My First Years as a Frenchwoman, 1876-1879 Part 1

My First Years As A Frenchwoman, 1876-1879.

by Mary King Waddington.

I

WHEN MACMAHON WAS PRESIDENT

I was married in Paris in November, 1874, at the French Protestant Chapel of the rue Taitbout, by Monsieur Bersier, one of the ablest and most eloquent pastors of the Protestant church. We had just established ourselves in Paris, after having lived seven years in Rome. We had a vague idea of going back to America, and Paris seemed a first step in that direction--was nearer New York than Rome. I knew very little of France--we had never lived there--merely stayed a few weeks in the spring and autumn, coming and going from Italy. My husband was a deputy, named to the National a.s.sembly in Bordeaux in 1871, by his Department--the Aisne. He had some difficulty in getting to Bordeaux.

Communications and transports were not easy, as the Germans were still in the country, and, what was more important, he hadn't any money--couldn't correspond with his banker, in Paris--(he was living in the country). However, a sufficient amount was found in the country, and he was able to make his journey. When I married, the a.s.sembly was sitting at Versailles. Monsieur Thiers, the first President of the Republic, had been overthrown in May, 1873--Marshal MacMahon named in his place. W.[1] had had a short ministry (public instruction) under Monsieur Thiers, but he was so convinced that it would not last that he never even went to the ministry--saw his directors in his own rooms. I was plunged at once into absolutely new surroundings. W.'s personal friends were princ.i.p.ally Orleanists and the literary element of Paris--his colleagues at the Inst.i.tute. The first houses I was taken to in Paris were the Segurs, Remusats, Lasteyries, Casimir Periers, Gallieras, d'Haussonville, Leon Say, and some of the Protestant families--Pourtales, Andre Bartholdi, Mallet, etc. It was such an entirely different world from any I had been accustomed to that it took me some time to feel at home in my new milieu. Political feeling was very strong--all sorts of fresh, young elements coming to the front.

The Franco-German War was just over--the French very sore and bitter after their defeat. There was a strong underlying feeling of violent animosity to the Emperor, who had lost them two of their fairest provinces, and a pa.s.sionate desire for the revanche. The feeling was very bitter between the two branches of the Royalist party, Legitimists and Orleanists. One night at a party in the Faubourg St. Germain, I saw a well-known fas.h.i.+onable woman of the extreme Legitimist party turn her back on the Comtesse de Paris. The receptions and visits were not always easy nor pleasant, even though I was a stranger and had no ties with any former government. I remember one of my first visits to a well-known Legitimist countess in the Faubourg St. Germain; I went on her reception day, a thing all young women are most particular about in Paris. I found her with a circle of ladies sitting around her, none of whom I knew.

They were all very civil, only I was astonished at the way the mistress of the house mentioned my name every time she spoke to me: "Madame Waddington, etes-vous allee a l'Opera hier soir," "Madame Waddington, vous montez a cheval tous les matins, je crois," "Monsieur Waddington va tous les vendredis a l'Inst.i.tut, il me semble," etc. I was rather surprised and said to W. when I got home, "How curious it is, that way of saying one's name all the time; I suppose it is an old-fas.h.i.+oned French custom. Madame de B. must have said 'Waddington' twenty times during my rather short visit." He was much amused. "Don't you know why?

So that all the people might know who you were and not say awful things about the 'infecte gouvernement' and the Republic, 'which no gentleman could serve.'"

[Footnote 1: "W.," here and throughout this book, refers to Madame Waddington's husband, M. William Waddington.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Monsieur Theirs.]

