I have seen the birth of the hopes of my niece Dorothée, the daughter of the Archduchess Clotilde, my sister-in-law, when she became engaged to Duke Philip of Orleans.
I confess I had no faith in the future, being sceptical as to Royalist France, and doubtless it was an effect of the general surroundings, but I fancied that the gold lilies embroidered on the robe of the beautiful bride would have vanished from her train long before she reached the Elysée, the Tuileries or the Louvre. I could not, however, see without emotion the closed crown which adorned the "queen" on the day of her wedding.
Ah! this dream of a crown; how many heads it turns, or rather how many heads it has turned! For now one is obliged to reflect on things in general, and although I am a stranger to French politics I owe as much recognition as consideration to the Republic, where I have found, together with the security of just laws, the respect due to misfortune, and the courtesy which Republicans know how to extend, even to princesses. Still I cannot help following the career of the "King, in anticipation"—my nephew the Prince of Orleans, with some degree of curiosity.
For him everything happens on the banks of the Seine, the Garonne, the Rhone, and the other watercourses of the most beautiful country on the face of the earth; but the worst that I wish Philip of Orleans is that he should never have to exchange his yachting cap, which becomes him so well, for the crown of Saint Louis. He is certainly handicapped in life. More than ever to-day when it is advisable for a king to have a queen. But fate has willed that the great marriage of Philip of Orleans and Marie Dorothée of Habsburg, which was one of the joys of the Coburg Palace, and the occasion of the most gorgeous receptions, should turn out contrary to what it promised.
On one occasion I counted the Royal or princely houses wherein the wind of discontent already whispered. I arrived at a startling total. Taking it all round in every kind of society, the average number of happily married people is not very high. But the nearer one gets to the people, and to their good sense and work, the better does family life become, because they tolerate each other's failings much more wisely and agree to help each other, until they finish by knowing a kind of happiness, which is only achieved by the knowledge of common imperfections.
My life at Coburg would have been still more painful if from time to time it had not been varied by changes of residence and travel.
In order not to digress from the family circle, I will only say a few words about three towns where I had relations, and where I stayed with them, or near them, as Princess of Coburg—Cannes, Bologna and Budapest.
First, I will mention Budapest, which was one of the most attractive cities of the world, and will be again when the reign of Bolshevism is over. In the old Buda the ancient East has left its traces; in Pest, the modernity of the West has become apparent. I knew something of it in 1918.
I loved Budapest, and I preferred the small Coburg Palace in the Hungarian capital and its charming receptions to our home and our entertainments in the capital of Austria. The atmosphere was different from that of Vienna, and I was pleased to find myself in the neighbourhood of the good Archduke Joseph, my mother's brother, who was so warm-hearted and so dear to me. His palace was at Buda, and his château was some hours' distance from the town. They had no disadvantages except as dwellings of my aunt and my sister-in-law Princess Clotilde, who were very different from the affectionate and sincere Amélie.
The archduke was a kind man who did not misjudge or censure my extravagant fancies.