Part 17

When everything was at last ready, we sat down around this makeshift luncheon-table and, with a splendid will, did justice to our meal, which, I may say, was excellent. The proprietor of the Hôtel Bristol, who had undertaken to pack the hampers, had had the happy thought of adding a couple of bottles of champagne; and these were the cause of an incident that crowned the gaiety of this merry lunch. The prince declared that he would open them himself. Asking for the first bottle, he prepared to draw the cork with a thousand cunning precautions; but he certainly failed to reckon with the extraordinary impatience of that accursed cork, which was no sooner freed of its restraining bonds than it escaped from the prince's hands and went off like a pistol-shot, while the wine drenched the princess's dress. The prince was very sorry, but the princess laughed the thing off and declared that "it didn't stain." She had her skirt wiped down at once with water; and the luncheon finished as gaily as it began.

I could not give a more striking instance than the story which I have just told of the charming simplicity of this princess, in whom all the domestic virtues are so prettily personified. As I was taking leave of her on board the ship that was to convey the illustrious travellers from Calais to Dover:

"Do come and see us in England," she said. "I should like to show you my children: you have never met them."

"Madam," I replied, "I would do so with pleasure, if my duties allowed me to take a holiday. Meanwhile, may I respectfully remind Your Royal Highness that, on the last journey, you promised me the young princes' photograph?"

"That's true," she answered, "I forgot all about it. But, this time, wait." And, taking her handkerchief from her waistband, the princess made a knot in it. "Now I'm sure to remember," she added with a smile.

And, two days later, I received a splendid photograph of the children, adorned with their mother's signature.

Nearly three years have passed since this last journey and I have not had the honour of seeing King George and Queen Mary since. Nevertheless, they are good enough to think of me sometimes, as will be seen by the following affectionate letter which my friend Sir Arthur Bigge sent me on my retirement:

"MARLBOROUGH HOUSE, "PALL MALL, S. W. "Feb'y 28th, 1909.

"_My Dear Paoli_,--

"Your letter to me of the 24th inst. has been laid before the Prince and Princess of Wales, who received with feelings of deep regret the announcement that you had asked for and obtained permission to retire. Their Royal Highnesses are indeed sorry to think that they will never again have the advantage of your valuable services so efficiently and faithfully rendered and which always greatly conduced to the pleasure and comfort of Their Royal Highnesses' stay in France. At the same time the Prince and Princess rejoice to know that you will now enjoy a well-merited repose after 42 years of an anxious and strenuous service, and they trust that you may live to enjoy many years of health and happiness.

"Their Royal Highnesses are greatly touched by your words of loyal devotion and thank you heartily for these kind sentiments.

"As to myself, the thought of your retirement reminds me that a precious link with the past and especially with the memory of your great and beloved Queen Victoria is now broken. I remember so well the first time we met at Modane when Her Majesty was travelling to Italy and you will ever be inseparably connected in my thoughts with those happy days spent in Her Majesty's service in France. I can well imagine what interest you will find in writing your book of reminiscences.

"Good-bye, my dear Paoli, and believe me to be

"Your old and devoted friend, "ARTHUR BIGGE."

3.

I intended, in this chapter, to speak of those members of the royal family with whom my long and frequent service about the person of Queen Victoria gave me the occasion to come into contact; and I must not omit to mention a princess now no more, a woman of lofty intelligence and great heart, whom life did not spare the most cruel sorrows after granting her the proudest destinies. I refer to the Empress Frederick of Germany, eldest daughter of Queen Victoria and mother of William II.

I made her acquaintance in rather curious circumstances. It was at the naval review held by Queen Victoria in 1897, on the occasion of her diamond jubilee. As a special favour I was invited to see this magnificent sight on board the _Alberta_ and I was gazing with wondering eyes at the majestic fleet of iron-clads through which the royal yacht had just begun to steam, when I heard a voice behind me say, in the purest Tuscan:

"_Bongiorno, Signor Paoli ..._"

I turned round. A woman, still young in bearing, though her face was crowned with grey hair under a widow's bonnet, stood before me with outstretched hand:

"I see," she said, smiling at my surprise, "that you do not know me. I am the Empress Frederick. I have often heard of you and I wanted to know you and to thank you for your attentions to my mother."

I bowed low, thinking what an uncommon occurrence it must be for a Frenchman to meet a German empress, talking Italian, on an English boat; and she continued:

"I know that you are a Corsican; and that is why I am speaking to you in your native language, which I learnt at Florence and which I love as much as I do my own."

The Empress Frederick, in fact, was remarkably well-educated, as are all the English princesses. She knew French as fluently as Italian and hardly ever spoke German, except to the chamberlain, Count Wedel. I was able to see, during our conversation, that she took a lively interest in my country; she asked me a thousand questions about France and particularly about French artists:

"I am a great admirer of M. Detaille's works," she said and added, after a pause, "He is very like the Emperor, my son. Don't you think so?"

