Part 18

“On arriving in Paris, my aunt followed a mode of life differing considerably from the sedentary one she had for such a length of time pursued; she rose earlier, took much exercise, and, in consequence, lived somewhat higher than was her wont, for she was habitually a remarkably small eater; this appeared to agree with her _general_ health, for she looked well, and was cheerful; but she began to suffer occasionally (especially in the morning) from oppression and difficulty of breathing. These symptoms, slight at first, she carefully concealed from our knowledge, having always a great objection to medical treatment; but as they increased in force and frequency, she was obliged to reveal them, and medical aid was immediately called in. Dr Léon Simon pronounced there was _énergie du cœur_, but that the symptoms in question proceeded probably from bronchitis—a disease then very prevalent in Paris—that they were nervous, and entailed no danger, and as, after the remedies he prescribed, the attacks diminished perceptibly in violence, and her general health seemed little affected by them, he entertained no serious alarm.

“On the 3rd of June, she was removed from the hotel we had occupied during the seven weeks we had passed in Paris, and entered the residence which my poor aunt had devoted so much pains and attention to the selecting and furnishing of, and that same day dined _en famille_ with the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche (Count d’Orsay’s nephew). On that occasion, my aunt seemed particularly well in health and spirits, and it being a lovely night, we walked home by moonlight. As usual, I aided my aunt to undress—she never allowed her maid to sit up for her—and left her a little after midnight. She passed, it seems, some most restless hours (she was habitually a bad sleeper), and early in the morning, feeling the commencement of one of the attacks, she called for assistance, and Dr Simon was immediately sent for, the symptoms manifesting themselves with considerable violence, and in the meantime, the remedies he had ordered—sitting upright, rubbing the chest and upper stomach with ether, administering ether, internally, etc.—were all resorted to without effect; the difficulty of breathing became so excessive, that the whole of the chest heaved upwards at each inspiration, which was inhaled with a loud whooping noise, the face was swollen and purple, the eyeballs distended, and utterance almost wholly denied, while the extremities gradually became cold and livid, in spite of every attempt to restore the vital heat. By degrees, the violence of the symptoms abated; she uttered a few words; the first, ‘The violence is over, I can breathe freer’; and soon after, ‘_Quelle heure est-il?_’ Thus encouraged, we deemed the danger past; but, alas! how bitterly were we deceived; she gradually sank from that moment, and when Dr Simon, who had been delayed by another patient, arrived, he saw that hope was gone; and, indeed, she expired so easily, so tranquilly, that it was impossible to perceive the moment when her spirit passed away.”

D’Orsay was alone.

The autopsy showed that death was caused by enlargement of the heart. The body was embalmed and lay in the vaults of the Madeleine until the monument at Chambourcy, where was the seat of the de Grammonts, a few miles from St Germain-en-Laye, was ready to receive it. The mausoleum, designed by D’Orsay, stands upon a slight eminence; a railing of bronze encloses a pyramid of granite rising from a square platform of black stone. Entering the burial chamber, against the opposite wall is a copy in bronze of Michael Angelo’s crucified Christ. On either side the chamber stands a sarcophagus—in that to the left lies Lady Blessington. “It stands,” writes Miss Power, “on a hillside, just above the village cemetery, and overlooks a view of exquisite beauty and immense extent, taking in the Seine winding through the fertile valley and the forest of St Germain; plains, villages and far distant hills, and at the back and side it is sheltered by chestnut trees of large size and great age; a more picturesque spot it is difficult to imagine.” The ivy growing over the green turf was sent from Ireland by Bernal Osborne.

On the wall above the tomb of Lady Blessington are two epitaphs, one in Latin by Landor; the other by Barry Cornwall, which runs as follows:—

IN HER LIFETIME SHE WAS LOVED AND ADMIRED, FOR HER MANY GRACEFUL WRITINGS, HER GENTLE MANNERS, HER KIND AND GENEROUS HEART. MEN, FAMOUS FOR ART AND SCIENCE, IN DISTANT LANDS, SOUGHT HER FRIENDSHIP: AND THE HISTORIANS, AND SCHOLARS, THE POETS, AND WITS, AND PAINTERS, OF HER OWN COUNTRY, FOUND AN UNFAILING WELCOME IN HER EVER HOSPITABLE HOME. SHE GAVE, CHEERFULLY, TO ALL WHO WERE IN NEED, HELP, AND SYMPATHY, AND USEFUL COUNSEL; AND SHE DIED LAMENTED BY HER FRIENDS. THEY WHO LOVED HER BEST IN LIFE, AND NOW LAMENT HER MOST, HAVE RAISED THIS TRIBUTARY MARBLE OVER HER PLACE OF REST.

