she related to me this anecdote, “from that moment I was watched at every step by the secret police, and to this day I do not know why I was chosen as the instrument to deal such a blow to Napoleon III.”
I have related this anecdote to prove how very much the Emperor dreaded all that related to his first steps in political life, under the patronage of the Carbonari and other secret associations that were working towards the unification of Italy. He did not feel himself a free agent in that respect; no one knew exactly why, because he never expressed himself on the subject—but it is certain that some of the most unexpected things he did had their source in this mysterious influence which made him appear to be more or less averse to thwarting the desires of his former Italian friends.