In December, which was the time we meant to move to Paris, we were prevented. Our treasure, our little Sylvia, fell ill. What anxious hours those were! Napoleon III and Henry IV of course were then put in the background—our child dying!
But she did not die. In two weeks all danger was over. Only the physician forbade us to travel during the worst of the winter’s cold. So we put off our departure till March.
This sickness and recovery, the danger and the preservation—what a shock they had given our hearts! and how much—though I thought that no longer possible—they had brought them more near to each other still! To tremble in unison before a horrid disaster—one which each fears the more from seeing the other’s despair, and to weep tears of joy in common when this disaster has been averted—are things which have a most mighty influence in welding souls together.
Forebodings? No, there were none. If there had been Paris would not have made on me the cheerful impression of promised pleasure which it did on one sunny afternoon of March, 1870, on our arrival. One knows now what horrors were brooding over that city after a very short interval; but not the faintest anticipation of trouble arose in my mind.
We had already hired beforehand, through the agent, John Arthur, the same little palace in which we had lived last year, and at its door was waiting for us our maître d’hôtel of the previous year. As we drove across the Champs Élysées to reach our dwelling, it was just the hour for the Bois, and several of our old acquaintances met us and exchanged joyful recognitions. The numerous little barrows of violets which were dragged about the streets of Paris that year filled the air with the promise of spring; the sunbeams were sparkling and playing in rainbows on the fountains of the Rond-point, making little reflections on the carriage lamps and the harness of the many carriages. Amongst others, the beautiful empress was driving in a carriage harnessed à la Daumont. She passed us, and, recognising me, made a gesture of salutation.
There are some special pictures or scenes which photograph or phonograph themselves on our memory, along with the feelings that accompany them, and some of the words that are spoken at them. “This Paris is truly lovely,” cried Frederick at this point, and my feeling was a childish self-congratulation at the coming treat. Had I known what was coming to me, and to this whole city, now bathed in splendour and rejoicing!
This time we abstained from throwing ourselves, as we had done the year before, into the whirlpool of worldly amusements. We announced that we would not accept any dancing invitations, and kept ourselves apart from the great receptions. Even the theatre we did not visit so often—only when some piece made a great impression—and so it came about that we spent most evenings at home alone, or in the society of a few friends.
As to our plans with regard to the idea of the emperor about disarmament, we got on but badly with them. Napoleon III had not, indeed, given up his idea altogether, but the present time, it was said, was not at all suited for carrying it out. In the circle around the throne a conviction had grown up that that throne stood on no very firm footing—a great discontent was boiling and seething among the people, in order to repress which all the police and censorship regulations were made more stringent, and the only consequence of this was greater discontent. The only thing, said certain people, which could give renewed splendour and security to the dynasty would be a successful campaign. It is true there was no near prospect of this, but all mention of disarmament would be a total and complete mistake, for thereby the whole Bonaparte-nimbus would be destroyed, which was undoubtedly founded on the heritage of glory of the first Napoleon. We had also received no very cheering answers to our inquiries on these subjects from Prussia and Austria. There people had entered on an epoch of expansion of the “defensive forces” (the word “army” began to be unfashionable), and the word “disarmament” fell on this like a gross discord. On the contrary, in order to obtain the blessings of peace, the “defensive power” must be increased—the French were not to be trusted—the Russians neither—and the Italians, most certainly not—they would fall on Trieste and Trent at once, if they had the opportunity—in short, the only thing to do was to nurse the Landwehr system with all the care possible.
“The time is not ripe,” said Frederick, on our receiving communications such as these, “and I must, I suppose, in reason give up the hope that I personally may be able to help in hastening the ripening of that time, or even see the fruits I long for blossoming. What I can contribute is mean enough. But from the hour that I saw that this thing, however mean, is my duty, it has in spite of all become the greatest thing of all to me, so I keep on.”
But if for the present the project of disarmament had been dropped, I had yet one comfort—there was no war in sight. The war party which existed in the court and among the people, and whose opinion was that the dynasty must be “rebaptised in blood,” and that another little taste of glory must be provided for the people, were obliged to renounce their plan of attack and their bewitching “little campaign on the Rhine frontier.” For France possessed no allies; great drought prevailed in the country; a dearth
