1842

As the squadron was to go into winter quarters at Toulon, and as the BELLE-POULE had to repair a great many damages, I went back to Paris towards the end of January, 1842, and plunged joyfully into that most precious of all possessions amidst the storms and vicissitudes of politics, my home life. This notwithstanding, the pleasures of the gay world, then a fairly brilliant one were by no means indifferent to me. There was a numerous succession of festivities. My brother, the Duc d'Orleans, gave a magnificent fancy ball in the Pavillon Marsan. All the elegant and artistic world of Paris was there, dressed either in historical costumes, faithfully copied from pictures in the museums, or else in fantastic garments which especially set off the beauty of their feminine wearers. Mesdames de Contades, de Murat, and Place had adopted Eastern dress. Madame Thiers wore a rich moyen age costume; Madame de Plaisance headed a whole quadrille of hunters and huntresses. The Comtesse Duhesme another, in which both gentlemen and ladies wore the charming costumes brought into fashion by Giraud's picture, La Permission de Dix Heures. The beautiful Madame Liadieres shone in a quadrille of light cavalry men of the time of Louis XV, and shepherdesses dressed a la Pompadour. The foreigners and members of the diplomatic body of both sexes were for the most part in dresses taken from their own national history. Among the artists, Eugene Sue, Henriquel-Dupont, Tony Johannot, and Louis Boulanger had chosen the style of Louis XIII. Eugene Delacroix wore a Moorish dress, Horace Vernet an Arab costume. Winterhalter represented a Florentine of the fourteenth century, while Amaury Duval, Jadin, Eugene Lamy, Gudin, Raffet, &c., &c., were all got up with the most studied correctness. When we went into supper the band of my brother Aumale's regiment, the 17th Light Infantry, transformed into a posse of Arab musicians, stationed on the staircase, played a whole series of Algerian airs, which the good fellows had learnt at Mouzala and Medeah, in the olive woods, or under the blaze of the sun and the heat of the Arab fire. The guests took their seats round a table on which was the famous centrepiece, executed after Chenavard's design, by Barye, Pradier, Klagman, Moine, my sister Marie, and by Ary Scheffer and Paul Delaroche as well, who laid aside their painters' brushes for the nonce, and wielded the sculptor's point. It was an admirable piece of work, worthy of Benvenuto Cellini, broken up, alas! cast to the four winds of heaven, and lost to France, after the revolution of February.

This fete was THE FETE of that winter. One of those unique and original entertainments the memory of which lingers with one for long. But there were others besides.

The King gave a series of concerts and large and small dances every winter. At these last only a very restricted number of guests assembled, chosen exclusively among the diplomatic body, the foreigners chancing to pass through Paris, and young dancing people, especially those young ladies who ranked high for elegance and beauty. People used to crowd, at these small dances, to watch the Princess de Ligne dancing the mazurka with her incomparable Polish grace; just as at the big balls, which were rather crushes, there would be a crowd, more curious than admiring, to watch the steps and capers of the Prince de Craon, the last remaining exponent of that pretentious school of dancing of which Trenis had been the leader, under the Directoire. These large crowded balls used to be a great bore, especially to us, who had to take it in turn to do the honours to the very end of the evening. Yet I recollect laughing heartily one evening, when this duty had fallen to me, at seeing an officer of the National Guard, in his cocked hat and big feather, whose vision had somewhat suffered from the supper he had just consumed, trying to insist on persuading the Suisse standing at the door of the ball-room with his cross belts and halbert, to be his partner in the dance. He made frenzied attempts to drag him away, and only interrupted them to try the seductive power of the most eccentric of dancing steps which he performed before him.

Nowadays the race known as the Grand Prix de Paris marks the close of what people are pleased to call the season. Under the July Monarchy it was the "Fete du Roi" with its firework display, and its official receptions, which were tiresome to the last degree. Revolutions may succeed each other, governments may change, but all the tiresome things go on for ever. Under the monarchy, the empire, or the republic alike, it is indispensable, so it would appear, that once in the year at least, the diplomatic body, clergy, Chambers, officers of the land and sea forces, and companies and corporations of every kind, should pass before the chief ruler, whoever he may be, and make a series of official speeches to him, expressing good wishes which are for the most part utterly lacking in sincerity, and which the unlucky recipient is obliged to acknowledge in every sort of commonplace formula. My father had quite a special talent for varying these answers of his, which he always extemporised. They were taken down in shorthand, and made over to Vatout to have a final polish put on them before being sent to the Moniteur. The witty academician abhorred this duty, which he irreverently styled "dressing the royal macaroni." For lay figures like myself, the only interest about these receptions, which were practically got up for effect, lay in watching the personages we saw pass. Two long-haired peers of France, who always were among the last of their Chamber to pass by, used to attract our attention particularly. They were Victor Hugo and Montalembert; then among the members of the Paris Municipal Council, Victor Considerant, too, used to be pointed out to us. Then there was a member of the Institute in a green coat and black breeches, whose advent we looked forward to with delight. This worthy gentleman used to come up with three or four deputations in succession. He would arrive with the first, bow, applaud enthusiastically after the address, and then, while his deputation was leaving by the door of exit, he was stepping backwards to the entrance door to reappear with a second and third party, coming forward each time with the same low bows and the same demonstrations of enthusiasm.

Among the general officers and diplomats out of active service who took part in these ceremonies, I used to remark two British admirals, Sir Sydney Smith and Lord Cochrane, who never failed to attend. They had each had a brilliant career. The first, with Djezzar Pasha, had defended St. Jean d'Acre against General Bonaparte's forces. The second, a tall, fine, bold-looking man, had covered himself with glory by the most gallant behaviour, both in Europe and Chili, where the tradition of his valour still survives. Both had done great service to their country, yet neither, it was said, could return to it. Wherefore?