So far truth, and it is not to be expected of an epitaph that it should tell the whole truth.

Requiescat.

XXVIII

D’ORSAY IN DECLINE

In April 1849, D’Orsay writes to Dr Quin from Paris:—

“38 RUE DE LA VILLE L’EVEQUE.

“MON BON QUIN,—J’ai eu un départ imprévu heureusement, que je suis _safe_ de ce côté. Il a fallu que je me décide de partir à 3 hrs de la nuit pour ne pas manquer le Dimanche. Ces dames vous racontent qu’une de mes prèmieres pensées ici ont été pour vous. Vous le voyez par ce peu de mots—aimez moi toujours de loin, car je vous aimais bien de près.—Votre meilleur ami,

“ALFRED.”

The death of Lady Blessington was a blow to him from which he never really recovered. Writing to Madden from Chambourcy on 12th July, Miss Power says:—

“Count d’Orsay would himself have answered your letter, but had not the nerve or the heart to do so; although the subject occupies his mind night and day, he cannot speak of it but to those who have been his fellow-sufferers. It is like an image ever floating before his eyes, which he has got, as it were, used to look upon, but which he cannot yet bear to grasp and feel that it is real. Much as she was to us, we cannot but feel that to him she was all; the centre of his existence, round which his recollections, thoughts, hopes and plans turned, and just at the moment she was about to commence a new mode of life, one that promised a rest from the occupation and anxieties that had for some years fallen to her share, death deprived us of her.”

The first visit that he paid to her tomb had a heart-breaking effect upon him; at one moment he would be stunned, at another driven to frenzy by his grief. What thoughts of past times must have assailed him: of his first meeting with her in London so many years ago; of the long days and nights of delight in Italy; of his marriage, perchance; of Seamore Place, of Gore House; of hours of merriment and of sorrow; of her tried faithfulness to him; of his occasional faithlessness. That his love for her survived even the advance of years we cannot doubt; but the love of man is different far from the love of woman.

In a letter, already partly quoted, to Lane, D’Orsay says, writing early in 1850:—

“Poor Miss Power is very much affected. There is no consolation to offer. The only one that I can imagine, is to think continually of the person lost, and to make oneself more miserable by thinking. It is, morally speaking, an homœopathic treatment, and the only one which can give some relief. You cannot form an idea of the _soulagement_ that I found, in occupying myself in the country (at Chambourcy) in building the monument which I have erected to dear Lady Blessington’s memory. I made it so solid and so fine, that I felt all the time that death was the reality and life only the dream of all around me. When I hear anyone making projects for the future, I laugh, feeling as I do now, that we may to-morrow, without five minutes’ notice, have to follow those we regret. I am prepared for that, with a satisfactory resignation.”

D’Orsay wrote to Forster on April 23rd, 1850:—

“Miss Power has told you how much I love you, and how often we talk about you. The fact is, I am full of reminiscences, and they are such a medley of displeasure and pleasure that I hesitate to write even to those who are most likely to understand me. Just think that I have not even yet written to Edward Bulwer. You’ll understand, I’m sure. To-day I dined with Lamartine and Victor Hugo at Girardin’s.…

“Do not let Fonblanque think I have forgotten him? Give a thousand friendly wishes from me to Dickens and his wife, and embrace my godson for me. I count also on your speaking kindly of me to Macready and his wife, and to the good Maclise. It seems to me almost as if I had only gone away to-day, my recollections are so vivid; it is truly a daguerreotype of the heart that nothing can efface. I adore old England, and long to return there. Never did man so suffer as I have done for my loss.[36]

“I wonder at those religious people who hold religion so high that they quickly find consolation. They do not understand, the idiots, that there is a great, a greater faith in a true sorrow which does not heal.

“Adieu, _mon brave ami_, count always on my affection,

“D’ORSAY.”