I thought it the moment for prudence:

"I have never had the honour of seeing the Emperor William," I replied, "and therefore I cannot tell Your Imperial Majesty if the resemblance has struck me."

She then changed the conversation and spoke of the celebrations which were being prepared in her mother's honour.

The only other occasion on which I saw her was two years later, when she crossed French soil to go from England to Italy. This time, she was nervous and ill at ease:

"Do you assure me," she asked, as she landed at Calais, "that I shall meet with no unpleasantness between this and the Italian frontier?"

"Why, what are you afraid of, Ma'am?" I asked.

"You forget, M. Paoli, that I am the widow of the German Emperor and that, as such, I am no favourite in this country. Suppose I were recognised! There are memories, as you know, which French patriotism refuses to dismiss."

She was alluding not only to the events of 1870, but to the bad impression made in Paris by the visit which she had paid, a few years earlier--without any ulterior motive--to the ruined palace of Saint-Cloud, forgetting that it was destroyed and sacked by the Prussians. I reassured her, nevertheless, and said that I was prepared to vouch for the respect that would be shown her.

The journey, I need hardly say, passed off without a hitch. The Empress, with her suite, entered the private saloon-carriage of her brother, the Prince of Wales, which was coupled to the Paris mail-train and afterwards transferred to the Nice express, for the Empress was travelling to Bordighera, on the Italian Riviera.

She dared not leave her carriage during the short stop which was made in Paris; but, when we arrived at Marseilles the next morning, she said:

"I should awfully like to take a little exercise. I have been eighteen hours in this carriage!"

"But please do, Ma'am," I at once replied. "I promise you that nothing disagreeable will happen to you."

She thereupon decided to take my advice. She stepped down on the platform and walked about among the passengers. She was received on every side with marks of deferential respect--for, of course, her _incognito_ had been betrayed, as every _incognito_ should be--and suddenly felt encouraged to such an extent that, from that moment, she alighted at every stop. Gradually, indeed, as her confidence increased, she took longer and longer in returning to her carriage, so much so that she very nearly lost the train at Nice; and, when I took leave of her at Bordighera, she said, as she gave me her hand to kiss:

"Forgive me, my fears were absurd. Now, I have but one wish, to make a fresh stay in France. Who knows? Perhaps next year."

I do not know what circumstances prevented her from fulfilling her hopes; and the next time I heard of her was at Queen Victoria's funeral. I was astonished not to see her there and asked the reason of her chamberlain, Count Wedel, who sat beside me in St. George's Chapel at Windsor.

"Alas," he said, "our poor Empress is confined to her bed by a terrible illness! Think how she must suffer: her body is nothing but a living sore!"

A few months later, she was dead.

4.

I had only a more or less fleeting vision of this amiable sovereign, whose fate, though not so tragic as that of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, was but little happier. On the other hand, I had opportunities of coming into much more frequent and constant contact with two of her sisters, Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein and Princess Henry of Battenberg.

Closely though these two princesses resemble each other in the admirable filial affection which they showed their mother, they are entirely different in disposition. Whereas the elder, who is generally known as the Princess Christian, is always ready to talk to those about her, Princess Beatrice, the younger, is comparatively silent and almost self-contained, but without the least affectation on her part: in fact, I have seldom met a princess more simple in her habits or more easy of access to poor folk. This contrast in their attitude towards life comes, I think, from a difference in their temperaments and tastes. The Princess Christian has inherited the homely virtues of the German princesses: she interests herself mainly in philanthropic and social questions. The Princess Henry, on the contrary, feels a marked attraction for literature and the arts, which she cultivates with a real talent; and, like all those who are endowed with an active brain, she loves to isolate herself from the outside world.

I must say that I never knew the Princess Christian as well as I did her sister, for the very good reason that she did not accompany Queen Victoria to France as often as the Princess Henry. Her arrival at Nice was usually later than that of the Queen and she very seldom remained until the end of Her Majesty's stay.

I remember, however, that, one year, they returned to England together; and, in this connexion, I can tell a story which goes to show how keenly alive the great of this earth can sometimes be to the smallest attentions paid them. The royal train, which had left Nice in the morning, pulled up, at five o'clock in the afternoon, as usual, at a little country station between Avignon and Tarascon, in order to enable the Queen to take her tea without being inconvenienced by the jolting of the wheels. Seeing me pacing the platform, the Princess Christian stepped out and walked up and down beside me. In the course of our conversation, she began to talk about her children:

"When I think," she said, with a certain melancholy, "that my daughter Victoria will be thirty years old to-morrow--for to-morrow is her birthday! How time flies!"