The reception of the clergy had a quaintness all its own. The archbishop's discourse was invariably and utterly inaudible. Whether by accident, or by an unlucky coincidence, it was always drowned by the noise of the tremendous morning serenade given in the courtyard by the twelve or fifteen hundred drums of the National Guard and the Paris garrison, all beating in unison under the guidance of a single drum-major.

Finally, in the evening, we had the clou of the performance, the reception of the diplomatic body. There was a certain amount of pomp about it. The members of the corps assembled in a drawing-room near the Pavillon Marsan, where a collation was prepared. Thence the King's aides-de-camp went and fetched them, conducting them through all the galleries of the Tuileries to the Throne-room, near the Pavilion de Flore. When all these ambassadors and ministers, with their suites, appeared at the door of the Throne-room, in their varied uniforms, all glistening in the candle-light, and slowly moved towards the King, with three successive bows, the scenic effect was really superb. The only shadow on the picture was the Introducer of Ambassadors, who filled the part of master of the ceremonies. I never could make out why, for that very theatrical part, we had chosen a hideously ugly man with no nose! We ought to have had some fine handsome fellow to face those representatives of all the nations in the world. When once the speeches had been made, and the King and Queen had gone round the circle, the diplomatic body retired backwards with the same three bows as on entering, and passed out very slowly, for at the time of which I speak it was exceedingly numerous. Besides the ambassadors of the Great Powers there were family ambassadors. And then there were ministers from every country in the world, including those of the small German and Italian States, which have now been swallowed up in German and Italian unity. All these embassies and legations had innumerable attaches, generally young men of great families attracted by the gaieties of Paris, and glad to have a uniform and the right of admittance to all the entertainments at court, at the embassies, and in society in general. For in those days society did still exist, our divisions and revolutionary laws having not yet succeeded in destroying it.

Of all these diplomats, the most liked and the most likeable, beyond all contradiction, was the Austrian Ambassador, Count Apponyi, a magnificent Hungarian magnate. The long duration of his mission, his truly high-bred kindliness, and the salon which his wife, his winning daughter, his sons, and nephews had been clever enough to make the first in Paris, had combined to render Count Apponyi most congenial to us. His English, Russian, and Prussian colleagues confined themselves exclusively to their official {{Illustration to the right of the text above with no caption}} duties and to the coolest politeness. It would have been hard for Lord Cowley (a Wellesley), even had he desired it, to wipe out the memory of his predecessors, Lords Granville and Stuart de Rothesay, and above all of the charming daughters of the last-named peer—beautiful, lovable, and artistic—who became Lady Waterford and Lady Canning respectively. Among the ministers I still seem to see the form of Coletti, resplendent in his Greek costume—a true patriot and a devoted friend to France—and then there was the Swedish Minister, Comte de Loevenhielm, a charming old gentleman, who had been page-in-waiting on Gustavus III. the night he was murdered. The Spanish Ambassador changed with every pronunciamiento. I do not remember the name of any one of them.

As a novelty, we had a Turkish Ambassador. For centuries there had been none but temporary Ottoman missions. The first permanently appointed ambassador we had, before Namick and Reschid Pashas, who both spoke French very well, was Ahmed Fethi Pasha. He did not know a single word of our language. I was present at a great dinner in his honour at the Tuileries, and this is what took place. Of course he had been placed on my mother's right hand at table, with a Foreign Office interpreter, all gold lace and decorations, on his other side. As soon as dinner began, the pasha conceived it incumbent on him to address my mother with a fine Turkish compliment, which, judging by the way he turned up his eyes, and laid his hands on his heart, and the bows he made her, must have been adorned with every flower of Oriental poetry. When his speech was finished, the pasha turned to the interpreter for him to translate it to my mother, and this he proceeded to do, the pasha accompanying and accentuating his remarks with more bows and grimacing and pressure of his hands to his heart.

Now, behold the translation, which the dragoman, who no doubt had perused the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, delivered to the Queen. "Madam, I have a daughter whom I am very anxious to get into the Maison de St. Denis. To do that I need your Majesty's powerful support. Your Majesty will understand my seizing this unequalled chance of making my request."

And all the time the good pasha kept on making agitated bows, and my mother had to keep on smiling at him and returning them!

As regards the condition of things in general, it appeared pacific enough in that year of grace 1842. The tempest in the East was almost forgotten, a breath of peace seemed to be passing over Europe, under the influence of which calm and prosperity reigned in France. We had a magnificent army, in which my brothers took as much interest as I did in the navy. And the head of the army was an eminent Minister of War, Marshal Soult, who, although he looked on M. Thiers as a tiresome little fidget, employed the fruits of his great experience and long service in the Ministry in bringing every branch of our land forces to perfection gradually, and in the most admirably consistent spirit. This army was waging an incessant war in Africa under a commander no less eminent than the Marshal himself, General Bugeaud, thus carrying on the conquest of our splendid Algerian colony, which would have been peerless indeed if we could have filled it with that excess of population which other nations still possess, but which has been dried up, in our case, by our revolutionary laws. Our naval forces were in good condition too, so far as they could be, on the eve of that great duel between sails and steam which was to end by revolutionising everything, in spite of all the delays of the red tape faction.

Of politics, my pet aversion, I will not speak. I had sufficient curiosity, before writing these lines, to look through the back numbers of the Moniteur for that period, and started in horror at the terrible accumulation of useless chatter I came upon. In contrast to these torrents of fairly inoffensive eloquence, the unofficial press indulged in a large amount of intemperate writing, far more dangerous, seeing that it flattered more passions, and that the calumnies thus spread were much farther reaching. The Government, honest, useful, and enlightened as it was, consistently patriotic and far-seeing, was able as yet to thread its way amongst the obstacles cast in its path. Six more years were to elapse before it was to be completely hemmed in, and the deluded mob to dance wildly round the throne it had overturned singing the democratic creed, the chorus of every revolution we have had the last hundred years.

