Chapter VIII: Part 8

“It was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunderstorm simply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, and twitchings of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face assured you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over.”

Another house to which D’Orsay frequently went was that of Charles Dickens, and we read of in 1845 an entertainment which no doubt was a festive jollification. In September of that year an amateur performance, with Dickens at the head of the troupe, was given of _Every Man in His Humour_, at Miss Kelly’s Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known as the Royalty. After the “show” it was decided to wind up with a supper, concerning which Dickens writes to Macready:—

“At No. 9 Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs Macready. The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves and D’Orsay and George Cattermole, ‘or so’—that sounds like Bobadil a little.”

In the company were included Douglas Jerrold, John Leech and Forster.

Referring to yet another dinner, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House, on 12th April 1848:—

“Count d’Orsay repeated to me this morning the kind things you said of him when proposing his health. He, I assure you, was touched when he repeated them, and his feelings were infectious, for mine responded. To be highly appreciated by those we most highly value, is, indeed, a source of heartfelt gratification. From the first year of our acquaintance with you, we had learned to admire your genius, to respect your principles, and to love your goodness of heart, and the honest warmth of your nature. These sentiments have never varied. Every year, by unfolding your noble qualities to us, has served to prove how true were our first impressions of you, and our sole regret has been that your occupations deprive us of enjoying half as much of your society as all who have once enjoyed it must desire. Count d’Orsay declares that yesterday was one of the happiest days of his life. He feels proud of having assisted at the triumph of a friend whose heart is as genial as his genius is great. Who can resist being delighted at the success of one who wins for himself thousands of friends (for all his readers become so), without ever creating an enemy, even among those most envious of another’s fame, and simply by the revelations of a mind and heart that excite only the best feelings of our—nature? I cannot resist telling you what is passing in my heart. You will understand this little outbreak of genuine feeling in the midst of the toil of a literary life.”

There were almost as many writers of genius then as now!

Forster and Dickens were together at Gore House early in 1848, when Madden tells us “there was a remarkable display of D’Orsay’s peculiar ingenuity and successful tact in drawing out the oddities or absurdities of eccentric or ridiculous personages—mystifying them with a grave aspect, and imposing on their vanity by apparently accidental references of a gratulatory description to some favourite hobby or exploit, exaggerated merit or importance of the individual to be made sport of for the Philistines of the fashionable circle.” Bear-baiting was succeeded in those polite days by bore-baiting. Anent this particular evening, one of those present wrote to Lady Blessington:—

“Count d’Orsay may well speak of our evening being a happy one, to whose happiness he contributed so largely. It would be absurd, if one did not know it to be true, to hear D⸺ (Dickens?) talk as he has done ever since of Count d’Orsay’s power of drawing out always the best elements around him, and of miraculously putting out the worst. Certainly I never saw it so marvellously exhibited as on the night in question. I shall think of him hereafter unceasingly, with the two guests that sat on either side of him that night.”

It was but fitting that the Prince of Dandies and the future Poet Laureate should come together. Tennyson writes:—“Count d’Orsay is a friend of mine, co-godfather to Dickens’ child with me.” This was Dickens’ sixth child and fourth son, christened Alfred Tennyson after his godfathers.

D’Orsay was not so unkind as to neglect his native country entirely, and we find him now and again running over to Paris.

As pendants to the Disraeli portrait of D’Orsay, here are two others, one from a man’s hand, the other from a woman’s.

Chesterfield House was the headquarters of a racing set, and was gossiped about as also the centre of some heavy gambling, probably untruly so.

The Honourable F. Leveson Gore in _Bygone Years_ expresses himself bluntly: “I used to wonder that Lady Chesterfield admitted into her house that good-for-nothing fellow, Count d’Orsay. He was handsome, clever and amusing, and I am aware that in the eyes of some people such qualities cover a multitude of sins. But his record was a bad one. No Frenchman would speak to him because he had left the French army at the breaking out of the war between his own country and Spain, in order to go to Italy with Lord and Lady Blessington, and his conduct with regard to his marriage was infamous.” How uncharitable is the judgment of a virtuous world. Reading on we find that the writer holds that Lady Blessington induced D’Orsay “entirely to neglect his young wife. She, moreover, endeavoured to undermine her faith and her morals by getting her to read books calculated to do so, and what was still worse, she promoted the advances of other men, who made up to this inexperienced and beautiful young woman. Her life at Gore House[32] became at last so intolerable that she fled from it never to return.”