He found comfort in the companionship of Lady Blessington’s two nieces, Margaret and Ellen. To a certain extent he avoided mixing in society, but we hear of him now and again.

In 1850 he rented a large studio and some smaller rooms in the house of Theodore Gudin, the marine painter, to which he conveyed all his belongings, and where he settled down to work and sedate entertaining. Here Thackeray visited him:—

“To-day I went to see D’Orsay, who has made a bust of Lamartine,[37] who … is mad with vanity. He has written some verses on his bust, and asks: ‘Who is this? Is it a warrior? Is it a hero? Is it a priest? Is it a sage? Is it a tribune of the people? Is it an Adonis?’ meaning that he is all these things,—verses so fatuous and crazy I never saw. Well, D’Orsay says they are the finest verses that ever were written, and imparts to me a translation which Miss Power has made of them; and D’Orsay believes in his mad rubbish of a statue, which he didn’t make; believes in it in the mad way that madmen do,—that it is divine, and that he made it; only as you look in his eyes, you see that he doesn’t quite believe, and when pressed hesitates, and turns away with a howl of rage. D’Orsay has fitted himself up a charming _atelier_, with arms and trophies, pictures and looking-glasses, the tomb of Blessington, the sword and star of Napoleon, and a crucifix over his bed; and here he dwells without any doubts or remorses, admiring himself in the most horrible pictures which he has painted, and the statues which he gets done for him.”

Lord Lamington gives a curious account of a visit:—

I “found his room all hung with black curtains, the bed and window-curtains were the same; all the souvenirs of one so dear were collected around him.”

Of the friends that rallied around him, Madden names as among the most faithful the ex-King Jérôme and his son, Prince Napoleon, and Emile de Girardin. Of the man of the bust, D’Orsay writes, in April 1850: “Lamartine me disait hier: ‘Plus je vois de représentants du peuple, plus j’aime mes chiens.’”

Early in February 1851 we find Dickens in Paris, stopping at the Hôtel Wagram; D’Orsay dined with him on the 11th and Dickens went in return to the _atelier_ the next day. “He was very happy with us,” he writes, “and is much improved both in spirits and looks.”

In May 1850 Abraham Hayward was in Paris, and dined at Philippe’s with a highly-distinguished company, including Brougham, Alexandre Dumas, Lord Dufferin, the Hon. W. Stuart, a Mr Dundas of Carron, Hayward himself and D’Orsay. Lord Dufferin, who, however, gives 1849 as the date, describes this dinner as “noisy but amusing.” The object of the dinner was the bringing together of Brougham and Dumas:—“Brougham was punctual to the hour, and they were formally introduced by Count d’Orsay, who, observing some slight symptoms of stiffness, exclaimed: ‘_Comment, diable, vous, les deux grands hommes, embrassez-vous donc, embrassez-vous._’ They fraternised accordingly _à la française_, Brougham looking very much during the operation as if he were in the grip of a bear, though nobody could look more cordial and satisfied than Dumas. The dinner was excellent. Some first rate _Clos de Vougeot_, of which Dumas had an accurate foreknowledge, sustained the hilarity of the company; the conversation was varied and animated; each of the distinguished guests took his fair share, and no more than his fair share; and it was bordering on midnight when the party separated.”

The price of the dinner was twenty francs a head, not including the wine, and D’Orsay and Hayward were jointly responsible for the _menu_. “The most successful dishes were the _bisque_, the _fritures Italiennes_, and the _gigot à la Bretonne_,” so says Hayward.

In his latest days he still retained a keen zest for the good things of the table, as is shown by this letter of his to Hayward:—

“PARIS, _1st May 1852_.

“I must confess with regret that the culinary art has sadly fallen off in Paris; and I do not very clearly see how it is to recover, as there are at present no great establishments where the school can be kept up.

