Her entourage was not so much a circle as a crowd; the crush was so great that Julien, the mulatto chef dorchestre could hardly handle his bow, and his band, when they accompanied a bolero, were obliged 'to hook their scores onto the shoulders of some of the onlookers sitting near them, using their backs as music stands'.
There was the same scrimmage at Therese Cabarrus's. She too took a pride in packing her house with people, 'without considering whether there would be room to talk, or whether her guests would not be suffocated'. When the last of them had left, she would drop on a sofa, moaning, Tm exhausted, Tm dead!'-and a minute later, exclaim with satisfaction, 'We were quite a crowd, weren't we?'
Where was any reminder of the old regime to be found? Not so much in the drawing-room of the de Luynes, where far too much card-playing went on, as in the little select gatherings of the Faubourg Saint-Germain described by
Countess Potocka, in the friendly parties of a dozen persons playing charades, or amusing themselves by organizing fights between pug-dogs round a pie baked in the shape of a fortress. Probably also in the apartment of the Princesse de Vaudemont, with the conversation of Narbonne and Talleyrand to enliven proceedings. Or again at the Princesse de Beauvau's in the Rue Saint-Honore, whose modest apartment is thus described by the Vicomtesse de Noailles:
'On leaving the dirty staircase, common to all the inhabitants, you felt as if transported into a world apart; everything in those little rooms was aristocratic and well kept. The few servants you saw were old and rather helpless; you always felt they had seen such good company that their opinion was to be respected/
Another drawing-room, much less select, could also claim relationship with the ancien regime — that of Jeanne de La Haye de Riou, widow of the Marquis de Montesson, but better known, as the morganatic widow of the last-but-one Duke of Orleans. It was public property that this pseudo-Maintenon of the great-grand-nephew of Louis XIV was not, nor ever had been, a model of virtue; but the tone of her household was nevertheless very Old France, It was at her house that the men first reappeared in shoes and silk stockings, while the servants donned the liveries proscribed by the Revolution.
As the Government had given orders that some of her possessions should be restored to this affable dowager, she still enjoyed a certain amount of luxury, and was at home every Wednesday. First Josephine, and soon afterwards her husband, found their way to her receptions, where they could rub shoulders with people like the Montaigus, the Saint-Aulaires, the La Feuillades and the Noailles. A bridge was thus thrown across from one world to the other, and the Consular personnel came to learn good manners at the house of the marquise, rather as some young men learnt to tie their cravats under the tuition of professional beauties matured by long experience.
A useful lesson for the new Society, especially for certain military men about to play their part in imperial celebrations.
Many of his brothers-in-arms whom Bonaparte was soon to turn into field-marshals or highnesses were hardly, as they say, out of the top drawer, Ney was the son of a cooper, Lefebvre of a miller, Murat of an inkeeper, Augereau of a mason, Lannes of an ostler. Before appearing at Court and living in grand style, they needed a serious course of training. The same could be said of many of the ministers, whose first attempt to hold receptions were anything but brilliant. An English diplomat, George Jackson, attending an evening party given by Fouche, was struck by the bad style of the company. He mentions muddy boots, doubtful linen, and conversations suggesting that the Minister of Police had recruited his lady dancers from under the arcades of the Palais-Royal.
Fortunately some members of the Government made up for their colleagues* lack of experience. The fete given by Berthier at the Ministry of War for the anniversary of Marengo was long remembered. And the evening parties organized by Talleyrand, two years in succession, at his country house at Neuilly, may be said to have really marked the renascence of Paris life. The second, which took place in the year XI, was later described by Norvins as 'the most splendid festivity yet seen in our day'.
Not only was the party admirably organized, with its illuminations, its concert and its pastoral ballets, but for once people were enjoying themselves. For the first time, we may suppose, the fair ladies of the foreign colony were meeting the brilliant officers of Napoleon's entourage. While some of the couples went on dancing in the drawing-rooms, others wandered off to the end of the park, where the Bengal lights were less frequent and there was some hope of a little darkness. And when at last it was time to go, 'there remained a belated cluster of pretty women in a circle of attentive gallants, huddled together like gazelles rounded up by the hunters. Breathless men came running up from all sides, one after another: these were the husbands. And both parties exclaimed at once, so perfect was their understanding, Tve been looking for you for the last two hours!'
What was needed in this brand-new Society, if it was ever to rival the old one, was an officially recognized elite, an aristocracy not of birth but of merit, bringing together in a group all men of worth, and furnished with a distinctive sign. The creation of the Legion of Honour was to supply this.
Why did this institution, which was later to have the approval of the most democratic of regimes - of ten to the extent of abuse — arouse such violent opposition at its inception? Because for many people, even those that had rallied to the Consulate, the principle of equality was still the most sacred article of the Revolutionary creed. This became obvious at the Council of State, where the urgency of the project was passed by a majority of only four votes; at the Tribunate, where its adversaries amounted to more than a third of the Assembly, and in the Legislative Body, where 110 deputies declared themselves resolutely hostile to it, as against 136. The fate of the millions of ribbons that were to redden French buttonholes in the course of the century was really hanging by a thread.
At first it was regarded much less as a decoration than as a sort of League of Honour. The law of the 29th Florial, year X, does not mention any insignia. There was no talk of crosses, ribbons or stars until two years later, after the proclamation of the Empire. And even then many of the first thirty thousand legionaries wore their ribbons and rosettes with obvious embarrassment. Some of them, Lafayette, Lemercier, Ducis, Delille among them, went so far as to refuse them. 'They say that people with the most Honour are refusing to enter the Legion. On a principle of equality, no doubt? One should give to the poor. They, so enormously rich, are not in want of anything. So the others will look like nouveaux-riches'
Meanwhile the young bloods of the Boulevard des Italiens had been trying to bring the cross into ridicule by wearing a crimson carnation in their buttonholes. But the mockery withered away when sentinels were seen presenting arms to decorated soldiers and war-scarred pensioners; when women took to stopping Captain Coignet in the street, wanting to touch his medals, begging to be allowed to embrace him; and when the caf6 proprietors of the Palais-Royal said to him,
"We will serve you with anything you like. Members of the Legion of Honour are treated gratis/
In the town it became the custom to address the legionaries as ' Monsieur le Chevalier', or 'Monsieur 1* officier', which was a bit over-ceremonious when offering a pinch of snuff or asking the time; but the interested parties were none the less flattered. 'They call these things baubles', said Bonaparte one day to the Council of State, e but after all, it's with baubles that one leads men by the nose/
It was in virtue of the same axiom that, a few years later, he created the Empire nobility with its 1,000 barons, its 400 counts, its thirty-two dukes and its three princes, to say nothing of its 48,000 knights. The major dignitaries received endowments, estates in tail, fine chateaux of the lie de France; and 30,000,000 francs were set aside yearly for their benefit, from the revenues of the domain. The aristocracy was thus re-created all of a piece by the fourth dynasty'. With a stroke of the pen the victor of Brumaire cancelled the night of August 4.