It may interest some of my readers to know how presentations were made at these balls. The United States Minister was allowed to present twenty-six persons in all. They were selected generally upon the principle of first come, first served; but the matter rested wholly in his discretion. No one had a right to a presentation. Mr. Seward settled this in a clear and positive dispatch to Mr. Dayton, and his instructions now regulate the action of our ministers in most of the courts of Europe. Occasionally we asked for one or two extra presentations. The inquiry was then generally made, "Is it a young and pretty woman?" If it were, there was no difficulty, for the Empress, like other ladies, was pleased to have her balls set off with beautiful and well-dressed women. American ladies were always well received by her for this reason. Her balls were sometimes called by the envious "bals américains."
The persons to be presented were arranged round one of the rooms at the Tuileries. The Emperor entered and passed down the line, each person being named to him. He sometimes stopped, though rarely, and addressed a few words to one of the presentees. The Empress followed in the same manner. She exacted that every lady should be in full evening dress, and if by chance one slipped in not décolletée, the minister was pretty sure to hear of it. General Dix was once asked to present a young lady with her mother. He consented. She turned out to be a child of fourteen. Before many days he heard that the Empress had said that she did not receive children.
But the Empress's Mondays, petits lundis, were charming. They were not unpleasantly crowded, and they were composed exclusively of people who knew how to behave themselves. Frequently they were musical parties, and there one heard the best musical talent of the world. No money was paid to the leading artists; for the theory is that the honor of singing before the sovereign is sufficient; but a bracelet or other piece of jewelry was sent to the singer, and always of value, for the Emperor was very generous—too much so for his own interests and those of his family, as events have shown.
The petits lundis were a paradise for our American diplomates. There we wore our swallow-tail coats, with black tights and silk stockings. The most rabid anti-uniformist could not object to that. To wear swallow-tail at one of the balls, however, was by no means a pleasant duty. After one or two experiments our secretaries gave up going. The French officers—not those of high rank, of course—would stare with all the impertinence they could muster, and take the opportunity to jostle them accidentally in the crowd. It was very different in London. If one of us went to a ball at Buckingham Palace in mufti, the page at the door simply asked, "United States, sir?" and he passed in without difficulty. Of course every one present noticed the dress, but no one appeared to do so. They evidently felt sorry for the poor devil who found himself in such an awkward fix, and wished to make it as easy for him as possible. French politeness did not shine by the contrast.
Early in the winter the Emperor opened the Corps Législatif. In all constitutional monarchies this is an occasion of great ceremony and splendor. A hall in the Louvre was used for the purpose. All the great bodies of state attended in their gorgeous uniforms. Senators, deputies, judges, members of the Academy and of the Institute, marshals, admirals—every thing that France possessed of glorious in arms, or eminent in literature, science, art, and statesmanship, was congregated there. When all was ready, the Empress, attended by the ladies of the imperial family, and by her ladies in waiting, walked up the whole length of the centre aisle to her seat on the throne, amidst the indescribable enthusiasm of the audience. Her beauty, her grace, and her stately bearing carried the enthusiasm to its height. You would have sworn that every man there was ready to die for his sovereign. Within less than four years she sought in vain for one of them to stand by her in her hour of danger.