“You must have remarked, when you were here, that at all the first-class _restaurants_ you had nearly the same dinner; they may, however, be divided into three categories. Undoubtedly, the best for a great dinner and good wine are the Frères Provençaux (Palais Royal); Philippe (Rue Mont Orgueil), and the Café de Paris; the latter is not always to be counted upon, but is excellent when they give you a _soigné_ dinner. In the second class are Véry (Palais Royal), Vefour (Café Anglais), and Champeaux (Place de la Bourse), where you can have a most _conscientious_ dinner, good without pretension; the situation is central, in a beautiful garden, and you must ask for a _bifstek à la Châteaubriand_. At the head of the third class we must place Bonvallet, on the Boulevard du Temple, near all the little theatres; Defieux, chiefly remarkable for corporation and assembly dinners.… The two best places for suppers are the Maison d’Or and the Café Anglais; and for breakfasts, Tortoni’s, and the Café d’Orsay on the Quai d’Orsay. In the vicinity of Paris, the best _restaurant_ is the Pavilion Henri Quatre, at St Germains, kept by the old cook of the Duchesse de Berri. At none of these places could you find dinners now such as were produced by Ude; by Soyer, formerly with Lord Chesterfield; by Rotival, with Lord Wilton; or by Perron, with Lord Londonderry.… You are now _au fait_ of the pretended French gastronomy. It has emigrated to England, and has no wish to return. We do not absolutely die of hunger here, and that is all that can be said.”

A few other friends were faithful. There was Eugene Sue, a much read man in his day, but his name drags on a precarious existence now as the author of _The Mysteries of Paris_ and _The Wandering Jew_. Probably his chief claim to immortality will be found to be his friendship with D’Orsay, who indeed inspired him with the central figure of “Le Viscomte de Letocère, ou L’Art de Plaire.” He was quite a dandy in his way, though of course not comparable in degree with D’Orsay, and, strange combination, was a bit of a Communist. He gave vent to the true saying that “No one had any right to superfluity”—not even excepting D’Orsay?—“while any one was in want of necessaries.” Yet this is a description of his manner of “doing himself:”—

“It is impossible to convey an idea of this luxury, of the sumptuousness of those caprices, of those whims of all kinds: here a dining-room, where the sideboards display plate, porcelain, and crystal, with pictures and flowers, to add to the pleasures of the table all the pleasures of the eyes; there an inner gallery, where pictures, statuettes, drawings, and engravings, reproduce subjects the most calculated to excite the imagination. Here is a library full of antiques, whose bookcases contain works bound with unheard-of luxury, where objects of art are multiplied with an absence of calculated affectation, which appears as if wishing to say they came there naturally. Daylight, shaded by the painted glass windows, and curtains of the richest stuff, gives to this place an air of mystery, invites to silence and to study, and produces those eccentric inspirations which M. Sue gives to the public. A desk, richly carved, receives sundry manuscripts of the romance-writer, the numerous _homages_ sent to Monsieur, as the valet expresses himself, from all the corners of the globe.… Everywhere may be seen gold, silver, silk, velvet, and soft carpets.… A vast drawing-room, furnished and decorated with all imaginable care, exactly reproduces that of one of the heroines of romance of Monsieur Eugene Sue, and there have been carved on the woodwork of a Gothic mantelpiece medallions representing the Magdalen falling at the feet of our Saviour, who tells her that her sins will be forgiven her, because her love has been strong.… A small gallery, lined with odoriferous plants, leads to a circular walk, which surrounds a garden cultivated in the most expensive manner, and there is a fine piece of water, with numerous swans in it. The walk is a _chef-d’œuvre_ of comfort, for it is alike protected from the wind and the rain, being covered with a dome. It is enclosed with balustrades, covered with creeping plants of the choicest nature. It is a sort of terrestrial paradise … and beyond it is a park, admirably laid out with kiosques, rustic cottages, elegant bridges, and a preserve for pheasants, which secures myriads of birds for the shooting excursions of the illustrious Communist, whose keepers exercise a severe look-out to prevent any person from touching the game.” A paradise almost worthy of being the home of D’Orsay!

Sue rightly appreciated D’Orsay, and wrote thus of him to Lady Blessington: “Je quitte Alfred avec une vraie tristesse; plus je le connais, plus j’apprecie ce bon, ce vaillant cœur, si chaud, si génereux pour ceux qu’il aime.”

Arsène Houssaye had seen D’Orsay at a dinner at Lamartine’s, but had not spoken with him. Houssaye wrote him down as a very fascinating man, “with a smiling air which comes from and speaks to the heart.” Rachel came into Houssaye’s office to meet him.

