Our chance came. Miss Sherman, the daughter of General Sherman, was visiting for a month at our home by the lake (July and August, 1873). She was a good Catholic, and her mother was the only American woman on whom the Pope had conferred the order of the “Golden Rose.” Eugenie, also, was a zealous Catholic. Would she receive the daughter of General Sherman, and the Consul and his wife? The Duke Bassano arranged it all. “Her majesty will receive you on Tuesday morning, at ten o’clock,” said a little perfumed note in French. We were not so sure of our Gallic verbs and pronouns; still, we could speak some French, and would risk the visit. Tuesday morning found us in our best toilettes, waiting in a little anteroom, at the annex of the Hotel in Baden. It was a simple enough old stone house, half of it built by the Romans, in the times when they, too, came to these springs for their aches and pains. In a few minutes, the friendly old Duke Bassano came in to announce that all was ready. Major Cunningham and his wife were with us. “And how shall we address her,” we innocently inquired of the Duke, remembering that the Emperor was dead, and France a republic. “Oh, as her majesty, of course, only as her majesty.” He opened the door to a small, simply furnished sitting-room, and we entered. Almost at the same moment, Eugenie entered from an adjoining apartment. She walked to the center of the room, took each of us by the hand, and bade us a cordial welcome. She was dressed in full black, partly décolleté and trimmed with some white lace. She motioned us to some chairs arranged in a semi-circle, in front of a little divan. On this sofa she seated herself, and possibly never looked more beautiful on the throne of France.
“And now what language shall we speak in?” she smilingly asked in the most perfect English. “Your majesty’s perfect accomplishment in our own tongue, settles that,” one of our party answered. “Good. Oh, yes, I learned English in school, you know, after I left Madrid as a girl; and my master was Scotch; and then I lived a time in London, too. I like the English, and I like the English people; but I like the American people just as well, only I never knew why your country kept slaves, and had no respect for black people. I am sure color makes no difference, if it is only a good man. Would you not invite a black man to your table? I am sure I would, and did; and once, when a diplomat who was dining with me also, objected a little to my courtesy to a ‘negro,’ as he called him, I gave him quickly to understand that possibly the negro was better than he was.”
Then she talked to Miss Sherman (now Mrs. Fitch) about her mother, of whose Catholic zeal and perpetual charity to the poor she had heard so much.
To each one in turn she addressed some pertinent word, and then, laughing, turned to me as a representative of my country, and exclaimed numerous things not very complimentary to our system of high tariff.
“Why, we make the most beautiful things in the world in Paris; you Americans all say so, and yet you won’t let your people buy them without paying twice what they are worth, by your fearful custom-house rules.
“Americans are so clever; they ought to know they hurt their own people, and they hurt us in Paris, too. Our poor work for such small wages, and would always be happy, if you would only let them sell to you; and, after all, your rich importers just add your tariff fees on to the price of our goods, and who has the benefit?”
I answered: “Ours is a prosperous country, with our protective tariff system.” “Yes, I know, in spite of your tariff. I have heard that, a hundred times. Some day, you will be just like us, and get where you can get the cheapest. You don’t think making things dear helps anybody, do you?” Politeness prevented much discussion. It was all one way. Besides, was it not to hear her talk, not ourselves, that we were there?
She went back to the black man, or the black woman rather. “I had a good laugh on my dear husband, the Emperor, once. He lived in your country awhile, you know, and he was always fancying your pretty women. One day at New Orleans he saw a beautiful female form ahead of him in the street. It was all grace of movement, and elegance of apparel. He was struck by the figure. I think he was half in love. ‘I must see her face,’ he exclaimed to his companion. ‘I must see her. She is my divinity, running away.’ He hurried his pace, passed her, and the moment politeness would permit, glanced back. It was a ‘mulatto.’ I don’t think he always regarded black people quite in the light I did.”
Shortly we proposed to go, though she made no sign that the interview was at an end. “No,” she said. “Wait; I have leisure, nothing but leisure and rheumatism.” But she had no rheumatic look; a more charming-looking woman of fifty, I never saw. Her bright eyes were as blue as the sky, her complexion exceeding fair, her hair still golden, her vivacity of manner and cleverness of speech surprising beyond measure; and then her kindness made us feel that we were talking with a friend. All of us were led on to say much, and the visit lasted for two hours. Much of the talk was about Switzerland and health resorts, and so much at random as not to be remembered or noted down.
When at last we arose to go, she again came to the middle of the room and took us each by the hand. And then I asked her a word about her future plans. “There are none,” she said. “All is over. I have only my son, and he and I will spend our lives in quiet and peace.” Alas! only a few years went by and that son was lying dead in an African cornfield, his body pierced by Zulu lances.