Mr Leveson Gore also calls Lady Harriet the only daughter of Lord Blessington, which is really not doing his lordship justice.

It is much more helpful, however, to have the opinion of a keen, shrewd woman; one who cannot have been disposed to like D’Orsay, yet who seems, as did her husband, to have a soft place in her heart for him.

Jane Welsh Carlyle was a capital hand at a pen portrait; here is what she has to say of D’Orsay:—

“_April 13, 1845._—To-day, oddly enough, while I was engaged in re-reading Carlyle’s _Philosophy of Clothes_, Count d’Orsay walked in. I had not seen him for four or five years. Last time he was as gay in his colours as a humming-bird—blue satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat, cream-coloured coat, lined with velvet of the same hue, trousers also of a bright colour, I forget what; white French gloves, two glorious breastpins attached by a chain, and length enough of gold watch-guard to have hanged himself in. To-day, in compliment to his five more years, he was all in black and brown—a black satin cravat, a brown velvet waistcoat, a brown coat some shades darker than the waistcoat, lined with velvet of its own shade, and almost black trousers, one breast-pin, a large pear-shaped pearl set into a little cup of diamonds, and only one fold of gold chain round his neck, tucked together right on the centre of his spacious breast with one magnificent turquoise. Well! that man understood his trade; if it be but that of dandy, nobody can deny that he is a perfect master of it, that he dresses himself with consummate skill! A bungler would have made no allowance for five more years at his time of life, but he had the fine sense to perceive how much better his dress of to-day sets off his slightly enlarged figure and slightly worn complexion, than the humming-bird colours of five years back would have done. Poor D’Orsay! he was born to have been something better than even the king of dandies. He did not say nearly so many clever things this time as on the last occasion. His wit, I suppose, is of the sort that belongs more to animal spirits than to real genius, and his animal spirits seem to have fallen many degrees. The only thing that fell from him to-day worth remembering was his account of a mask he had seen of Charles Fox, ‘all punched and flattened as if he had slept in a book.’

“Lord Jeffrey came, unexpected, while the Count was here. What a difference! the prince of critics and the prince of dandies. How washed out the beautiful dandiacal face looked beside that little clever old man’s! The large blue dandiacal eyes, you would have said, had never contemplated anything more interesting than the reflection of the handsome personage they pertained to in a looking-glass; while the dark penetrating ones of the other had been taking note of most things in God’s universe, even seeing a good way into millstones.”

XXV

SUNSET

Sunset of the glories of Gore House came in the year 1849, a cold, bitter sunset, presaging a stormy morrow. Lady Blessington was nearly sixty years old, well-preserved indeed, but Time’s footsteps are crow’s-feet. D’Orsay was nearing fifty. Darby and Joan; only the former at fifty is more than ten years younger than the latter at sixty.

Behind all the gaiety of Gore House there had long been a dark background, ever growing more sinister. Without the harassment of any cares it would have been difficult for a woman of Lady Blessington’s age to maintain a sovereignty which depended almost entirely upon her beauty. Troubles met her at every turn, and the last few years at Gore House must have been to her years of torment and despair. She heard her doom approaching with sure foot, and knew that she was unable to stay the advance.

Her jointure of £2000 was entirely inadequate to maintain the expenses of either Seamore Place or Gore House, to the exchequers of which D’Orsay cannot have contributed; any capital that came into his hands was rapidly dispersed by them among hungry debtors, and his income of £500 was probably hypothecated in the same way. It was essential for her, therefore, to add to her revenue, for the reduction of expenditure does not seem to have occurred to this luxury-loving soul. She does indeed seem to have been careful to see that she obtained her money’s worth, and kept a tight hand on the household expenses and accounts. One habit of hers was to keep a “book of dinners,” noting down the names of the guests at each entertainment.

When no other way of securing an income suggests itself to the needy or hard-up, they invariably take up their pens and write. Lady Blessington, if it had not been for her beauty and notoriety, could scarcely have earned a livelihood as a hack writer for the lesser journals, but her name gave to her writings a market value which their intrinsic merit did not. Her _Conversations with Byron_ have already been mentioned, and sufficiently dealt with; she also wrote books of travel, novels, verses, edited such periodicals as _The Keepsake_ and _The Book of Beauty_, to which the eminent authors who fluttered round her at Gore House contributed, and in the end when these enterprises were failing became a contributor to the _Daily News_ of “exclusive intelligence,” that is to say of “any sort of intelligence she might like to communicate, of the sayings, doings, memoirs or movements in the fashionable world,” for which she received payment at the rate of £400 a year; Dickens and Forster were her editors.

