What more could I say? There was nothing to be made of M. de Payan.
On the 5th of February I reached Nice by the express, and after reading the telegram which announced the return of Mr. Gladstone by a discerning people as junior colleague to a gin distiller, was presented with an address by the Gambettist mayor at the desire of the legitimist préfêt. The mayor, being a red-hot republican in politics but a carriage-builder by trade, lectured me on the drawbacks of despotism in his address, but informed me in conversation afterwards that he had had the honour of building a Victoria for Prince Charles Honoré—which was next door to giving me his business card. The address, however, also assumed that the Princes of Monaco were suffered only by Providence to exist in order that the trade of Nice, the nearest large French town, might thrive.
In the evening at four we reached the station at Monaco, which was decked with the white flags of my ancestors. What a pity, was my thought, that M. de Chambord should not be aware that if he would come to stay with me at the castle he would live under the white flag to which he is so much attached all the days of his life. My reception was enthusiastic. The guards, in blue uniforms not unlike the Bavarian, but with tall shakoes instead of helmets, and similar to that which during the stoppage of the train at Nice I had rapidly put on, were drawn up in line to the number of thirty-nine—one being in hospital with a wart on his thumb, as M. de Payan told me. What an admirable centralisation that such a detail should be known to every member of the administration! Two drummers rolled their drums French fashion. In front of the line were four officers, of whom—one fat; Baron Imberty; the Vicar General; and Père Pellico of the Jesuits of the Visitation, brother as I already knew to the celebrated Italian patriot, Silvio Pellico, of dungeon and spider fame.
“Where is M. Blanc?” I cried to M. de Payan, as we stopped, seeing no one not in uniform or robes.
“M. Blanc,” said M. de Payan, severely, “though a useful subject of your Highness is neither a member of the household of your Highness, a soldier of His army, nor a functionary of His government. M. Blanc is in the crowd outside.”
Had I ventured to talk slang to M. de Payan, of whom I already stood in awe, I should have replied, “Elle est salée, celle là; puisque sans M. Blanc mon pays ne marcherait pas.” But I held my tongue.
I have seen many amusing sights in the course of my short life. I have seen an Anglican clergyman dance the cancan—I have seen Lord Claud Hamilton, the elder, address the English House of Commons—I have watched with breathless interest the gesticulations of French orators in the tribune of the Assembly, when not a word could reach my ears through the din of Babel that their colleagues made. But the oddest sight I ever saw was the bow with which Colonel Jacquemet, conscious even at the glorious moment that history would not forget his name, assured me that “the devoted army of a Gallant and a Glorious Prince would follow him to the death, when Honour led and Duty called.”
At this moment Père Pellico slipped round to my side and said, “A word with your Highness. A most unfortunate report has got abroad that your Highness is a heretic. What is to be done?”
“I very much fear I am,” I replied.
“But surely your Highness has never formally joined a Protestant body?”