Demolissons
Tant que nous pourrons!
Apres, nous verrons
Ce que nous ferons.

But my winter in Paris slipped swiftly by, and towards the end of May
Admiral Hugon's squadron prepared to go to sea, the repairs to the
Belle-Poule were finished, and I started to join my ship.

At Lyons I embarked on a steamer to go to Toulon, and this vessel brought me to Arles under a lovely sunset. Nothing could be prettier than the scene on arriving at this picture of an old town, with its tall towers and the great walls of its amphitheatre, its stone houses set in the Rhone, and its port full of boats with long graceful lateen yards. It was Sunday, besides, and the promenade was crowded with pretty women. I am very fond of the little town, and am always glad to get back to it. So I lost no time about jumping on shore, and making over my baggage to the porter from the Hotel du Forum, I took advantage of the long twilight to see what changes three years had wrought in my old acquaintance. The women of Arles, a Greek colony, still preserve the type of countenance so much admired by the ancients, undeteriorated by their slight admixture of Catalonian blood. The magnificent monuments of the Roman city, the theatre and the arena, show the rank it held in ancient Gaul. In the present day it is a well-to-do, gay, careless town, with a lively and frivolous population, fond of pleasure, and indulging freely in it. Night overtook me during my walk, and under the splendid moonlight I could have fancied myself in some Arab town; I was in a labyrinth of lanes, where the heat of day still hung. The women sat before the doors in their pretty Sunday dresses, chattering with the young men, and no carriage nor any sound disturbed their low talk in that harmonious tongue on which the poems of the trouveres have shed such glory. It was exquisite. What a beautiful, nay, what an adorable country is France in all her varied aspects, east and west, north and south! What endless enchantments they afford, if only one can get rid of the sickening politics that break up and destroy everything they touch!

On the morrow I travelled down the Rhone, through the Camargue, with its droves of oxen and its flights of flamingos, lost in dreamy reverie as though foreseeing even then that beautiful poem of "Mireille," which Mistral and Gounod have since rendered immortal.

We sailed from Toulon, a splendid squadron, twenty strong, to manoeuvre at sea. We were under the orders of Admiral Hugon, "Le Pere la Chique," as the men called him. The soubriquet bears its own explanation with it. Born at Granville and thoroughly Norman in character, the admiral concealed the most unshakable determination under an appearance of the greatest good-nature. I never met a more thorough-born sailor. He divined what weather was coming, foretold it long before the barometer did, and took all the necessary precautions in advance. He was the very personification of the seafaring instinct. Besides this, he had a long record of bravery behind him. At Navarino, where he commanded the Armide, he came up and lay with true fraternal chivalry between the Turkish ships and a British frigate that was suffering very much from their fire, which same service the British corvette Rose rendered him in return, and with equal gallantry, towards the close of the engagement.

The consequence of all this was that we all felt ourselves well led, and had the most absolute confidence in our chief, and I myself was particularly fond of him. It really was a fine sight both from the picturesque point of view and from that of a justifiable national pride, when our twenty white-sailed ships manoeuvred all together, under the admiral's signal, on the blue Mediterranean waters, with no sound to break the silence except the shrill voices of the officers of the watch.

We went on in this fashion, sailing and manoeuvring and firing our guns, and gauging day by day the respective values alike of officers and men, till we got to the Gulf of Naples, where we cast anchor, so as to give everybody a spell of rest and recreation. Very complete the recreation was, every class of the population joining to give us the kindliest of welcomes. We sent our crews ashore, and there the Frenchman's gaiety soon went into partnership with the Neapolitan's. Everywhere corricoli were to be seen galloping along carrying clusters of merry sailors. Our ambassador, the Duc de Montebello, who kept great state and the most open house at the Rothschild palace, introduced our officers into the most delightful society of Naples, and there was a succession of parties and merry-makings. By way of response, the admiral gave a very pretty afternoon party on board his three-decker, the Ocean, and I a ball on board the Belle-Poule. I had found a goodly number of old acquaintances, besides my cousins of both sexes, and especially I frequented the society of a certain charming Tertullia, who held her daily court at the Palazzo Fernandina, a place of meeting which all of my generation at Naples must recollect. It was a Spanish house, belonging to the Toledo family, numerous branches of which were represented in it, such as the Villafranca, the Alcanicez, the Bivona, the Sclafani, &c. What charming women of every nationality one met there! What pleasant parties we organised thence, with Isabella Colonna, Teresa Sclafani, and that exquisite creature Lauretta Acton, who afterwards became Madame Minghetti, and many another! Now it would be a night ascent of Vesuvius, in eruption, and then again a moonlight excavation at Pompeii. Show me the man who would not have fallen in love in such company, beneath that exquisite sky, environed and intoxicated by the indefinable enchantments in which the landscape and the very air you breathed were steeped! But the signal to get under way is hoisted at the mainmast of the Ocean, and we must tear ourselves away from these delights, and start forth with hearts that are heavy, but full of sweetest memories. And whither? That is the Admiral's secret!