The death in 1848 of Heath, the publisher, in insolvency brought a loss to Lady Blessington of about £700. Her earnings have been placed at a thousand a year, but William Jerdan in his _Autobiography_ declares them to have been much higher. “I have known her to enjoy from her pen an amount somewhere midway between £2000 and £3000 per annum, and her title, as well as talents, had considerable influence in ‘ruling high prices’ as they say in Mark Lane and other markets. To this, also, her well-arranged parties with a publisher now and then, to meet folks of a style unusual to men in business, contributed their attractions; and the same society was in reality of solid value towards the production of such publications as the Annuals, the contents of which were provided by the editor almost entirely from the pens of private friends.”

In 1833 by a robbery of jewellery and plate at Seamore Place, Lady Blessington lost something like £1000.

These losses, the continual strain of working to obtain the funds necessary for her luxurious mode of life and the difficulties in which D’Orsay was involved told heavily upon her health and spirits. As she herself writes in her commonplace book:—

“Great trials demand great courage, and all our energy is called up to enable us to bear them. But it is the minor cares of life that wear out the body, because, singly, and in detail, they do not appear sufficiently important to engage us to rally our force and spirits to support them.… Many minds that have withstood the most severe trials, have been broken down by a succession of ignoble cares;” and there is a touch of sorrowful bitterness in this: “Friends are the thermometers by which we may judge the temperature of our fortunes.”

Not that she was ill-served by her friends, rather the contrary; few women have had so many or so faithful.

The following letter paints the situation better than can any words of ours; it was written to Lady Blessington in or about 1848:—

“MY DEAREST FRIEND,—You do not do me more than justice in the
belief that I most fully sympathise with all your troubles, and
I shall be only too happy if my advice can in any way assist
you.

“First. As to your jointure, nothing in law is so
indisputable—as that a widow’s jointure takes precedence of
every other claim on an estate. The very first money the
agent or steward receives from the property should go to the
discharge of this claim. No subsequent mortgages, annuities,
encumbrances, law-suits, expenses of management, etc., can be
permitted to interfere with the payment of jointure; and as,
whatever the distress of the tenants, or the embarrassments
of the estate, it is clear that some rents must have come in
half-yearly; so, on those rents you have an indisputable right;
and, I think, on consulting your lawyer, he will put you in a
way, either by a memorial to Chancery, or otherwise, to secure
in future the regular payment of this life-charge. Indeed, as
property charged with a jointure, although the rents are not
paid for months after the proper dates, the jointure must be
paid on the regular days, and if not, the proprietor would
become liable to immediate litigation. I am here presuming that
you but ask for the jointure, due quarterly, or half-yearly,
and not in advance, which, if the affairs are in Chancery, it
would be illegal to grant.

“Secondly. With respect to the diamonds, would it be possible
or expedient, to select a certain portion (say half), which
you least value on their own account; and if a jeweller
himself falls too short in his offer, to get him to sell them
on commission? You must remember, that every year, by paying
interest on them,[33] you are losing money on them, so that
in a few years you may thus lose more than by taking at once
less than their true value. There are diamond merchants, who,
I believe, give more for those articles than jewellers, and if
you know Anthony Rothschild, and would not object to speak to
him, he might help you.…

“I know well how, to those accustomed to punctual payments, and
with a horror of debt, pecuniary embarrassments prey upon the
mind, but I think they may be borne, not only with ease, but
some degree of complacency, when connected with such generous
devotions and affectionate services as those which must console
you amidst all your cares. In emptying your purse you have at
least filled your heart with consolations, which will long
outlast what I trust will be but the troubles of a season.”

The last sentences refer to the generous charity which was one of Lady Blessington’s saving graces: parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lover, all benefited by her aid. Two very pleasing letters from Mrs S. C. Hall may be quoted on this and other points:—

“I have never had occasion to appeal to Lady Blessington for aid for any kind or charitable purpose, that she did not _at once_, with a grace peculiarly her own, come forward cheerfully and ‘help’ to the extent of her power.”

And:—

“When Lady Blessington left London, she did not forget the necessities of several of her poor dependants, who received regular aid from her after her arrival, and while she resided in Paris.[34] She found time, despite her literary labours, her anxieties and the claims which she permitted society to make upon her time, not only to do acts of kindness now and then for those in whom she felt an interest, but to give what seemed perpetual thought to their well-doing: and she never missed an opportunity of doing a gracious act or saying a gracious word.…

“I have no means of knowing whether what the world said of this beautiful woman was true or false, but I am sure God intended her to be good, and there was a deep-seated good intent in whatever she did that came under my observation.