The position of the German Emba.s.sy in Paris was very difficult, and unfortunately their first amba.s.sador after the war, Count Arnim, didn't understand (perhaps didn't care to) how difficult it was for a high-spirited nation, which until then had always ranked as a great military power, to accept her humiliation and be just to the victorious adversary. Arnim was an unfortunate appointment--not at all the man for such a delicate situation. We had known him in Rome in the old days of Pio Nono's reign, where he had a great position as Prussian minister to the Vatican. He and the Countess Arnim received a great deal, and their beautiful rooms in the Palazzo Caffarelli, on the top of the Capitol Hill (the two great statues of Castor and Pollux standing by their horses looking as if they were guarding the entrance) were a brilliant centre for all the Roman and diplomatic world. He was a thorough man of the world, could make himself charming when he chose, but he never had a pleasant manner, was curt, arrogant, with a very strong sense of his own superiority. From the first moment he came to Paris as amba.s.sador, he put people's backs up. They never liked him, never trusted him; whenever he had an unpleasant communication to make, he exaggerated the unpleasantness, never attenuated, and there is so much in the way things are said. The French were very hard upon him when he got into trouble, and certainly his own Government was merciless to him.

One of my first small difficulties after becoming a Frenchwoman was to eliminate some of my German friends from my salon. I could not run the risk of their being treated rudely. I remember so well one night at home, before I was married, seeing two French officers not in uniform slip quietly out of the room when one of the German Emba.s.sy came in, yet ours was a neutral house. When my engagement was announced one of my great friends at the German Emba.s.sy (Count Arco) said to me: "This is the end, I suppose, of our friends.h.i.+p; I can never go to see you when you are the wife of a French deputy." "Oh, yes, you can still come; not quite so often, perhaps, but I can't give up my friends." However, we drifted apart without knowing why exactly. It is curious how long that hostile feeling toward Germany has lasted in France.

Every year there is a great review of the Paris garrison (thirty thousand men) by the President of the Republic, at Longchamp, on the 14th of July, the national fete--the day of the storming of the Bastile.

It is a great day in Paris--one of the sights of the year--and falling in midsummer the day is generally beautiful and very warm. From early dawn all the chairs and benches along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne are crowded with people waiting patiently for hours to see the show. There is not a seat to be had at Longchamp. Unless one arrives very early the tribunes are packed, and the President's box very crowded, as he invites the diplomatic corps and the ministers and their wives on that day. The troops are always received with much enthusiasm, particularly the artillery, dragging their light field-pieces and pa.s.sing at a gallop--also the battalion of St. Cyr, the great French military school.

The final charge of the cavalry is very fine. Ma.s.ses of riders come thundering over the plain, the general commanding in front, stopping suddenly as if moved by machinery, just opposite the President's box.

I went very regularly as long as W. was in office, and always enjoyed my day. There was an excellent buffet in the salon behind the box, and it was pleasant to have a cup of tea and rest one's eyes while the long columns of infantry were pa.s.sing--the regular, continuous movement was fatiguing. All the amba.s.sadors and foreigners were very keen about the review, paying great attention to the size of the men and horses and their general equipment. As long as Marshal MacMahon was President of the Republic, he always rode home after the review down the Champs-Elysees--in full uniform, with a brilliant staff of foreign officers and military attaches. It was a pretty sight and attracted great attention. Some of the foreign uniforms are very striking and the French love a military show.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Marshal MacMahon.]

For many years after the war the German military attache returned from the review un.o.bserved in a _shut_ carriage, couldn't run the risk of an angry or insulting word from some one in the crowd, and still later, fifteen years after the war, when W. was amba.s.sador in England, I was G.o.dmother of the daughter of a German-English cousin living in London.

The G.o.dfather was Count Herbert Bismarck, son of the famous chancellor.

At the time of the christening I was in France, staying with some friends in the country. The son of the house had been through the war, had distinguished himself very much, and they were still very sore over their reverses and the necessity of submitting to all the little pin-p.r.i.c.ks which came at intervals from Germany. Bismarck sent me a telegram regretting the absence of the G.o.dmother from the ceremony. It was brought to me just after breakfast, while we were having our coffee.

I opened it and read it out, explaining that it was from Bismarck to express his regret for my absence. There was a dead silence, and then the mistress of the house said to me: "C'est tres desagreable pour vous, chere amie, cette a.s.sociation avec Bismarck."