A few days after our departure we were in the open sea, absorbed in professional duties and daily drills, when afar off we saw the smoke of a steamer. Soon the vessel came in sight and hoisted signals for our admiral, who ordered the fleet to bring to. The sea being calm, an officer from the steamer boarded the Ocean, and immediately afterwards we saw the admiral's barge lowered, and he got into it and steered for the Belle-Poule. Amid the general astonishment and numerous conjectures caused by this unusual incident, I received my chief at the companion-ladder. He grasped my hand, squeezed it tight, drew me into the cabin, and said, "Your brother, the Duc d'Orleans, is dead, killed in a carriage accident. My orders are to send you to Paris at once." The rough old sailor's face betrayed his deep emotion. But how shall I describe my own, under such a terrible and unexpected blow? This world's sorest sorrows are those that tear the human heart-strings, and mine was even more bitter than an ordinary grief, for I do not believe there ever was a more attached family than ours, and not only had I lost the most beloved of brothers, but the confidant, the guide and the companion of my whole life. I seemed to see and feel the despair of my father, above all of my mother, and of my brothers and sisters, too, under this awful blow, and their sorrow added to my own. For a moment I stood thunderstruck. Then the admiral left me alone …. I gave over my ship to my second in command, and within an hour I was on my way to Toulon, the gloomy faces round me betraying the general feeling that this was a public misfortune, and that the loss to France was very great.

It was indeed immense, irreparable. For the past ten years we all, and with us the whole of France, had looked to my brother as our leader, the "chef de demain," our chief in the great days that were to come. We had of course the tenderest affection, the most entire devotion, the deepest respect for the King, Le Pere, as we always called him amongst ourselves, but it was to Chartres we turned for guidance always. There was not one of us who would not from childhood upwards have unhesitatingly accepted his advice and his authority. How often had we discussed with him all the chances the future might bring! How often, too, had he pointed out the various parts he destined each of us to play, every one of them, we felt, stamped with the good sense and profound understanding of a born leader of men! And what we, his brothers, his lieutenants, so to speak, felt about him, the country felt as well. The King was in the breach, valiantly carrying on the battle of life, to preserve the peace, calm, and prosperity she was enjoying to France, and all those who were not blinded by democratic envy were grateful to him for so doing. But he was growing old, great complications might arise, and, like us, all had looked confidently to the young leader who, without ever mixing himself up in the barren struggles of everyday politics, was ceaselessly preparing himself for great and important contingencies. For every one else, as well as for us, I repeat, the Duc d'Orleans was the chef de demain. His incessant care for the good organisation and perfecting of our military forces, and the pains he took to select the most deserving men from their ranks without a shadow of favouritism or regard for birth—such men as Lamoriciere, Cavaignac, Canrobert, and MacMahon—and to advance them to the highest positions, had been appreciated by the public. All this was pour demain, for the morrow. So too in matters civilian. If he did stretch out his hand, not indeed to incorrigible revolutionaries, but to men of advanced opinions, who were in opposition to the King's Government, that too was "for the morrow." It was so as to be able, in the hour of his country's peril, to serve as the patriotic link between all the living forces in the nation. The general feeling, alas! both our own and that of the great majority of thinking men, was that the bond that might have held these forces together against revolution, overflowing from within, as well as enemies attacking from without, had just been snapped. Death had destroyed the anticipated and universally accepted successor, and with him the chief prop of the July Monarchy. Thenceforward the ship was to toss uncommanded, objectless and compassless, at the mercy of every tempest. Men and principles alike had failed us, and we were to relapse once more into a state of unstable government. This sad presentiment was only too well justified by ultimate events.

Physically, my eldest brother was tall, with a slight and exceptionally elegant figure. In uniform and on horseback he looked magnificent, and his soldierly presence pleased the troops as much as it did the populace. As for bravery, he was downright reckless, another cause for popularity with the masses. Everybody knew he had received a wound in Africa, before Mascara, by throwing himself boldly among the skirmishers at a critical moment. It was known, too, that at the Mouzaia Pass, when the whole army was wearing a cap covered with black oilcloth, he alone insisted on wearing a bright red one, which marked him out to all the men as their commanding officer, but which also exposed himself, and those near him as well, to the enemy's bullets. To the charm of valour my brother added that of speech, that music of the tongue to which all men, but especially Frenchmen, are so sensitive. And to this he added another quality not less seductive, especially in a prince—he was a good listener; listening, in fact, was one of his foremost qualities. Surrounded, as he always was, by eminent men of every nationality, he would assimilate with extraordinary facility and wonderful retentiveness not only the fruitful ideas which he gleaned from their conversation, but the very words which struck his fancy. And these words, as well as those with which his cultivated and thoroughly French mind and his heart inspired him, he knew how to use with marvellous effect. What more eloquent than the toast he proposed at a farewell banquet in the open air, at which his whole division, officers and men alike, were gathered round him, after their return from the expedition to the Iron Gates?

"In the name of the King, who four times over has sent his son to serve in its ranks, I drink to the army of Africa and its general-in-chief, Marshal Vallee, under whose orders it has accomplished such great deeds.

"To the army which has conquered a vast and splendid empire for France, opening a boundless field to that civilisation of which it is the vanguard, and that colonisation of which it is the first pledge.

"To the army that has handled rifle and pick in turn, fighting Arabs or fever as they came, facing an inglorious death in hospital with stoic resignation, and which by its brilliant valour has preserved the most famous traditions of our arms among our youthful soldiers.

"To the army, the flower of that greater French army—the nursery, on the one battlefield reserved to us alone, of our future military chiefs—whose heart swells with a just and noble pride in those who have already risen from its ranks.

"To the army, which, distant as it is from the fatherland, knows happily nothing of the intestine conflicts waged there, except to curse them, and which, being as it is the refuge of those who flee them, asks nothing but to fight nature, Arabs, and the climate, in the general interest of France.

"And to the illustrious leader, the captor of Constantine, who has stamped French Africa with the indelible seal of permanent possession, and planted our flag where the Romans dared not carry their eagles."