Princess Victoria was also one of the travelling-party. As soon, therefore, as the Princess Christian had left me, I scribbled a telegram to the special commissary at Caen, in Normandy, where we were to stop for a few minutes, on the following day, on our way to Cherbourg, and told him to order a bouquet and hand it to me as the train passed through.

The next morning, when we entered the station at Caen, I found my bouquet awaiting me: a modest spray consisting of all the rustic flowers of the fields which my worthy commissary had had gathered in the morning dew. I at once presented it to Princess Victoria, wishing her many happy returns of her birthday; and I cannot say which of the four of us--the Queen, the two princesses or I--was most touched by the loving gratitude which they all three expressed to me.

5.

But, as I have said above, of all Queen Victoria's daughters, the one whom I knew best was the Princess Henry of Battenberg. In point of fact, she hardly ever left her august mother's side from the day when her married bliss received so cruel a blow in the tragic death of her husband and when the distress of mind found a refuge and peace in the affection of that same mother, whose heart was always filled with the most delicate compassion for every sorrow.

A close link had been formed between those two women: the Princess Henry had become the confidant of Queen Victoria's thoughts and was also, very often, the intermediary of her acts of discreet munificence. At Nice, she occupied the magnificent Villa Liserb, close to the hotel at which the Queen resided. Here I watched the games and the physical development of the princess's four children, Prince Alexander, Prince Maurice, Prince Leopold and little Princess Ena, little thinking that I should live to see the heavy crown of Charles V and Philip II placed upon the pretty, golden hair which was then still done up with pale-blue ribbons. Day after day, for many years, I saw those same children hail their grandmother's appearance with cries of delight.

The daily drive in the grounds of the Villa Liserb was in fact, one of Queen Victoria's favourite pleasures. She went there in her chair drawn by Jacquot, the white donkey, solemnly led by the Hindoo servant whose gaudy attire, like a monstrous flower, struck a loud note of colour against the green of the surrounding foliage. Slowly and smoothly, with infinite care, the little carriage advanced along the garden-paths which the pines, eucalyptus and olive trees shaded with their luxurious tresses. The Queen, holding the reins for form's sake, would cast her eyes from side to side in search of her grandchildren, who were usually crouching in the flower-beds or hiding behind the trees, happy in constantly renewing the innocent conspiracy of a surprise--always the same--which they prepared for their grandmother and which consisted in suddenly bursting out around her.

Or else a shuttlecock of a hoop would stray between Jacquot's legs.

"Stop, Jacquot!" cried the children.

And Jacquot, best-tempered of donkeys, would stop all the more readily as he knew that his patience would be rewarded with a lump of sugar.

The Princess Henry of Battenberg spent long hours in this wonderful smiling oasis, dividing her time between the education of her children, which she supervised and directed in person, and her own intellectual pursuits, to which she devoted herself ardently. She used to draw and paint very prettily, at that time; and she never forgot to take her sketch-book with her when accompanying the Queen on her drives in the neighbourhood of Nice. She sat and sketched while tea was being prepared in some picturesque spot where the royal carriage regularly made a prolonged halt.

She was a first-rate musician, played the harmonium on Sundays in the chapel of the Hôtel Regina and often went into the Catholic churches during the services in order to listen to the sacred music, which she preferred above all others. In this way, she came to appreciate more particularly the talent of a young organist called Pons, now a distinguished composer, who, at that time, used to play the organ at the church of Notre Dame at Nice. This artist, who was a native of the south of France, possessed a remarkable gift of improvisation which amazed the princess so greatly that she was always speaking of it to the Queen:

"You really ought to hear him," she would say.

"But he can't bring his organ to the hotel!" the Queen replied, laughing.

"Why should you not go to his church? I assure you that you will not be sorry."

The Queen, who was easily persuaded by her daughter, ended by consenting to visit Notre Dame one afternoon, on condition that she should be alone there, with her suite, during the little recital which the organist was to give for her benefit. Princess Beatrice, who was delighted at attaining her object, plied me with instructions so that the Queen might have a genuine artistic surprise:

"Be sure and see that there is no one in the church," she said to me, "and tell M. Pons to surpass himself."

I went and called on the rector and the organist. The former very kindly promised to take all the necessary steps for his Church to be quite empty during Her Majesty's visit. As for M. Pons, the honour which the Queen was doing him almost turned his head a little. He saw himself the equal of Bach and would have accosted Mozart by his surname if he had met him in the street.

"The Queen will be satisfied, I promise you," he declared, in his southern sing-song.

Things passed very nearly as we hoped. At the hour agreed upon, the royal landau stopped before the door of the church; the Queen, accompanied by the princess and a few persons of her suite, including myself, entered the great nave, where only a few float-lights lit up golden stars in the spacious darkness. When the Queen was seated in the arm-chair which I had sent on beforehand, Pons began to shed torrents of harmony upon our heads from his organ-loft above.