I didn't see much of W. in the daytime. We usually rode in the morning in the Bois and immediately after breakfast he started for Versailles in the parliamentary train. Dinner was always a doubtful meal. Sometimes he came home very late for nine-o'clock dinner; sometimes he dined at Versailles and only got home at ten or eleven if the sitting was stormy.

The Hotel des Reservoirs did a flouris.h.i.+ng business as long as the Chambers sat at Versailles. When we were dining out it was very disagreeable, particularly the first winter when I didn't know many people. I remember one dinner at the Countess Duchatel's where I went alone; we were ten women and five men. All the rest were deputies, who had telegraphed at the last moment they would not come, were kept at Versailles by an important question.

One of the most interesting things I saw in 1873, just before my marriage, was the court-martial of Marshal Bazaine for treachery at Metz--giving up his army and the city without any attempt to break through the enemy's lines, or in fact any resistance of any kind. The court was held at the Grand Trianon, Versailles, a place so a.s.sociated with a pleasure-loving court, and the fanciful devices of a gay young queen, that it was difficult to realise the drama that was being enacted, when the honour of a Marshal of France--almost an army of France, was to be judged. It was an impressive scene, the hall packed, and people at all the doors and entrances clamouring for seats. The public was curious, a little of everything--members of the National a.s.sembly, officers all in uniform, pretty women of all categories--the group of journalists with keen eager faces watching every change of expression of the marshal's face--some well-known faces, wives of members or leading political and literary men, a fair amount of the frailer sisterhood, actresses and demi-mondaines, making a great effect of waving plumes and diamonds. The court was presided over by the Duc d'Aumale, who accepted the office after much hesitation. He was a fine, soldierly figure as he came in, in full uniform, a group of officers behind him, all with stern, set faces. The impression of the public was generally hostile to the marshal; one felt it all through the trial. He was dressed in full uniform, with the grand cordon of the Legion of Honour. It was melancholy to hear the report of his career when it was read by his counsel,--long years of active service, many wounds, often mentioned for brave conduct under fire, having the "Medaille Militaire"--the grand cordon of the Legion d'Honneur, the baton de Marechal de France,--all the honours his country could give him--to end so miserably, judged not only by the court but by the country, as a traitor, false to his trust, when his country was in the death-throes of defeat and humiliation. His att.i.tude at the trial was curious. He sat very still in his armchair, looking straight before him, only raising his head and looking at the Duc d'Aumale when some grave accusation was made against him. His explanation brought the famous reply from the duc, when he said it was impossible to act or to treat; there was nothing left in France--no government, no orders--nothing. The due answered: "Il y avait toujours la France." He didn't look overwhelmed, rather like some one who was detached from the whole proceedings. I saw his face quite well; it was neither false nor weak--ordinary. It is difficult to believe that a French general with a brilliant record behind him should have been guilty of such treachery, sacrificing his men and his honour.

His friends (they were not many) say he lost his head, was nearly crazy with the utterly unforeseen defeat of the French, but even a moment of insanity would hardly account for such extraordinary weakness. W. and some of his friends were discussing it in the train coming home. They were all convinced of his guilt, had no doubt as to what the sentence of the court would be--death and degradation--but thought that physical fatigue and great depression must have caused a general breakdown. The end every one knows. He was condemned to be shot and degraded. The first part of the sentence was cancelled on account of his former services, but he was degraded, imprisoned, escaped, and finished his life in Spain in poverty and obscurity, deserted by all his friends and his wife. It was a melancholy rentree for the Duc d'Aumale. His thoughts must have gone back to the far-off days when the gallant young officer, fils de France, won his first military glory in Algiers, and thought the world was at his feet. His brilliant exploit, capturing the Smala of Abd-el-Kader, has been immortalised by Vernet in the great historical picture that one sees at Versailles. There are always artists copying parts of it, particularly one group, where a lovely, fair-haired woman is falling out of a litter backward. Even now, when one thinks of the King Louis Philippe, with all his tall, strong, young sons (there is a well-known picture of the King on horseback with all his sons around him--splendid specimens of young manhood), it seems incredible that they are not still ruling and reigning at the Tuileries. I wonder if things would have been very different if Louis Philippe and his family had not walked out of the Tuileries that day!