The reception given by the soldiers, whose toils and dangers he had just been sharing, to this vigorous language may be imagined. He had the supreme charm, both for soldiers and for artists, who always found a friend and protector in him, and for women as well. But here I touch a delicate subject, and the most inviolable secrecy checks my pen. Old Baron James de Rothschild was heard to say in his old age that he yet had to meet the lady who could resist him. I fancy he boasted somewhat. I fancy, too, that if he had not met her then, he ended by knowing such a lady. But I am certain, without going so far as the baron did, that my brother met few women, in the course of his radiant youth, who did not respond to his homage, at all events with a secret but tender emotion. Into what adventures that personal charm of his carried him! He was saved on one such occasion, from a very risky situation, by his own sangfroid and boldness. It was at a period when attempted risings were continually occurring in Paris. Either HE or SHE had had the somewhat original idea of meeting at a house in a far from poetic street which still exists—the Rue Tiquetonne. Presently alarming sounds were heard, and then died away, only to begin again, louder than ever. Soon the distant rolling of drums sounded, followed by rifle shots. It was the situation in the fourth act of The Huguenots. They rushed to the window. The street was full of armed rioters, busily engaged in building up barricades. How was he, the Prince Royal, known as he was by everybody, to get away? "I turned up the collar of my overcoat," he told me, "and I was lucky enough to get into the street just as they were dragging up a carriage to upset it and make it the nucleus of the barricade. I caught hold of it at once, helped to turn it over, and to pile paving-stones and stuff of all sorts over and round it, with an amount of zeal that disarmed all suspicion. And then I watched my opportunity and slipped away." In an hour he was in uniform and on horseback, and the Municipal Guard was carrying HIS barricade at the bayonet's point. [Footnote: Translator's note.—What became of the poor lady?]

Such, under his various aspects, was the brother I had lost.

I reached Neuilly in time to be present at his solemn funeral, which took place at Notre-Dame amid the most touching proofs of the general sorrow. We took him to the mausoleum at Dreux, and then we shut ourselves up at Neuilly to cling to each other and mourn him in silence and retirement.

But though my brother Nemours, upon whom the eventual duties of Regent fell by the Duc d'Orleans' death, was by that fact prevented from going away, neither I nor my other brothers, who wore the King's uniform, were able to remain long in idleness.

Aumale was appointed to the command of the Province of Tittery, in Algiers. The Belle-Poule was ordered on a cruise along the Guinea Coast and to South America, touching first of all at Lisbon, and it was settled that Aumale should take passage on board her as far as that port. So after a sad farewell we started together to join her at Brest. As our mourning exempted us from all official receptions, we took the longest way round, by the Loire Valley, with its ancient castles, the wild country of Morbihan, and the picturesque scenery of Finistere. Our first stage was to Blois, where we went to see the castle, an historic gem, then on to Amboise, Saumur, Angers, Pont-de-Ce, and Nantes. Everything about that journey—scenery, monuments, memories, legends—is delightful. It is a touching unfolding of the history of old France—that France of bygone days, which, with her faded glories and her chivalrous adventures, consoles those who love her for the calamities born of revolution. We made a short stay at Nantes, whence Aumale went to Chateaubriand to look at his property with M. de la Haye-Jousselin, while I went to Karheil to see the chateau of the Coislin family. This was for sale, and my father was anxious to buy it as a centre to the sandy tracts of Saint Gildas and Lanvaux, which he owned already, and which previous to the year 1830, he had planted with trees, which had done well.

On my way to Karheil I passed through Blain, where I saw the ruins of the famous castle of the Rohans, the cradle of that mighty race. Only two out of the nine towers adorning it are still standing. The rest were pulled down during the Revolution. The heart tightens at the sight of these ruins scattered in all directions and the inevitable repetition of the phrase, "Destroyed during the Revolution." The Saracens and Huns did no worse things.

In the company of an aged man with powdered wig and side curls, the picture of an old-fashioned henchman, and armed with full powers from the Coislin as well as from the Rohan family, I went to see Karheil, a castle perched on a rock, encircled by a pretty stream. The glades of the fine park were obstructed by fences, hedges, and ditches, and other artificial obstacles, which turned them into a steeplechase course—an arrangement, so M. Bizeul told me, of M. le Marquis "for the amusement of the people coming to the chateau." Then he looked at me. I know not what he read in my eyes, but a paroxysm of grief seized him, and he was almost in tears as he confided to me the sorrow he felt at seeing one of the oldest and most venerated families in Brittany go down the hill. And the old friend of the family had good reason to be grieved. There was good stuff in the Marquis de Coislin of that date. As a young man he had put himself at the head of his devoted partisans, like a gallant knight, in the Duchesse de Berry's insurrection. Later on, I had met him in Paris, a splendid gentleman, whose deep glance breathed passion, and no doubt inspired it too. Many years later yet, in 1871, those who saw Charette's Zouaves fighting with the army of the Loire noticed in their ranks a tall old white-bearded man, a simple Zouave indeed, but an exemplar of courage and devotion. That was the Marquis de Coislin. Sad it is that it is through our revolutions and divisions the services of such men should be lost to France.

