Memoirs of the Prince of Joinville. Prince of Joinville
to feel quite frightened, when, after listening to Anatole de Montesquiou's ghost stories, of an evening, they had to go through the Guise Gallery, with all its dreadful portraits which seemed to step out of their frames to the dreary whistle of the sea-wind. But all the same we loved the old place. It was quite out of the common run. Just as we used to go and see Madame la Dauphine at Vichy from Randan, we used to go from Eu to see Madame la Duchesse de Berri, at Dieppe, which she had made her summer residence. We accompanied her once to the lighthouse at Ailly under the escort of her guard of honour, a squadron of Cauchoise women on horseback. In illo tempore—those days; all Norman women, and those of the Caux district especially, did their errands and their marketing on horseback. There were very few vehicles to be seen. The prettiest of the peasant girls had been selected; and it was really a pleasure to see them prancing, to the number of forty, round the Duchess's carriage, with their captain and lieutenant riding at each door, all dressed alike, in white, in the full Cauchoise costume, chignon and cap with lace lappets, each on her pacing hack, which she managed to perfection. When a halt was made, the squadron dismounted, each girl holding her horse—a most charming effect it made in the Norman landscape. I never heard where the guard was quartered, but I am quite convinced there never can have been any difficulty about finding the necessary billets. I M de Murat, Prefect of the Lower Seine, was the originator of this idea. He was a charming fellow, but so absent, that one morning, when the Duchesse de Berri sent for him, he hastily put on his sword and his smartest uniform, and hurried in his three-cornered hat to wait on Madame, without discovering, till he got there, that he had forgotten his breeches!
[Illustration: Ladies and men on horseback.]
A great change came into my life in 1828. I was ten years old; my turn had come; I was sent to school, and entered the College Henri IV. Ay di me! as the Spanish lament has it. When I pass by Saint-Etienne du Mont, and look at the Tower of Clovis, and the great walls of that learned prison in which I spent three years, the memories that come back to me are not pleasant—far from it. My life there was mortally tedious, and I did no good whatsoever. My whole education has been gained by reading (I was and I have always remained passionately fond of reading), by observation, and by listening to those people who know how to hold my attention. I listened with all my ears and all my heart to the Abbe Dupanloup, when he gave me religious instruction; to Pouillet, when he taught us physical science; to the great Arago, when he put a sextant into my hands for the first time in my life. Later on, to Michelet, when I attended the course of historical lectures he gave to my sister Clementine; and later yet, to the lessons on law which were given us by M. Rossi, the minister of Pius IX. But Greek and Latin, and hours spent over an exercise or a translation with a fat dictionary to keep me company! Oh, mercy on me! From the scholastic point of view I was simply a DUNCE, nothing but a dunce. Yet I managed to scramble one prize—the shabbiest of them all—the second for Latin versions in the seventh class! I was presented with my reward at the prize distribution, to the tune of "Vive Henri IV." Vive ce roi vaillant, ce diable a quatre . . .! "At the same moment I received, from a stout red-faced gentleman, a wet kiss—much too wet a kiss—which gave me no pleasure whatsoever. I recollect the porter at the college was nicknamed "Boit-sans-soif"; that my greatest joy was to go out by his door, after evening school, and go down the Rue de la Montagne or the Rue des Sept-Voies playing a thousand pranks as I went, and that my grief used be keen indeed when I had to go back the next morning. Yet some good
comrades I had whom I dearly loved, and amongst whom I improved in playing various games, and learned the art of both giving and receiving kicks and cuffs. But, take it all in all, my schooldays are, as they say in mathematics, "a minus quantity" to me.
CHAPTER II
1830-1833
[Illustration: Boy waving flag and shooting a gun.]
T
he Revolution of 1830 broke out during my schooldays. I was twelve years old—too young therefore, by far, to estimate its character, political or social, correctly. I only remember that it filled me with the deepest astonishment. Never having witnessed any kind of disturbance, I had not the faintest notion what a revolution might be like. I had always seen the King and the Royal Family treated with a respect which, indeed, they have never forfeited, and I was a hundred miles from the thought that they could possibly be banished. It is a fact, nevertheless, that the beginning of 1830 differed from other years, and that something seemed to be brewing. Strange remarks were made at school, over and over again, even among us little ones; our tutors, all of them connected with the press, were what was called in those days "dans le mouvement"—abreast of the times, and they never stopped talking politics. Where were they not talked, indeed? It was a downright disease. The speech of M. de Salvandy, on the occasion of the fete given by my father at the Palais-Royal in May, that year, in honour of the King of Naples, my uncle and godfather, may be called to mind. "A real Neapolitan fete indeed, Sire!—for we are dancing on a volcano."
And a truly Neapolitan fete it was, not only on account of the presence of the sovereigns of the two Sicilies, and of the ideal beauty of the night, but also by reason of the tarantella, a sort of ballet, which was danced in the middle of the evening, by Madame la Duchesse de Berri and thirty of the most beautiful young ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in Neapolitan costume, among whom I think I still see, compact of grace and elegance, the lovely Denise du Roure, soon to become Comtesse d'Hulst. The tarantella was followed by a polonaise, led by Comte Rodolphe Appony and the Duchesse de Rauzan,
resplendent in blue and gold. A more sedate dance, this, performed by noble lords and ladies, all in Hungarian costume, and escorted by pages, bearing their respective banners. It would have been hard to say which of the ladies taking part in these two dances bore off the palm for aristocratic beauty. They were worthy representatives of their race.
The Royal Family, headed by Charles X., was present at this fete, whereat pre-eminence of every kind was gathered together and every class represented, and where cordiality seemed universal. After the entrance of the two sets of dancers in costume, the King went out to walk on the terrace which runs along the top of the Galerie d'Orleans. The night was so warm and lovely that the ladies were walking about in their low gowns, and the dazzling illuminations made it as bright as day. The courtyard of the Palais-Royal was closed, but an immense crowd filled the gardens, trying to see as much as possible of the gay doings. I was running in front of Charles X. as he walked along, and I saw his tall form advance to the parapet of the terrace on the garden side, with that truly royal air he had about him. He waved his hand several times in greeting to the crowd, which at that short distance, and under that brilliant light, must have recognized him perfectly, not by his features only, but by his full uniform of Colonel-General of the Guard, and also by the retinue that followed him. But there was no shout of "Vive le Roi!" nor any hostile one either. The surging crowd only seemed to be rather more stirred, and the same uproar rose from it as one may hear on a firework night, when some fine set-piece is set alight. One last wave of the hand, with a "Bonjour, mon peuple!" which the King spoke half in jest and half in earnest, and Charles X. departed. I was never to see him again. Immediately afterwards, or nearly so, the crowd laid hands on the chairs in the garden, piled them up on the grass plots where the midday gun stood, and set them on fire. The troops had to be called out to clear the
garden, and that first scene of public not, so new to me, filled me with astonishment and rage as well.
Shortly after this fete came the taking of Algiers—a Proof of the national strength, of political courage and foresight—a brilliant military exploit, performed under the "drapeau blanc," which might well have roused the enthusiasm of the nation, tightened the bond between France and her king, and reconciled the people to their ancient flag. It did nothing of the kind. The taking of Algiers was received like an ordinary piece of news, and the tricolour flag was regretted as deeply as ever. For the platform and the press—but especially the press, the mightiest instrument of destruction of modern times—had done their work. The days of the Government of the Restoration were numbered. Not that it had been blameworthy. Both at home and abroad it had certainly been the best of all the administrations that had succeeded each other since 1789. But it had endeavoured to govern like a patriarch, for the present good and the future greatness of France, and to withstand the assaults