I often asked W. in what way France had gained by being a republic. I personally was quite impartial, being born an American and never having lived in France until after the Franco-Prussian War. I had no particular ties nor traditions, had no grandfather killed on the scaffold, nor frozen to death in the retreat of "La Grande Armee" from Moscow. They always told me a republic was in the air--young talents and energy must come to the front--the people must have a voice in the government. I think the average Frenchman is intelligent, but I don't think the vote of the man in the street can have as much value as that of a man who has had not only a good education but who has been accustomed always to hear certain principles of law and order held up as rules for the guidance of his own life as well as other people's. Certainly universal suffrage was a most unfortunate measure to take from America and apply to France, but it has been taken and now must stay. I have often heard political men who deplored and condemned the law say that no minister would dare to propose a change.

I went often to the Chamber in the spring--used to drive out and bring W. home. Versailles was very animated and interesting during all that time, so many people always about. Quite a number of women followed the debates. One met plenty of people one knew in the streets, at the Patissiers, or at some of the bric-a-brac shops, where there were still bargains to be found in very old furniture, prints, and china. There is a large garrison. There were always officers riding, squads of soldiers moving about, bugle-calls in all directions, and continuous arrivals at the station of deputies and journalists hurrying to the palace, their black portfolios under their arms. The palace was cold. There was a fine draught at the entrance and the big stone staircase was always cold, even in June, but the a.s.sembly-room was warm enough and always crowded.

It was rather difficult to get seats. People were so interested in those first debates after the war, when everything had to be reorganised and so much of the past was being swept away.

II

IMPRESSIONS OF THE a.s.sEMBLY AT VERSAILLES

The sittings of the a.s.sembly were very interesting in that wonderful year when everything was being discussed. All public interest of course was centred in Versailles, where the National a.s.sembly was trying to establish some sort of stable government. There were endless discussions and speeches and very violent language in the Chambers. Gambetta made some bitter attacks on the Royalists, accusing them of mauvaise foi and want of patriotism. The Bonapartist leaders tried to persuade themselves and their friends that they still had a hold on the country and that a plebiscite would bring back in triumph their prince. The Legitimists, hoping against hope that the Comte de Chambord would still be the saviour of the country, made pa.s.sionate appeals to the old feeling of loyalty in the nation, and the centre droit, representing the Orleanists, nervous, hesitating, knowing the position perfectly, ardently desiring a const.i.tutional monarchy, but feeling that it was not possible at that moment, yet unwilling to commit themselves to a final declaration of the Republic, which would make a Royalist restoration impossible. All the Left confident, determined.

The Republic was voted on the 30th of January, 1875, by a majority of one vote, if majority it could be called, but the great step had been taken, and the struggle began instantly between the moderate conservative Republicans and the more advanced Left. W. came home late that day. Some of his friends came in after dinner and the talk was most interesting. I was so new to it all that most of the names of the rank and file were unknown to me, and the appreciations of the votes and the anecdotes and side-lights on the voters said nothing to me. Looking back after all these years, it seems to me that the moderate Royalists (centre droit) threw away a splendid chance. They could not stop the Republican wave (nothing could) but they might have controlled it and directed it instead of standing aloof and throwing the power into the hands of the Left. We heard the well-known sayings very often those days: "La Republique sera conservatrice ou elle ne sera pas" and "La Republique sans Republicains," attributed to M. Thiers and Marshal MacMahon. The National a.s.sembly struggled on to the end of the year, making a const.i.tution, a parliament with two houses, senate and chamber of deputies, with many discussions and contradictions, and hopes and illusions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Sitting of the National a.s.sembly at the palace of Versailles. From _l'Ill.u.s.tration_, March 11, 1876]