From Nantes too I went to see the naval workshops at Indret, where I was received by exceedingly capable and intelligent chiefs of departments, and where I saw a body of artificers quite out of the common, but all of them misplaced in a badly situated establishment, the original plan of which was utterly defective, and in which they were forced to vegetate uselessly in spite of their own impotent efforts and endeavours. Thence we took our way across the Morbihan to Vannes, which during the whole of my father's reign was administered by the same prefect, and that with the esteem of every party. An exceptional case this (especially when the state of latent civil war in which the department was, is considered), and one much to the credit of the gentleman in question, M. Lorois. Our journey was so hurried that we had barely time to kneel at the shrine of St. Anne d'Auray, so highly venerated by Breton pilgrims, and to give some hasty alms to the crowd of beggars clustered on the steps of the sanctuary. They all limped off at once, with a great clatter of crutches and wooden shoes, to fetch us water from the Bonne-Mere to wash our faces and eyes with. The journey across Brittany from Nantes to Brest, by Auray, Rosporden, and Quimper, is a delightful one. Smiling and picturesque scenery everywhere, old churches too, surrounded by fine trees, and at the period of which I speak, 1842, the quaintest of costumes as well. Here withy-cutters, or salt-marsh workers from Guerande, in blouses, breeches, and long white gaiters, with broad-brimmed hats laden with charms on their flowing hair. There people from St. Pol-de-Leon, all in black. Further on, a group of women, in embroidered bodices and quaint headdresses, kneeling on the open heath, at the foot of a stone cross. How pretty those little Breton women are with their well-shaped waists and their short petticoats, showing glimpses of neat blue stockinged legs, and fresh rosy faces under their white caps! Those eyes of theirs are cast down devoutly at their prayers, but on feast days they are raised and shine with passionate fire. On such occasions, if we may believe report, the pretty little devotees follow the guidance of that eleventh commandment, which, according to the late Lord Clarendon, sums up all the rest:

D'etre pince te garderas,
Afin de fauter librement—

or, in the English version, "Thou shalt not be found out."

We reached Lisbon after a swift passage. The Tagus is a fine river, certainly, but, to my mind, the much vaunted panorama of Lisbon does not merit its reputation. The Tower of Belem alone, with its curious architecture, enchants the eye, and the enchantment is prolonged, on landing, by the sight of the exquisite church standing behind it. But there it ends. All the rest is ugliness. We went ashore in the royal launch (Falua), a vessel adorned with gilt carvings, and with a silken awning over her stern. The crew were men from Algarve, with tanned skins, dressed in short drawers and jackets of amaranth-coloured velvet, with Venetian caps on their heads. They stood upright to row, keeping their strokes in time to a sort of litany in the Queen's honour, which they sang in chorus.

This was not my first visit to Lisbon. I was rejoiced to see the Queen Dona Maria again. She was one of my childhood's friends, and I was eventually to become her brother-in-law I know not how many times over. I also renewed my acquaintance with King Ferdinand, of whom I had not seen so much. The King, who was an artist to his finger tips, a distinguished musician, water-colour artist, etcher, and ceramist, hated politics. This and some other little failings common to us both, drew us together, and our friendship endured up to his premature death. I have often been in Portugal since those days, and have always received a welcome for which I feel the liveliest gratitude. I have met distinguished men there, and charming, well-informed, and kind-hearted ladies. I have vowed the sincerest affection alike to both Portugal and the Portuguese, and my best wishes follow both country and people all over the world, but I will not commit myself to any opinion as to their political life.

At the time I speak of, the country possessed two illustrious soldiers, Marshal Saldanha and Marshal Terceira. On these two, in turn, hinged the alternate changes made in its constitution, whether by military insurrection, or other and less unparliamentary means. Such was the national habit, and the country did not seem the worse for it. As in our own case, there were two dynastic parties, but what was strange was that the Miguelists, who opposed Queen Dona Maria, and who, by the way, were few in numbers, set up for being Legitimists, although they claimed the right of government for Don Miguel, the representative of the younger branch of the reigning family. Let wise politicians explain that as best they may.

I do not recollect whether it was on the occasion of this particular visit to Lisbon, that at a reception of mine for the diplomatic body at Belem, the Duke de Palmela, who presented its members (as Minister for Foreign Affairs), asked me to excuse his hurrying through the ceremony, as his Duchess was in the act of bringing her fifteenth child into the world. A palpable proof this, given by the head of its Foreign Office, of the vitality of the Portuguese nation! Some days later the Duke, a diplomatist of the old school, who added to his own considerable wit and cleverness the advantage of having rubbed shoulders with the greatest diplomatists of the century, such as Talleyrand and Metternich, asked me to dine with him. It was a splendid banquet. On our arrival we found the royal archers (so called because they carried halberts!) lining the staircase. Thence we passed into a splendid suite of rooms, at the end of which, after we left table, a great door was thrown open, revealing a magnificent state bed on an estrade with several steps up to it. And in this bed the newly confined Duchess, to whom all the guests hastened to pay their duty!

I noticed some fine rifle battalions at a review of the Portuguese troops, and I had a very amusing talk with the celebrated admiral, Sir Charles Napier, who was present on horseback, in a British post-captain's uniform, but with a little hat, a la Napoleon, with a Portuguese cockade, his trousers all worked up, huge spurs on his feet, and an enormous cudgel in his grasp.

Finally, the King took us on a sporting expedition to Mafra, among the mountains which stretch towards Torres Vedras. They are not high, but steep, and covered with stunted vegetation. It was a picturesque sight this shooting party, in that mountain country, some of it very beautiful, where the eye constantly lighted on scenes that were like pictures of guerilla or partisan warfare. Hundreds of beaters, in their brilliant costumes, wearing breeches, and with handkerchiefs tied round their heads, and cloaks flung over their shoulders, climbed up through the gorges, slipped swiftly along the mountain ledges, and drove a host of small deer, stags, wild boar, and foxes down to the sportsmen. Even after the sun had set the firing was still going on.

But both Aumale and I were very eager to see something more of Portugal than the pleasures and official and political life of Lisbon. So as soon as we were back from the shooting excursion we started on a whimsical expedition of our own, which we hoped to carry as far as the ancient and celebrated university town of Coimbra. All means of communication being most primitive at that time, we travelled on horseback, escorted by a former captain on the French staff, who had been aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ragusa in 1830, who had succeeded his uncle, Hyde de Neuville, as Marquis of Bemposta in Portugal, and who had ended by becoming aide-de-camp to King Ferdinand. We formed a regular caravan, the transport service of which had been undertaken by a native "Almocreve."