“Her sympathies were quick and cordial, and independent of worldiness; her taste in art and literature womanly and refined; I say ‘womanly,’ because she had a perfectly feminine appreciation of whatever was delicate and beautiful.… Her manners were singularly simple and graceful; it was to me an intense delight to look at beauty, which though I never saw in its full bloom, was charming in its autumn time; and the Irish accent, and soft, sweet, Irish laugh, used to make my heart beat with the pleasures of memory.… Her conversation was not witty nor wise, but it was in good tune and good taste, mingled with a great deal of humour, which escaped everything bordering on vulgarity. It was surprising how a tale of distress or a touching anecdote would at once suffuse her clear intelligent eyes with tears, and her beautiful mouth would break into smiles and dimples at even the echo of wit or jest.”

This is singularly interesting as the evidence of a woman, one of the few who were intimate with Lady Blessington. Of an Irish woman too, who could perceive and appreciate the womanly side of Lady Blessington’s simple nature. Simple, yes; she was just a simple, emotional, luxury-loving, laughter-loving sympathetic Irish woman, who under favourable circumstances might have been a true and adorable wife and helpmate; who under the circumstances that did rule her life, became—Lady Blessington.

Such first-hand testimony as that of Mrs S. C. Hall is worth a wilderness of commentary; to it we will add this from Lady Blessington’s maid, Anne Cooper:—

“My lady’s spirits were naturally good: before she was overpowered with difficulties, and troubles on account of them, she was very cheerful, droll, and particularly amusing. This was natural to her. Her general health was usually good; she often told me she had never been confined to her bed one whole day in her life. And her spirits would have continued good, but that she got so overwhelmed with care and expenses of all kinds. The calls for her assistance were from all quarters. Some depended wholly on her (and had a regular pension, quarterly paid)—her father and mother, for many years before they died; the education of children of friends fell upon her.… Constant assistance had to be given to others—(to the family, in particular, of one poor lady, now dead some years, whom she loved very dearly). She did a great many charities; for instance, she gave very largely to poor literary people, poor artists; something yearly to old servants … and from some, whom she served, to add to all her other miseries, she met with shameful ingratitude.

“Labouring night and day at literary work, all her anxiety was to be clear of debt. She was latterly constantly trying to curtail all her expenses in her own establishment, and constantly toiling to get money. Worried and harassed at not being able to pay bills when they were sent in; at seeing large expenses still going on, and knowing the want of means to meet them, she got no sleep at night. She long wished to give up Gore House, to have a sale of her furniture, and to pay off her debts. She wished this for two years before she left England; but when the famine in Ireland rendered the payment of her jointure irregular, and every succeeding year more and more so, her difficulties increased, and, at last, Howell & James put an execution in the house.… Poor soul! her heart was too large for her means.”

Still Lady Blessington fought on, and faced the footlights without outward faltering; she played her part in the comedy and received the applause of her friends, few of whom realised that the comedy was a tragedy. “Passion! Possession! Indifference!” she writes, “what a history is comprised in these three words! What hopes and fears succeeded by a felicity as brief as intoxicating—followed in its turn by the old consequence of possession—indifference! What burning tears, what bitter pangs, rending the very heartstrings—what sleepless nights and watchful days form part of this everyday story of life, whose termination leaves the actors to search again for new illusions to finish like the last.” But what new illusions can be looked for by a tried, sad woman of sixty?

D’Orsay was locked up in Gore House during these last two years of sunset for six days out of each seven; debt hung like a millstone round his neck also. These two, who had sailed over happy seas with favourable winds, were now together drifting on the rocks.

One day in April a sheriff’s officer, effectually disguised, managed to enter the house, and then the end of this second act of our play came rapidly. Lady Blessington informed of the mishap, realising that once it was known that an execution was laid upon her property there would no more be any safety for the Count’s person, sent to D’Orsay’s room to warn him of his danger.

“Bah!” exclaimed D’Orsay, unable or unwilling to believe that the hour for flight had at last come upon him; and again and again “Bah!” Not until Lady Blessington herself added her personal persuasion did he grasp the situation.

De Contades gives a somewhat different account. Just before the dinner hour, a pastry-cook’s boy presented himself at Gore House with a dish, sent in, so he said, by the confectioner. Having left this in the kitchen, he deliberately walked upstairs to the Count’s dressing-room.