I went often to Versailles, driving out when the weather was fine. I liked the stormy sittings best. Some orator would say something that displeased the public, and in a moment there would be the greatest uproar, protestations and accusations from all sides, some of the extreme Left getting up, gesticulating wildly, and shaking their fists at the speaker--the Right, generally calm and sarcastic, requesting the speaker to repeat his monstrous statements--the huissiers dressed in black with silver chains, walking up and down in front of the tribune, calling out at intervals: "Silence, messieurs, s'il vous plait,"--the President ringing his bell violently to call the house to order, and n.o.body paying the slightest attention,--the orator sometimes standing quite still with folded arms waiting until the storm should abate, sometimes dominating the hall and hurling abuse at his adversaries. W.

was always perfectly quiet; his voice was low, not very strong, and he could not speak if there were an uproar. When he was interrupted in a speech he used to stand perfectly still with folded arms, waiting for a few minutes' silence. The deputies would call out: "Allez! allez!"

interspersed with a few lively criticisms on what he was saying to them; he was perfectly unmoved, merely replied: "I will go on with pleasure as soon as you will be quiet enough for me to be heard." Frenchmen generally have such a wonderful facility of speech, and such a pitiless logic in discussing a question, that the debates were often very interesting. The public was interesting too. A great many women of all cla.s.ses followed the sittings--several Egerias (not generally in their first youth) of well-known political men sitting prominently in the President's box, or in the front row of the journalists' box, following the discussions with great interest and sending down little slips of paper to their friends below--members' wives and friends who enjoyed spending an hour or two listening to the speeches--newspaper correspondents, literary ladies, diplomatists. It was very difficult to get places, particularly when some well-known orators were announced to speak upon an important question. We didn't always know beforehand, and I remember some dull afternoons with one or two members making long speeches about purely local matters, which didn't interest any one. We looked down upon an almost empty hall on those occasions. A great many of the members had gone out and were talking in the lobbies; those who remained were talking in groups, writing letters, walking about the hall, quite unconscious apparently of the speaker at the tribune. I couldn't understand how the man could go on talking to empty benches, but W. told me he was quite indifferent to the attention of his colleagues,--his speech was for his electors and would appear the next day in the _Journal Officiel_. I remember one man talked for hours about "allumettes chimiques."

Leon Say was a delightful speaker, so easy, always finding exactly the word he wanted. It hardly seemed a speech when he was at the tribune, more like a causerie, though he told very plain truths sometimes to the peuple souverain. He was essentially French, or rather Parisian, knew everybody, and was au courant of all that went on politically and socially, and had a certain blague, that eminently French quality which is very difficult to explain. He was a hard worker, and told me once that what rested him most after a long day was to go to a small boulevard theatre or to read a rather lively yellowbacked novel.

I never heard Gambetta speak, which I always regretted--in fact knew very little of him. He was not a ladies' man, though he had some devoted women friends, and was always surrounded by a circle of political men whenever he appeared in public. (In all French parties, immediately after dinner, the men all congregate together to talk to each other,--never to the women,--so unless you happen to find yourself seated next to some well-known man, you never really have a chance of talking to him.) Gambetta didn't go out much, and as by some curious chance he was never next to me at dinner, I never had any opportunity of talking to him. He was not one of W.'s friends, nor an habitue of the house. His appearance was against him--dark, heavy-looking, with an enormous head.

