Léon Say was a delightful speaker, so easy, always finding exactly the word he wanted. It hardly seemed a speech when he was at the tribune, more like a causerie, though he told very plain truths sometimes to the peuple souverain. He was essentially French, or rather Parisian, knew everybody, and was au courant of all that went on politically and socially, and had a certain blague, that eminently French quality which is very difficult to explain. He was a hard worker, and told me once that what rested him most after a long day was to go to a small boulevard theatre or to read a rather lively yellowbacked novel.
I never heard Gambetta speak, which I always regretted—in fact knew very little of him. He was not a ladies' man, though he had some devoted women friends, and was always surrounded by a circle of political men whenever he appeared in public. (In all French parties, immediately after dinner, the men all congregate together to talk to each other—never to the women—so unless you happen to find yourself seated next to some well-known man, you never really have a chance of talking to him.) Gambetta didn't go out much, and as by some curious chance he was never next to me at dinner, I never had any opportunity of talking to him. He was not one of W.'s friends, nor an habitué of the house. His appearance was against him—dark, heavy-looking, with an enormous head.
When I had had enough of the speeches and the bad atmosphere, I used to wander about the terraces and gardens. How many beautiful sunsets I have seen from the top of the terrace or else standing on the three famous pink marble steps (so well known to all lovers of poetry through Alfred de Musset's beautiful verses, "Trois Marches Roses"), seeing in imagination all the brilliant crowd of courtiers and fair women that used to people those wonderful gardens in the old days of Versailles! I went sometimes to the "Reservoirs" for a cup of tea, and very often found other women who had also driven out to get their husbands. We occasionally brought back friends who preferred the quiet cool drive through the Park of St. Cloud to the crowd and dust of the railway. The Count de St. Vallier (who was not yet senator, but deeply interested in politics) was frequently at Versailles and came back with us often. He was a charming, easy talker. I never tired of hearing about the brilliant days of the last Empire, and the fêtes at the Tuileries, Compiègne, and St. Cloud. He had been a great deal at the court of Napoleon III, had seen many interesting people of all kinds, and had a wonderful memory. He must have had an inner sense or presentiment of some kind about the future, for I have heard him say often in speaking of the old days and the glories of the Empire, when everything seemed so prosperous and brilliant, that he used often to ask himself if it could be real—Were the foundations as solid as they seemed! He had been a diplomatist, was in Germany at the time of the Franco-German War, and like so many of his colleagues scattered over Germany, was quite aware of the growing hostile feeling in Germany to France and also of Bismarck's aims and ambitions. He (like so many others) wrote repeated letters and warnings to the French Foreign Office, which apparently had no effect. One heard afterward that several letters of that description from French diplomatists in Germany were found unopened in a drawer at the ministry.
It was rather sad, as we drove through the stately alleys of the Park of St. Cloud, with the setting sun shining through the fine old trees, to hear of all the fêtes that used to take place there—and one could quite well fancy the beautiful Empress appearing at the end of one of the long avenues, followed by a brilliant suite of ladies and écuyers—and the echoes of the cor de chasse in the distance. The alleys are always there, and fairly well kept, but very few people or carriages pass. The park is deserted. I don't think the cor de chasse would awaken an echo or a regret even, so entirely has the Empire and its glories become a thing of the past. A rendezvous de chasse was a very pretty sight.
We went once to Compiègne before I was married, about three years before the war. We went out and breakfasted at Compiègne with a great friend of ours, M. de St. M., a chamberlain or equerry of the Emperor. We breakfasted in a funny old-fashioned little hotel (with a very good cuisine) and drove in a big open break to the forest. There were a great many people riding, driving, and walking, officers of the garrison in uniform, members of the hunt in green and gold, and a fair sprinkling of red coats. The Empress looked charming, dressed always in the uniform of the hunt, green with gold braid, and a tricorne on her head—all her ladies with the same dress, which was very becoming. One of the most striking-looking of her ladies was the Princess Anna Murat, the present Duchesse de Mouchy, who looked very handsome in the tricorne and beautifully fitting habit. I didn't see the Empress on her horse, as we lost sight of them very soon. She and her ladies arrived on the field in an open break. I saw the Emperor quite distinctly as he rode up and gave some orders. He was very well mounted (there were some beautiful horses) but stooped slightly, and had rather a sad face. I never saw him again, and the Empress only long years after at Cowes, when everything had gone out of her life.
The President, Marshal MacMahon, was living at the Préfecture at Versailles and received every Thursday evening. We went there several times—it was my first introduction to the official world. The first two or three times we drove out, but it was long (quite an hour and a quarter) over bad roads—a good deal of pavement. One didn't care to drive through the Park of St. Cloud at night—it was very lonely and dark. We should have been quite helpless if we had fallen upon any enterprising tramps, who could easily have stopped the carriage and helped themselves to any money or jewels they could lay their hands on. One evening the Seine had overflowed and we were obliged to walk a long distance—all around Sèvres—and got to Versailles very late and quite exhausted with the jolting and general discomfort. After that we went out by train—which put us at the Préfecture at ten o'clock. It wasn't very convenient as there was a great rush for carriages when we arrived at Versailles, still everybody did it. We generally wore black or dark dresses with a lace veil tied over our heads, and of course only went when it was fine. The evening was pleasant enough—one saw all the political men, the marshal's personal friends of the droite went to him in the first days of his presidency—(they rather fell off later)—the Government and Republicans naturally and all the diplomatic corps. There were not many women, as it really was rather an effort to put one's self into a low-necked dress and start off directly after dinner to the Gare St. Lazare, and have rather a rush for places. We were always late, and just had time to scramble into the last carriage.
I felt very strange—an outsider—all the first months, but my husband's friends were very nice to me and after a certain time I was astonished to find how much politics interested me. I learned a great deal from merely listening while the men talked at dinner. I suppose I should have understood much more if I had read the papers regularly, but I didn't begin to do that until W. had been minister for some time, and then worked myself into a nervous fever at all the opposition papers said about him. However, all told, the attacks were never very vicious. He had never been in public life until after the war when he was named deputy and joined the Assemblée Nationale at Bordeaux—which was an immense advantage to him. He had never served any other government, and was therefore perfectly independent and was bound by no family traditions or old friendships—didn't mind the opposition papers at all—not even the caricatures. Some of them were very funny. There was one very like him, sitting quite straight and correct on the box of a brougham, "John Cocher Anglais n'a jamais versé, ni accroché" (English coachman who has never upset nor run into anything).
There were a few political salons. The Countess de R. received every evening—but only men—no women were ever asked. The wives rather demurred at first, but the men went all the same—as one saw every one there and heard all the latest political gossip. Another hostess was the Princess Lize Troubetskoi. She was a great friend and admirer of Thiers—was supposed to give him a great deal of information from foreign governments. She was very eclectic in her sympathies, and every one went to her, not only French, but all foreigners of any distinction who passed through Paris. She gave herself a great deal of trouble for her friends, but also used them when she wanted anything. One of the stories which was always told of the Foreign Office was her "petit paquet," which she wanted to send by the valise to Berlin, when the Comte de St. Vallier was French ambassador there. He agreed willingly to receive the package addressed to him, which proved to be a