“It’s natural I should find you here,” he said, “for it was to see you I came to see Arsène Houssaye. You play _Phèdre_ to-night; I should count it great luck to be there, but there’s not a single seat to be got either in the stalls or the balcony.”

“True,” said Manager Houssaye, “but there’s my own box, which I offer you with all my heart.”

“Good! I accept it as an act of friendship, for it’s the best in the house. I’ll offer it to the Duchesse de Grammont, who will come with Guiche.”

The evening was a great success for all concerned, and Rachel gracefully said—“Comment ne jouerais-je pas bien quand je vois dans l’avant-scène deux Hippolytes?”

D’Orsay and Houssaye became quite good friends, and the latter frequently visited the Count in his studio, which he describes as “being at once the _salon_, studio, work-room, smoking-room, fitted with divans, couches and hammocks.” D’Orsay made a small medallion portrait of his visitor, and chatted much about Byron, from whom he showed a curious letter in which the poet says: “If I started life again, I would live unknown in Paris; I would not write a word, not even to women; but one cannot start life afresh, which is lucky!”

A very different view, however, is that which now follows:—

Count Horace de Viel Castel notes: “The journals say that Count d’Orsay has received the commission for a marble statue of Prince Jérôme to be placed at Versailles. So much the worse for Versailles.

“The Count is an old ‘lion,’ whom nobody now knows or receives. He has lived with his mother-in-law, Lady Blessington, the blue-stocking of the _keepsakes_, and with everyone but his wife, Lady Henrietta d’Orsay, who was the mistress of the Duke d’Orleans, of Antoine de Noailles, and a host of lesser stars.

“Count d’Orsay for twenty years lived on the aristocracy and the tradespeople of London. Steeped in debt, he has now turned artist, backed by a following of nonentities.… Every year he disfigures some contemporaneous celebrity either in marble or plaster; last time it was Lamartine.

“D’Orsay has still great pretensions to elegance, and dresses like no one else, with a display of embroidered linen, satin, gold chains, and hair all disordered.”

Accusations of a more serious character also he brings against him, even that he tried to persuade Jérôme Bonaparte that he was his son, so that he might receive some place or promotion.

Then on December 2nd, 1851, came the thunderclap of the _coup d’état_, when the Prince who had become a President created himself an Emperor, and at the same time appears to have put an end to his friendship toward D’Orsay. Shortly after the event, D’Orsay was dining with a large company, and naturally the _coup d’état_ came up for discussion and comment. D’Orsay was quite outspoken in his condemnation, and said: “It is the greatest political swindle that ever has been practised in the world!” Which remark very naturally created considerable dismay in the circle; it is not wise to express too freely adverse opinions of emperors—while they are alive.

In Abraham Hayward’s _Correspondence_, considerable light is thrown upon D’Orsay’s opinions of Napoleon and the political situation in Paris. On 17th January 1850, he writes from 38 Rue de la Ville l’Evêque:—

“MON CHER HAYWARD,—J’aurois dû vous répondre plus tôt, pour vous remercier de l’article que vous m’avez envoyé. J’attendois d’avoir vu Louis Napoléon. Nous voici de retour à Paris, établi pour l’Hiver qui est des plus _rudes_. Les affaires ici vont mal; l’amour propre en souffrance fait tous les grands révolutionnaires en France, il n’y a pas dix hommes de bonne foi dans ce beau pays; les gens opposent dans la Chambre les lois qu’ils avait eux-mêmes proposées anciennement. Thiers et Berryer, bavards de profession, sont si versés d’être mis de côté, qu’ils combinent une conjuration de Catalina. Les élections de Paris montreront définitivement de quel côté est le vent; en attendant, dans le midi, le gouvernement est obligé de donner son appui à des candidats légitimistes, plutôt que de voir des extrêmes rouges remporter la victoire, c’est bien tomber de Charybdis dans Scylla. Napoléon a le plus grand désir _to run straight_, mais les _crossins_ et _jostlings_ cherchent à l’empêcher, vous devez vous en apercevoir.… Rappelez-moi au bon souvenir de mes amis d’Angleterre, j’y suis souvent en pensée, et malgré que cela soit toujours avec un grand sentiment de tristesse je préfère cela aux gaietés de Paris. Votre très dévoué,

“D’ORSAY.”