When I had had enough of the speeches and the bad atmosphere, I used to wander about the terraces and gardens. How many beautiful sunsets I have seen from the top of the terrace or else standing on the three famous pink marble steps (so well known to all lovers of poetry through Alfred de Musset's beautiful verses, "Trois Marches Roses"), seeing in imagination all the brilliant crowd of courtiers and fair women that used to people those wonderful gardens in the old days of Versailles! I went sometimes to the "Reservoirs" for a cup of tea, and very often found other women who had also driven out to get their husbands. We occasionally brought back friends who preferred the quiet cool drive through the Park of St. Cloud to the crowd and dust of the railway. The Count de St. Vallier (who was not yet senator, but deeply interested in politics) was frequently at Versailles and came back with us often. He was a charming, easy talker. I never tired of hearing about the brilliant days of the last Empire, and the fetes at the Tuileries, Compiegne, and St. Cloud. He had been a great deal at the court of Napoleon III, had seen many interesting people of all kinds, and had a wonderful memory. He must have had an inner sense or presentiment of some kind about the future, for I have heard him say often in speaking of the old days and the glories of the Empire, when everything seemed so prosperous and brilliant, that he used often to ask himself if it could be real--Were the foundations as solid as they seemed! He had been a diplomatist, was in Germany at the time of the Franco-German War, and like so many of his colleagues scattered over Germany, was quite aware of the growing hostile feeling in Germany to France and also of Bismarck's aims and ambitions. He (like so many others) wrote repeated letters and warnings to the French Foreign Office, which apparently had no effect. One heard afterward that several letters of that description from French diplomatists in Germany were found unopened in a drawer at the ministry.

It was rather sad, as we drove through the stately alleys of the Park of St. Cloud, with the setting sun s.h.i.+ning through the fine old trees, to hear of all the fetes that used to take place there,--and one could quite well fancy the beautiful Empress appearing at the end of one of the long avenues, followed by a brilliant suite of ladies and ecuyers,--and the echoes of the cor de cha.s.se in the distance. The alleys are always there, and fairly well kept, but very few people or carriages pa.s.s. The park is deserted. I don't think the cor de cha.s.se would awaken an echo or a regret even, so entirely has the Empire and its glories become a thing of the past. A rendezvous de cha.s.se was a very pretty sight.

We went once to Compiegne before I was married, about three years before the war. We went out and breakfasted at Compiegne with a great friend of ours, M. de St. M., a chamberlain or equerry of the Emperor. We breakfasted in a funny old-fas.h.i.+oned little hotel (with a very good cuisine) and drove in a big open break to the forest. There were a great many people riding, driving, and walking, officers of the garrison in uniform, members of the hunt in green and gold, and a fair sprinkling of red coats. The Empress looked charming, dressed always in the uniform of the hunt, green with gold braid, and a tricorne on her head,--all her ladies with the same dress, which was very becoming. One of the most striking-looking of her ladies was the Princess Anna Murat, the present d.u.c.h.esse de Mouchy, who looked very handsome in the tricorne and beautifully fitting habit. I didn't see the Empress on her horse, as we lost sight of them very soon. She and her ladies arrived on the field in an open break. I saw the Emperor quite distinctly as he rode up and gave some orders. He was very well mounted (there were some beautiful horses) but stooped slightly, and had rather a sad face. I never saw him again, and the Empress only long years after at Cowes, when everything had gone out of her life.

The President, Marshal MacMahon, was living at the Prefecture at Versailles and received every Thursday evening. We went there several times--it was my first introduction to the official world. The first two or three times we drove out, but it was long (quite an hour and a quarter) over bad roads--a good deal of pavement. One didn't care to drive through the Park of St. Cloud at night--it was very lonely and dark. We should have been quite helpless if we had fallen upon any enterprising tramps, who could easily have stopped the carriage and helped themselves to any money or jewels they could lay their hands on.

One evening the Seine had overflowed and we were obliged to walk a long distance--all around Sevres--and got to Versailles very late and quite exhausted with the jolting and general discomfort. After that we went out by train--which put us at the Prefecture at ten o'clock. It wasn't very convenient as there was a great rush for carriages when we arrived at Versailles, still everybody did it. We generally wore black or dark dresses with a lace veil tied over our heads, and of course only went when it was fine. The evening was pleasant enough--one saw all the political men, the marshal's personal friends of the droite went to him in the first days of his presidency,--(they rather fell off later)--the Government and Republicans naturally and all the diplomatic corps. There were not many women, as it really was rather an effort to put one's self into a low-necked dress and start off directly after dinner to the Gare St. Lazare, and have rather a rush for places. We were always late, and just had time to scramble into the last carriage.