Nothing would have disturbed our meditation, but for a cat, an enormous black cat, which, after prowling behind the pillars, suddenly came up to the royal chair unperceived and jumped most disrespectfully into Her Majesty's lap! Picture the excitement! We drove it away. It returned. We tried to drive it away again. But it was stubborn in its affections and returned once more. Thereupon the Queen, who was more surprised than annoyed, resigned herself and accepted the curious adventure. She stroked the animal and kept it with her until the end of the recital.

6.

When Princess Henry of Battenberg did not accompany her mother on her drives--which happened very rarely--she liked going to the Empress Eugénie, who treated her as a daughter and who, as everybody knows, was the godmother of Queen Victoria Eugénie of Spain. The princess would sometimes spend the whole afternoon at the villa of Napoleon III's widow; one year indeed, she and Princess Ena stayed there all through the winter. Now, on this occasion, I happened to find myself placed in a very delicate position.

What occurred was this: the princess sent word to me, one day, with the Empress's consent, inviting me to dinner at the Villa Cyrnos. I was at first a little perplexed. It seemed to me a rather ticklish matter, considering my official situation, to figure at the table of the ex-Empress of the French. On the other hand, to refuse the invitation seemed tantamount to insulting the daughter of the Queen of England, to whom I was accredited. At last, I resolved to swallow my scruples and accepted.

That evening, after dinner, when thanking the Empress for her kindness, I could not help saying:

"I suppose, Madame, that there are very few officials of the Republic who would have dared to sit down at Your Majesty's table."

"To be equally frank with you," the Empress at once replied, laughing, "I will ask you to believe, my dear M. Paoli, that there are also very few officials of the Republic whom I should have cared to see seated there like yourself!"

7.

I must not close the story of the periods which I spent with the royal family at Nice without recalling that, on some of those occasions, I also met the Marchioness of Lorne, now Duchess of Argyll, and the Duke of Connaught; but, to tell the truth, I only caught glimpses of them, because of the shortness of their visits.

I can also only mention quite casually the name of Queen Alexandra, for the charming lady has never stayed in France for any length of time. With the exception of two visits of forty-eight hours each, with which she honoured Paris when she went to France with King Edward, she has confined herself to passing through our country on her way to Denmark or to join the royal yacht at Marseilles or Genoa. On each of the journeys during which I was attached to her person, she gave me every sign of that captivating and bewitching kindness of which she alone appears to possess the secret. I also remember perceiving, as do all those who approach her, the touching affection that unites her to her sister, the Dowager Empress of Russia. Each time that she left her at Calais, to go either to Copenhagen or to the south, while the Empress Marie Feodorovna was returning to St. Petersburg, she never failed to say to me, in a voice full of anxiety:

"M. Paoli, do take great care of my sister. Watch over her attentively. I shall not know a moment's peace until I hear that she has arrived at the end of her journey."

The years have passed and it is not without pride that I reflect upon the fact that I have known four generations of that glorious royal family of England!

But, alas, it makes me feel no younger!...

X

THE KING OF CAMBODIA AND HIS DANCING-GIRLS

1.

I propose to conclude this stroll through my royal portrait-gallery with the entertaining story of the King of Cambodia. He was, so to speak, my last "client," at least the last of those whom I was "protecting" for the first time, for he had never set foot in France when, three years ago, I beheld him, in the bright light of a fine morning in June, greeting with a loud laugh the port of Marseilles, the gold-laced officials who had come to receive him, the soldiers, the sailors, the porters and the regimental band.

For he loved laughing. Hilarity with him was a habit, a necessity; it burst forth like a flourish of trumpets, it went off like a rocket at anything or nothing, suddenly lighting up his elderly monkey-face and revealing amidst the dark smudge that formed his features a dazzling key-board of ivory teeth.

Sisowath, King of Cambodia, struck me as a little yellow, dry, sinewy man who had been snowed upon, for amid his hard stubble of shiny black hairs there gleamed, over the temples, patches of white bristles that bore witness to his five and sixty summers. He still looked young, because of the slightness of his figure; and his costume consisted of a singular miscellany of Cambodian and European garments.

From the knees to the waist, his dress suggested the East. Starting from the frontier formed by his belt, the West resumed its rights and set the fashion of the day before yesterday! His feet were clad in shoes resembling a bishop's, with broad, flat buckles, whence rose two spindle-shanks confined in black silk stockings and ending in a queer pair of breeches of a thin, silky, copper-coloured material, something midway between a cyclist's knickerbockers and a woman's petticoat and known as the _sampot_, the national dress of Cambodia. Over these breeches of uncertain cut fell the graceless tails of an eighteenth-century dress-coat, opening over a shirt-front crossed by the broad ribbon of the Legion of Honour. Lastly, this astonishing get-up was topped with a rusty tall hat, dating back to the year 1830, which crowned the monarch's head.