The first day we crossed a sort of desert country, of evil repute, covered with heather as far as the eye could see—the lowest spurs of the Sierra d'Estrella, a long mountain chain which rises in Spain, near Segovia and Avila. Passing through a wild gorge, at a place called Mecheira, we came upon a band of evil-looking men, gun on shoulder, who seemed to be out shooting in an easy-going fashion. Our party was both well-armed and numerous, and I fancy they looked on it as too heavy game for their rifles. I am all the more inclined to this opinion, because we met some cavalry patrols a little further on, who had been sent out in a great hurry, some travellers having been stopped and stripped at Mecheira that very morning. Two days' travelling brought us to Alcobaca and Aljubarota. My reader will notice these names beginning with Al. The Moors have passed this way! Aljubarota is famous for the battle there, which established the autonomy of the kingdom of Portugal in 1385. The army commanded by the Grand Master of Avis, Don Jao, had to do with a Spanish force using firearms (the "needle-gun" of that date!), which were quite unknown to the Portuguese troops. These last had both wind and sun and dust against them. But buoyed up by their native bravery, and by the example of Don Jao, and of the Bishop of Braga, who rode down the ranks with helmet on head and lance in hand, they put the Spanish army to flight, and the Spanish King never stopped till he got to Seville. As for the Grand Master of Avis, who became King of Portugal, he founded the church and convent of Batalha, which we had come to see, in memory of his victory.

I know not how to describe ancient buildings. I am no architect; but things which are stately always strike me deeply; and there is no doubt about it, Batalha is stately, simple, severe, with that religious stamp about it which I look for vainly in the churches of our own day. The doorway, delicately carved, and in beautiful preservation, represents terrestrial paradise, and every one of the statues of the saints is a little masterpiece. Behind the church there is a chapel begun by Don Emmanuel, and which he was never able to finish. This is much to be regretted, to judge by what already exists. There is some sculpture of the most extraordinary delicacy—almost like a spider's web. But, alas! vandals have come upon the scene. The stained glass has gone, and ever so many statuettes are missing from their niches, sold to collectors or to passing tourists. Close to the church stands the convent, similar in style to the convent at Belem. There is one huge Gothic hall, which I thought superb. The story goes that the vaulted ceiling gave way three times, and that when it had been built up again the fourth time the architect stood himself underneath it just as the last scaffolding was knocked away. The vault stood, and he had his own face carved on one of the pendentives, thus forming a statuette which is by no means one of the least beautiful in that splendid building, all the more to be admired, to my thinking, on account of its being absolutely untouched by the barbarous hand of the restorer.

We went on to Leiria, where a great market gave us an opportunity of admiring the beauty of the country women and their charming costumes. We put up in a posada, in which the stable was on the first floor and the kitchen on the second, and where we shared rooms with geese and pigs and a party of travelling gelders from France. After Leiria came Pombal. These little Portuguese towns are all charming. They seem as if they belonged to another period altogether. The pillory is still to be seen in them, and the gaol too; this last a sort of wild beast cage, with a huge grated window level with the public square, through which every one can talk, without any surveillance, with the prisoners, condemned or otherwise, who are all huddled together pell mell. There were only two young women in the gaol at Pombal. We entered into conversation with them. By dint of questioning them, and the passers-by as well, we learnt that they were sisters—and then came the eternal old tale. The eldest had a lover, and all the rest of it! She had not courage to put the child out of the way, and her young sister buried it alive. The unhappy girls had been five months in that cage waiting their sentence, exposed to all the insults, jests, and coarse remarks of the populace. What torture to those poor women, who, to judge by their features and appearance, were evidently of a superior class to the mere peasants! The elder one, the mother, was very beautiful, though pale and seemingly weakened by suffering. Her expression was so gentle it pained me to look at her. "Ah, let no man insult a woman who has fallen," says the poet.

After the pillory and the gaol we had another memory of the Middle Ages. Shortly before we got to Coimbra we met one of the great local families, the Pinto-Bastos, travelling along the road, the ladies in litters, each borne by two gaily-caparisoned mules, the gentlemen on horseback, in the costume of the country, and escorted by numerous serving-men, also mounted, and wearing big caps, breeches, and handsome velvet jackets with silver buttons. Each man carried his striped wrapper over his shoulder, and was armed with the huge stick the Portuguese know how to wield so well. The whole caravan made a fine effect. Looking at it pass by, you might fancy yourself in the sixteenth century. All at once, from the crest of some rising ground, we caught sight of the beautiful and smiling Mondego Valley, with Coimbra rising in terraces along the river against a fine mountain background. It was most picturesque. We descended towards a long stone bridge leading to the town, and each members of our caravan made himself ready as best he could to give the least handle possible to the jests with which the students habitually salute all newly-arrived strangers. The whole corporation was under arms, indeed, in the sable costume, doublet, breeches and cloak, with which the "Estudiantinas Espagnoles" have familiarised us, only in this case the Spanish cocked hat and spoon was replaced by a sort of black Phrygian cap. To our astonishment, these young gentlemen, instead of poking fun at us, got off the parapet on which they had been sitting, pulled off their caps to us, and welcomed us with the most kindly politeness. They knew, perhaps, that we too had worn our breeches out upon school benches, and thus saluted us as comrades!