I felt very strange--an outsider--all the first months, but my husband's friends were very nice to me and after a certain time I was astonished to find how much politics interested me. I learned a great deal from merely listening while the men talked at dinner. I suppose I should have understood much more if I had read the papers regularly, but I didn't begin to do that until W. had been minister for some time, and then worked myself into a nervous fever at all the opposition papers said about him. However, all told, the attacks were never very vicious. He had never been in public life until after the war when he was named deputy and joined the a.s.semblee Nationale at Bordeaux--which was an immense advantage to him. He had never served any other government, and was therefore perfectly independent and was bound by no family traditions or old friends.h.i.+ps--didn't mind the opposition papers at all--not even the caricatures. Some of them were very funny. There was one very like him, sitting quite straight and correct on the box of a brougham, "John Cocher Anglais n'a jamais verse, ni accroche" (English coachman who has never upset nor run into anything).

There were a few political salons. The Countess de R. received every evening--but only men--no women were ever asked. The wives rather demurred at first, but the men went all the same--as one saw every one there and heard all the latest political gossip. Another hostess was the Princess Lize Troubetskoi. She was a great friend and admirer of Thiers--was supposed to give him a great deal of information from foreign governments. She was very eclectic in her sympathies, and every one went to her, not only French, but all foreigners of any distinction who pa.s.sed through Paris. She gave herself a great deal of trouble for her friends, but also used them when she wanted anything. One of the stories which was always told of the Foreign Office was her "pet.i.t paquet," which she wanted to send by the valise to Berlin, when the Comte de St. Vallier was French amba.s.sador there. He agreed willingly to receive the package addressed to him, which proved to be a grand piano.

The privilege of sending packages abroad by the valise of the foreign affairs was greatly abused when W. became Minister of Foreign Affairs.

He made various changes, one of which was that the valise should be absolutely restricted to official papers and doc.u.ments, which really was perhaps well observed.

The Countess de Segur received every Sat.u.r.day night. It was really an Orleanist salon, as they were devoted friends of the Orleans family, but one saw all the moderate Republicans there and the centre gauche (which struggled so long to keep together and be a moderating influence, but has long been swallowed up in the ever-increasing flood of radicalism) and a great many literary men, members of the Inst.i.tute, Academicians, etc. They had a fine old house entre cour et jardin, with all sorts of interesting pictures and souvenirs. Countess de S. also received every day before three o'clock. I often went and was delighted when I could find her alone. She was very clever, very original, had known all sorts of people, and it was most interesting to hear her talk about King Louis Philippe's court, the Spanish marriages, the death of the Duc d'Orleans, the Coup d'Etat of Louis Napoleon, etc. When she first began to receive, during the reign of Louis Philippe, the feeling was very bitter between the Legitimists (extreme Royalist party) and the Orleanists. The Duc d'Orleans often came to them on Sat.u.r.day evenings and always in a good deal of state, with handsome carriage, aides-de-camp, etc. She warned her Legitimist friends when she knew he was coming (but she didn't always know) and said she never had any trouble or disagreeable scenes.

Every one was perfectly respectful to the duke, but the extreme Legitimists went away at once.

