My First Years as a Frenchwoman, 1876-1879. Mary King Waddington
les vendredis à l'Institut, 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-fashioned 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.]
[Illustration: Monsieur Theirs.]
The position of the German Embassy in Paris was very difficult, and unfortunately their first ambassador 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 ambassador, 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 Embassy came in, yet ours was a neutral house. When my engagement was announced one of my great friends at the German Embassy (Count Arco) said to me: "This is the end, I suppose, of our friendship; 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 fête—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 passing at a gallop—also the battalion of St. Cyr, the great French military school. The final charge of the cavalry is very fine. Masses 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 passing—the regular, continuous movement was fatiguing. All the ambassadors 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-Elysées—in full uniform, with a brilliant staff of foreign officers and military attachés. It was a pretty sight and attracted great attention. Some of the foreign uniforms are very striking and the French love a military show.
[Illustration: Marshal MacMahon.]
For many years after the war the German military attaché returned from the review unobserved 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 ambassador in England, I was godmother of the daughter of a German-English cousin living in London. The godfather 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-pricks which came at intervals from Germany. Bismarck sent me a telegram regretting the absence of the godmother 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 très désagréable pour vous, chère amie, cette association 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 flourishing 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 associated 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 Assembly, 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 "Médaille Militaire"—the grand cordon of the Legion d'Honneur, the baton de Maréchal 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 attitude 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