Beyond this friendly row of men in black, we saw the river dotted with white sails, and on its banks, among the willows, we beheld not a few of those well-shaped washer-women with turned-up skirts, whom Camoens christened the nymphs of the Mondego. At the far end of the bridge, between tall irregular walls, stood a gateway as dark as the entrance to a Turkish town; and just as we would have passed through it, mournful objurgations and sorrowful appeals from some invisible mortals rose around us, while baskets hanging on pulleys came down upon our heads, and porringers fastened to long reeds started out of holes in the walls and terrified our horses. The prisoners shut up within those walls were thus beseeching us to deposit our alms, pecuniary or other, in their baskets or their porringers! Having dismounted at a good inn, we discovered that the "Mesonero" (in other words, our host) was the possessor of two pretty daughters, whom he kept in a tower under lock and key, so dangerous a town is Coimbra! But we set our wits to work to catch a sight of the beautiful recluses. By means of a nosegay tied to the end of a long stick we drew two sprightly faces, well worthy their reputation, to the window, and so we made acquaintance. Then we were fetched to go over the university, the honours of which were done us by the "grand master" in a blue and gold gown, assisted by two professors who spoke French admirably well. Aumale, being much more lettered and academic than myself, kept the conversational ball rolling brilliantly. The huge institution, in which professors and students alike seemed to me to know their work thoroughly, is admirably organised, and is venerated throughout the whole country on account of its great antiquity. To the Portuguese mind it is the fountain-head of all knowledge; and we were told, in the most artless manner, that if our universities in France were good it was because they were managed by professors from Coimbra! From the university we went on to see an ancient mosque which had been turned into a cathedral, but which still preserved its thoroughly Moorish character. In Spain and Portugal alike the Moors have left indelible traces of their passage, both in the buildings, in the language, and in the types of the two races. Our stay at Coimbra ended with an expedition to the "Quinta das Lagrimas" (the Villa of Tears). In the shadow of the gigantic cedars which shelter this villa, standing in a lovely spot on the banks of the Mondego, the romantic story of the loves of the Infant of Portugal, Don Pedro, and of Inez de Castro, as sung by Camoens, and ending in that murder of Inez, to the punishment of which the whole life of Don Pedro "the Avenger" was devoted, unfolded itself. The proprietors for the time being of the villa gave me some of Inez de Castro's hair, which they had collected when her tomb was violated during the Napoleonic wars. It is fair hair.

We returned to Lisbon by a different route, over terrible roads, scarcely more than tracks, across a land of moors and pine-woods, picturesque enough, but wild and lonely, where we came in broad daylight on huge wolves, prowling round the flocks of goats, which the goatherds still call, as in the most primitive times, by blowing on conch shells. Two days' march brought us within sight of the little town of Thomar, and at nightfall we reached our halting place—a horrible "hospedaria," in the kitchen of which we took refuge, chilled, and aching with fatigue. Aumale dandled the children in the chimney-corner, thereby winning their fond affections, while I set to work to make love to the mistress of the establishment, a stout and not altogether illiterate lady—for she could swear in any language.

Thomar! Were you ever at Thomar? Did you ever even hear of it? Yet how many a journey has been made, how much trouble has been taken, to see what is much less worth seeing! The object of my admiration there is a convent, sacked, alas! and plundered—well-nigh utterly destroyed, but still the most singularly remarkable building conceivable. The nucleus of the convent is formed by a round mosque, with coloured pillars, and a "mirhab," which I still see in my mind's eye, full of long-robed and turbaned Mussulmans, plunged in solemn meditation. With the Christian conquest, the mosque became a Christian church, and the mirhab in its centre the high altar. After the Moors came the Templars, and then the Knights of Christ, who bravely defended the convent against an attempted Moorish recapture. A gate is still shown, called the "Gate of blood" on account of the carnage of which it was the scene. The Templars and the Knights of Christ have both left their mark upon the edifice. Later in the day came Don Emmanuel, and with him the rich and quaint style of his period. A choir and a wonderful doorway were added to the old mosque, the cloisters were lengthened, and beautiful halls were erected. Then the Spanish Philips, during their suzerainty over Portugal, made Thomar their residence, and in the new cloisters they added to the edifice, the severe and heavy style of architecture which the gloomy character of Philip II. brought into fashion is exemplified. The convent is at once an architectural and historical museum, and the most striking of religious monuments. The silence of the immense cloisters—there are six or seven of them—is deeply impressive. I could not tear myself away, every moment seemed to reveal some new and striking detail. I was roused from my admiration and my reverie by a volunteer guide who had attached himself to me, and who, seeing me pause before an exquisite statuette, said, "I'll take it down for you to carry away with you," adding, when I exclaimed in horror at the idea "But everybody takes what they like here!" I am happy to be able to add that we denounced this vandalism as soon as we got back to Lisbon, at the same time so exciting King Ferdinand's truly artistic feelings by our description of Thomar that he went there in his turn, and, thanks to him, the preservation of that unique edifice was thenceforth assured.

We made a delightful journey from Thomar to Lisbon, by Abrantes, at which place I saw an old gentleman in an antediluvian uniform, wearing his sword transversely like a powdered marquis in a play, advance towards me, and throw himself on his knees, embracing mine, and exclaiming, "Let me embrace the man who brought back Napoleon!" (Le conducteur de Napoleon), an allusion to my St. Helena expedition, which somewhat amazed me. When we got back to Lisbon I bade a sorrowful farewell to Aumale, who departed on board a steamship for Algiers, there to commence the brilliant campaign which ended in the capture of Abd-el-Kader's smalah. Horace Vernet's fine picture in the Versailles Museum perpetuates the memory of this splendid exploit.

My readers are aware that having started to capture the smalah, my brother got up to it with nothing but his cavalry and far from his supports, after several night marches, which he contrived to steal on the enemy. "The enemy is very strong," said Colonel Yusuf, a gallant officer, who was with the advance guard, hurrying back. "No prince of my race has ever turned back," was the answer. "Forward!" and the little force, with the general at its head, threw itself unhesitatingly on the mass of warriors in front. Its audacity was justified by its success.

As for me, while Aumale was steaming towards Algeria I was bidding farewell to my excellent friends and relatives, Queen Dona Maria and King Ferdinand, and setting sail for Senegal and the Guinea Coast, where I was to make the round of our colonial settlements.