“Well, who’s that?” asked D’Orsay.

It was a sheriff’s officer!

“Really!” exclaimed D’Orsay, and demanded that he should be permitted to complete the tying of his tie—_salon_ or prison—his tie must be perfect.

“But, Count—”

“Bah, bah! All in good time.”

The officer was quite interested in the tying of that tie; few men had been so honoured as to be allowed to see how D’Orsay tied his tie—and, lo! by the time the tie _was_ tied, the sun had sunk to rest and D’Orsay was free till sunrise!

“John,” said D’Orsay, calmly walking off to the drawing-room, “kick this chap out of the door.”

The which was executed and the writ was not.

In the grey of the morning, however, D’Orsay, taking every precaution against capture on the way, set out for Paris with a valet, a valise, and an umbrella. The words of a great man at any moment of crisis in his affairs are worth recording; one of D’Orsay’s last remarks in London was: “Well, at least, if I have nothing else, I will have the best umbrella!”

That was the bravado of a brave man. What really was in his mind? What were Napoleon’s thoughts as he turned his back upon Moscow? What were D’Orsay’s as he fled that morning, conquered, from the town he had captured and enslaved so long?

XXVI

THE END OF GORE HOUSE

Before following D’Orsay to Paris, we will witness the end of the Blessington _régime_ at Gore House. The harassed lady’s creditors swarmed round her; she had given bills and bonds in anticipation of her jointure for something like £1500; Howell & James’ account seems to have amounted to £4000!! Money-lenders, bill-discounters, tax-collectors, tradesmen of every kind, all rushed in to see what could be saved. In the event it was found impossible to avoid a sale of her goods and effects.

On April 9th, 1849, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House:

“As I purpose leaving England in a few days, it will pain me very much to depart without personally wishing you farewell; and though I am in all the fever of packing up, I will make time to receive a visit from you, if you can call any day this week between eleven o’clock in the fore-noon, or after nine in the evening. Count d’Orsay was called to Paris so suddenly, that he had not time to take leave of any of his friends, but he charged me to say a thousand kind things to you.”

[TO FACE PAGE 280]

The following from Disraeli reached her in Paris:—

_25th April 1849._

“We returned to town on the 16th, and a few days after, I
called at Gore House, but you were gone. It was a pang; for
though absorbing duties of my life have prevented me of late
from passing as much time under that roof as it was once my
happiness and good fortune through your kindness to do; you are
well assured, that my heart never changed for an instant to its
inmates and that I invariably entertained for them the same
interest and affection.

“Had I been aware of your intentions, I would have come up to
town earlier, and specially to have said ‘Adieu!’ mournful as
that is.

“I thought I should never pay another visit to Paris, but I
have now an object in doing so. All the world here will miss
you very much, and the charm with which you invested existence;
but for your own happiness, I am persuaded you have acted
wisely. Every now and then, in this life, we require a great
change; it wonderfully revives the sense of existence. I envy
you; pray, if possible, let me sometimes hear from you.”

Thackeray writes to Mrs Brookfield:—

“I have just come away from a dismal sight; Gore House full of snobs looking at the furniture. Foul Jews; odious bombazine women, who drove up in mysterious flys which they had hired, the wretches, to be fined (? fine), so as to come in state to a fashionable lounge; brutes keeping their hats on in the kind old drawing-room—I longed to knock some of them off, and say, ‘Sir, be civil in a lady’s room.…’ There was one of the servants there, not a powdered one, but a butler, a _whatd’youcallit_. My heart melted towards him and I gave him a pound. Ah! it was a strange, sad picture of _Vanity Fair_.”

The catalogue of the sale gives an idea of the “household gods”:—

“Costly and elegant effects: comprising all the magnificent furniture, rare porcelain, sculpture in marble, bronzes, and an assemblage of objects of art and decoration; a casket of valuable jewellery and _bijouterie_, services of chased silver and silver-gilt plate, a superbly-fitted silver dressing-case; collection of ancient and modern pictures, including many portraits of distinguished persons, valuable original drawings, and fine engravings, framed and in portfolios; the extensive and interesting library of books, comprising upwards of 5000 volumes, expensive table services of china and rich cut glass, and an infinity of useful and valuable articles. All the property of the Right Hon. the Countess of Blessington, retiring to the Continent.”

So wrote Mr Phillips, “that eminent author of auctioneering advertisements.”