We went quite often to Monsieur and Madame Thiers, who received every evening in their big gloomy house in the Place St. Georges. It was a political centre,--all the Republican party went there, and many of his old friends, Orleanists, who admired his great intelligence, while disapproving his politics,--literary men, journalists, all the diplomatists and distinguished strangers. He had people at dinner every night and a small reception afterward,--Madame Thiers and her sister, Mademoiselle Dosne, doing the honours for him. I believe both ladies were very intelligent, but I can't truthfully say they had any charm of manner. They never looked pleased to see any one, and each took comfortable little naps in their armchairs after dinner--the first comers had sometimes rather embarra.s.sing entrances,--but I am told they held very much to their receptions. Thiers was wonderful; he was a very old man when I knew him, but his eyes were very bright and keen, his voice strong, and he would talk all the evening without any appearance of fatigue. He slept every afternoon for two hours, and was quite rested and alert by dinner time. It was an interesting group of men that stood around the little figure in the drawing-room after dinner. He himself stood almost always leaning against the mantelpiece. Prince Orloff, Russian amba.s.sador, was one of the habitues of the salon, and I was always delighted when he would slip away from the group of men and join the ladies in Madame Thiers's salon, which was less interesting. He knew everybody, French and foreign, and gave me most amusing and useful little sketches of all the celebrities. It was he who told me of old Prince Gortschakoff's famous phrase when he heard of Thiers's death--(he died at St. Germain in 1877)--"Encore une lumiere eteinte quand il y en a si peu qui voient clair,"--(still another light extinguished, when there are so few who see clearly). Many have gone of that group,--Casimir Perier, Leon Say, Jules Ferry, St. Vallier, Comte Paul de Segur, Barthelemy St. Hilaire,--but others remain, younger men who were then beginning their political careers and were eager to drink in lessons and warnings from the old statesman, who fought gallantly to the last.

I found the first winter in Paris as the wife of a French deputy rather trying, so different from the easy, pleasant life in Rome. That has changed, too, of course, with United Italy and Rome the capital, but it was a small Rome in our days, most informal. I don't ever remember having written an invitation all the years we lived in Rome. Everybody led the same life and we saw each other all day, hunting, riding, driving, in the villas in the afternoon, generally finis.h.i.+ng at the Pincio, where there was music. All the carriages drew up and the young men came and talked to the women exactly as if they were at the opera or in a ballroom. When we had music or danced at our house, we used to tell some well-known man to say "on danse chez Madame King ce soir." That was all. Paris society is much stiffer, attaches much more importance to visits and reception days.

There is very little informal receiving, no more evenings with no amus.e.m.e.nt of any kind provided, and a small table at one end of the room with orangeade and cakes, which I remember when I was first married (and always in Lent the quartet of the Conservatoire playing cla.s.sical symphonies, which of course put a stop to all conversation, as people listened to the artists of the Conservatoire in a sort of sacred silence). Now one is invited each time, there is always music or a comedie, sometimes a conference in Lent, and a buffet in the dining-room. There is much more luxury, and women wear more jewels.

There were not many tiaras when I first knew Paris society; now every young woman has one in her corbeille.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The foyer of the Opera.]

One of the first big things I saw in Paris was the opening of the Grand Opera. It was a pretty sight, the house crowded with women beautifully dressed and wearing fine jewels which showed very little, the decoration of the house being very elaborate. There was so much light and gilding that the diamonds were quite lost. The two great features of the evening were the young King of Spain (the father of the present King), a slight, dark, youthful figure, and the Lord Mayor of London, who really made much more effect than the King. He was dressed in his official robes, had two sheriffs and a macebearer, and when he stood at the top of the grand staircase he was an imposing figure and the public was delighted with him. He was surrounded by an admiring crowd when he walked in the foyer. Everybody was there and W. pointed out to me the celebrities of all the coteries. We had a box at the opera and went very regularly. The opera was never good, never has been since I have known it, but as it is open all the year round, one cannot expect to have the stars one hears elsewhere. Still it is always a pleasant evening, one sees plenty of people to talk to and the music is a cheerful accompaniment to conversation. It is astounding how they talk in the boxes and how the public submits. The ballet is always good. Halanzier was director of the Grand Opera, and we went sometimes to his box behind the scenes, which was most amusing. He was most dictatorial, occupied himself with every detail,--was consequently an excellent director. I remember seeing him inspect the corps de ballet one night, just before the curtain went up.

He pa.s.sed down the line like a general reviewing his troops, tapping lightly with a cane various arms and legs which were not in position. He was perfectly smiling and good-humoured: "Voyons, voyons, mes pet.i.tes, ce n'est pas cela,"--but saw everything.