The Comedy & Tragedy of the Second Empire. Edward Legge

however, was supported by a few, among whom was the celebrated Lamartine. Another of the friendly minority declared that His Majesty was doing the right thing in marrying a lady whom he loved, and refusing to bargain for “some scrofulous German Princess with feet as large as a man’s.”

      Before the projected marriage was officially announced, Princesse Mathilde gave a ball. Among the guests were the Emperor, the Duc de Morny, the Comtesse de Montijo, and her daughter. The Marquise de Contades wrote, in later years, of this entertainment: “The Emperor, as usual, paid the greatest attention to Mlle. de Montijo. For more than an hour she and the Emperor were engaged in a confidential chat, which no one had the audacity to interrupt. Mlle. de Montijo bears herself easily and gracefully. She and her mother both hope for a marriage, and all their diplomacy is directed to securing it. Everybody courts Mlle. de Montijo, curries favour with her, and seeks her intervention with the Emperor on their behalf. Ministers make much of her. She goes to all the fêtes. She is the actual rising sun.”

      Mlle. de Montijo, Comtesse de Téba, in November and December, 1852, and in the following month, monopolized attention in Paris. When she appeared in her box at the opera (Mauget tells us) people had no ears for the music, but they had eyes to see the young lady’s peerless loveliness and graceful bearing. Nothing else mattered. She looked the Empress. The courrieristes of the papers followed her about; nothing escaped their lynx eyes. In newspaper argot, she made splendid “copy.”

      “Yesterday and to-day the Comtesse de Téba, accompanied by her mother, the Comtesse de Montijo, visited several shops on the boulevards and in the Rue Vivienne. The future Empress, being recognized by the crowd, was most sympathetically greeted. The hearts of all were conciliated by her simple yet distinguished manners, and by the alms which she bestowed upon several poor women whom she encountered during her stroll.”

      Sharp-tongued ladies like the Marquise de Taisey-Chatenoy (but this amiable person is not of much account) had an abundance of cutting things to say of Mlle. de Montijo when she had won the imperial crown. For example: “The Empress has a great taste for jeux d’esprit—I do not know why, for it is not by excess of brilliancy in this direction that she shines.” And M. Irénée Mauget[33] is even more unflattering: “Of changeable disposition, she lacked judgment and reason. She was excessively nervous. Very impulsive, she acted under the influence of good or bad moods, and slighted and wounded many people by her unjust anger, regretting afterwards the pain she had caused. She was not untruthful. … Her sudden elevation, although not unforeseen, dazzled her—stunned her somewhat. Not having been born to occupy a throne, the transition was too brusque. She lacked proportion, and wanted to appear too much the Empress. She continued to be very much attached and very faithful to some of those who had been her intimates in early days, but she was capricious to most of the others, giving and withholding her favours with disconcerting fickleness. She was not loved like the Emperor. When she appeared in public she acknowledged with inimitable grace the salutations she received, and the French, very gallant, were won by this charm. … Had she been solidly educated she would have been capable of exercising the absolute power which she coveted.”

      M. Mauget apparently shares M. Rochefort’s unfavourable opinion of the Comtesse de Montijo, who, simultaneously with her daughter’s advancement in life, was said to have become miserly. “She made purchases right and left, and sent the bills to her daughter, sometimes to the Emperor. But Napoleon, always strongly épris of Eugénie, often shut his eyes at his mother-in-law’s demands and revelled in the delights of the honeymoon. Was it the same with Eugénie? We may be permitted to doubt it. What she loved especially in her husband was the Emperor.”

      The Madrid journals waxed enthusiastic over the engagement—e.g., the España (January 26, 1853):

      It is a Spanish woman who is going to impart to the throne of a great nation the lustre of her grace. The Comtesse de Téba, who was the ornament of our aristocracy, is about to assume the purple of the Cæsars, and share the destiny of him who is at once the heir of the man of the century and the conqueror of anarchy. … The lustre of a throne, however brilliant, will not eclipse the lustre of Marie Eugénie’s eyes, and the fortune which is crowning her with all its gifts will not alter the noble serenity of her heart. For the glory of our country we express the wish, and have the firm expectation, that the former pearl of Castilian aristocracy will be the best of French women.

      The Duchesse de Dino wrote:

      Nice,

       January 21, 1853.

      Letters received here from Paris always turn upon the same subject—the marriage of Louis Napoleon. I read in the newspapers the surprising speech which he made to the Senate and the Constituted Bodies [announcing his marriage].

      The sister of Mme. de Montijo married Lesseps, formerly a Consul. There is a little relationship toute gentille! Eugénie has chosen as her witnesses the Duc d’Ossuna and the Marquis de Bedmar, who have promised to lead her to the altar. They wanted to marry the son of Jérôme[34] to Mlle. de Wagram, but he recoiled in view of the Clary relationship, which he deemed beneath his dignity. That is flattering to the King of Sweden! What tohu-bohu all this is!

      Nice,

       January 22, 1853.

      It is decidedly a love marriage which Louis Napoleon is making. They tell me that Mlle. de Montijo, who was educated at a Paris pension, is very beautiful, and of high birth on her father’s side. Her mother is the daughter of an English Consul, which explains the English kind of beauty—not at all Spanish—of the new Empress; for it is not a question of morganatic forms; so, point de princesse. I am charmed. But what a responsibility, at the age and with the health of the sposo, to have a young wife, beautiful and Southern! And that in the Bonaparte entourage and in the atmosphere which envelopes it.

      Here are some other details, which I have gleaned from my letters from Paris, which are full of nothing but the marriage.

      Mlle. de Montijo’s age is from twenty-five to twenty-seven; of great beauty, with auburn hair, which she gets from her Irish mother; she has a bold look. It is said that, as they were playing cache-cache in the saturnalia of Compiègne, the Emperor discovered her concealed behind the curtain of a room, where, believing he was alone with her, he tried to embrace her, and that she pushed him away, saying, “Not before I am Empress.” Another person who was similarly concealed professes to have heard these words.

      Legitimists and Orleanists are charmed with this matrimonal affair and with all that it promises.

      Nice [after the marriage].

      The Empress is very beautiful. They say her only imperfection is that she looks much taller when seated than she actually is when standing up. She says that, in sacrificing her freedom and her youth, she gave more than she received; but she lets herself be adored. The ladies have a down-on-the-ground look, but decent. The decorations of Notre Dame were splendid, but the Cardinals did not make much of an appearance; in fact, excepting M. de Bonald, not one of them is of good family.

      On returning [from the cathedral to the Palace] the imperial carriage, which was surmounted by a large crown, was passing under the archway of the Pavillon de l’Horloge when the horses stopped, unable to proceed. The surprised coachman whipped them, and then the obstacle to their progress fell: it was that crown, which was too high to pass under the arch, and, when it fell, was broken to atoms. Ominous!

      Nice,

       February 6, 1853.

      Mme. d’Avenas writes to my daughter that two days before her marriage the Empress Eugénie went to [the convent of] the Sacré-Cœur, Paris, in which she had passed some years of her infancy—Mme. d’Avenas happened to be there also, and thought the Empress charming, natural, and simple—wanting to see once more all the souvenirs of her youth, even to the lay-sister who used to wash her. This visit has had a good effect in the pious world.

      Another correspondent wrote to the Duchesse de Dino’s son (February 15), telling him of the flood of sonnets, pamphlets, and riddles which inundated the Empress’s salons. “As to me,” this unknown