The sale took place in May, and was attended by a crowd of fashionables, and the net sum realised was £11,985, 4s. 0d. Lawrence’s portrait of Lady Blessington, now in the Wallace Collection, fetched £336 and was purchased by Lord Hertford, who also acquired D’Orsay’s portrait of the Duke of Wellington for £189. Chalon’s portrait of Lady Blessington was saved from the wreck; it is now in the National Portrait Gallery.

Lady Blessington’s French valet, Avillon, writes to her:—

“GORE HOUSE, KENSINGTON,
_May 8th, 1849_.

“MY LADY,—J’ai bien reçu votre lettre, et je me serais empressé
d’y répondre le même jour, mais j’ai été si occupé étant le
premier de la vente qu’il m’a été impossible de le faire.
J’ai vu M. P.⸺ dans l’après midi. Il avais un commis ici pour
prendre le prix des différents objets vendu le 7 May, et que
vous avez sans doute reçu maintenant, au dire des gens qui ont
assisté à la vente. Les choses se sont vendus avant agencement
et je dois ajouter que M. Phillips n’a rien négligé pour rendre
la vente intéressante a toute la noblesse d’ici.

“Lord Hertford a acheté plusieurs choses, et ce n’est que
dimanche dernier fort tard dans l’après midi, qu’il est venu
voir la maison. En un mot je pense sans exagération, que le
nombre de personnes qui sont venus a la maison pendant les 5
jours quelle a été en vue, que plus de 20,000 personnes y sont
entrées; une très grande quantité de Catalogue ont été vendus,
et nous en vendons encore tous les jours, car vous le savez,
personne n’est admis sans cela. Plusieurs des personnes qui
fréquantent la maison sont venus les deux premiers jours.…

“Le Dr. Quin est venu plusieurs fois, et á paru prendre le
plus grand intêret a ce qui se passait ici. M. Thackeray est
venu aussi, et avait les larmes aux yeux en partant. _C’est
peut-être la seule personne que j’ai vu réellement affecté a
votre depart._”

Lady Blessington and her two nieces had left for Paris on 14th April.

XXVII

PARIS FOR THE LAST TIME

Lady Blessington returned to the city where her husband had died; D’Orsay to serve under another Napoleon than he to whom he had once aspired to render duty. Lady Blessington took a suite of rooms in the Hôtel de la Ville l’Evêque, but shortly moved into an _appartement_ in the Rue du Cerq, hard by the Champs Elysées, which she furnished, partly with some of the salvage from the sale, and where she lived very cosily upon her jointure.

The following letter is from Henry Bulwer:—

“_May 6, 1849._

“I was very glad to get your letter. I never had a doubt (I
judged by myself) that your friends would remain always your
friends, and I was sure that many who were not Alfred’s when he
was away, would become so when he was present.[35] It would be
great ingratitude if Prince Louis forgot former kindnesses and
services, and I must say, that I do not think him capable of
this.

“I think you will take a house in Paris or near it, and I hope
some day there to find you, and to renew some of the many happy
hours I have spent in your society. I shall attend the sale,
and advise all my friends to do so. From what I hear, things
will probably sell well. I am sure that Samson will execute any
commission for you when he goes to Paris, and I gave Douro
your message, who returns it.…”

Napoleon as President, however, was a different man from a mere Prince in Exile, and could scarcely show himself as intimate in Paris with Lady Blessington and D’Orsay as he had done in London. Accompanied by the Misses Power they dined at the Elysée Palace, and then social intercourse apparently ceased. That D’Orsay had in other days been of great assistance to Napoleon, and that Lady Blessington had been to him a most kind hostess, there is no denying; they expected much now in return, but Napoleon could scarcely in decency give much.

It is narrated that Napoleon said to Lady Blessington: “Are you going to stay long in France?”

And that she with more wit than wisdom replied: “I don’t know. _Are you?_”

Lady Blessington was warmly welcomed by many of her old friends, notably by various members of the family of de Grammont. She tried to resume in a minor key at Paris the life she had led at Gore House; but the endeavour failed.

A letter from Lady Blessington’s niece, Margaret Power, brings us to the closing scene of this portion of our story:—

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

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

D’Orsay was alone.

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

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

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

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

Requiescat.

(_From a Photograph (?) by D’Orsay_)

[TO FACE PAGE 288]

XXVIII

D’ORSAY IN DECLINE

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

“38 RUE DE LA VILLE L’EVEQUE.

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

“ALFRED.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“D’ORSAY.”

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

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

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

Lord Lamington gives a curious account of a visit:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“PARIS, _1st May 1852_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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