The opening of the Corps Législatif, splendid and interesting as it was, did not compare in either respect—in American eyes, at least—with the opening of Parliament by the Queen in person. She has done this so rarely of late that, when she does appear, the interest and excitement in London are very great. The ceremony takes place in the House of Lords. The peers are in their robes of office, scarlet and ermine. Each particular robe is ugly enough, very much like red flannel and cat-skin; but the effect of all together is very fine. The peeresses are in full dress. The diplomatic corps are present in their rich uniforms. The princes enter and take their seats as lords. That graceful and beautiful woman, the Princess of Wales—perhaps the most beautiful woman in England—and the Princess Mary and the Duchess of Edinburgh, follow and take their seats upon the wool-sack facing the throne. When all is ready, the Queen, preceded by the white rod and the black rod (they call them the "sticks" in England), the lord chancellor and the lord chamberlain, and all her high officers of state, appears and seats herself upon the throne, the Princess Louise and the Princess Beatrice supporting her on either side. Short and stout as is the Queen, she has the most graceful and stately walk perhaps in Europe. It is a treat to see her move. Then the lower doors are opened; there is a rush and a scramble, and loud voices are heard, and the Commons of England, headed by their Speaker, the very body for whom all this show and state and splendor are got up, crowd into a narrow space behind a railing, and there stand while the Queen reads her speech. It seems strange, when one reflects that the Commons really govern England, to see them shut out in the cold as if they were not fit to associate with the distinguished company present. When the speech is finished, the Speaker bows, the Queen descends from the throne, the Commons return to their House, and the pageant is ended.
The Great Exhibition opened on the 1st of May, 1867. It was not nearly ready, but was opened punctually to the day with all the well-arranged ceremony for which the French are noted. The sovereigns of Europe began to flock to Paris. "The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein" was then in the full tide of success at one of the theatres. It was odd to note that among the first visits the great royalties paid (the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia) was one to "The Grand Duchess." The minor sovereigns, the kinglings, rarely went; and when they did, they saw nothing amusing in it.
The diplomatic corps had admirable opportunities to see the different sovereigns visiting Paris. It is the custom for a monarch to receive the diplomatic corps accredited to the capital at which he is a guest. We stood in a circle, and, while the royal visitor talked to our own minister and to those near him on either side, we had excellent opportunities to study his features, expression, and manners. The most agreeable of them all, with an apt word for every one, was the King of the Belgians. He had a great deal to say to General Dix about Mr. Seward, whom he had known, and the port of Antwerp as convenient for American shipping. He spoke English admirably. He was accompanied by the Queen, a young and pretty woman, who, by-the-way, was the only sovereign lady who came to the Exposition, much to the Empress's disappointment, and somewhat, it was said, to her mortification. Next in tact to the King of the Belgians came the Emperor of Austria, a small, well-made, military-looking man, with most polished manners. He spoke to me—for General Dix was then temporarily absent—of his brother, the Emperor Maximilian, and expressed his gratitude to our Government for its efforts to save his life. Later, while chargé at London, I met the Empress of Germany. She, too, has the gift of saying the right thing in the right place. I heard her conversation with two or three of my colleagues who stood near me. It was always happy. To me she spoke of all that the Legation at Paris had done to protect "mes pauvres Allemands dans ces tristes, ces pénibles circonstances." She was glad to have the opportunity to thank me in person, and wished me to convey her thanks to Mr. Washburne.
But the chief guest, the man to whom all eyes were turned, was the Emperor of Russia, a pale, handsome, silent, gentlemanly-looking man. For him reviews were held, gala operas given, and magnificent fêtes at the Tuileries and at the Hôtel de Ville. I doubt if the world ever saw a more beautiful fête than that given to him by the Empress at the Tuileries. It was summer, the month of June. The gardens of the palace were closed to the public. The flower-beds (the flowers were then in full bloom) were bordered with gas-jets, the trees were festooned with variegated lamps, the fountains played, and electric lights—blue, pink, and yellow—were thrown alternately upon the sparkling waters. It was very beautiful. And when, at midnight, the Empress, accompanied by a number of ladies, and by the Emperors and their suites, descended into the gardens, and the electric light flashed on their bright dresses and jewels, and brilliant uniforms, the effect was fairy-like.
The review was next in order. Sixty thousand men passed before the Emperors without check or delay. The King of Prussia was present, accompanied by Bismarck and Moltke. Bismarck even then attracted much attention. I have rarely seen a finer-looking man. More than six feet high, large and powerful in proportion, with a grand head well set upon the shoulders, he looks like Agamemnon—"king of men."