The Paris adventure had lasted almost half a year and finished the day Dona Xima realized they were running out of money. The Senyor had taken a large amount with him, but his niece was wildly extravagant. It seemed unbelievable that a young lady from a good family, raised at an excellent school, could be so depraved at the age of eighteen. The fact would have an explanation if we could attribute it to the sinful books that wreak such havoc these days, particularly those romantic, libertine French novels. However, it appears that Dona Xima did not read. And why should she, when she had an imagination capable of eclipsing Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas together? The spirit of evil adopted the form of the most refined innocence in her. Under those light, winged forms lurked indecency, selfishness, greed…They said she had a good character because she had none: the Senyor has described her carefreeness claiming she was ‘the woman who never loses her temper’. Small wonder: she had no shame.
Forgive the harshness of my words, my friend. When you reach the end you will be able to judge whether I am being fair. In a case such as this, the sadly famous Zola, who created the Rougon-Macquarts, searches for the laws of inheritance to justify a crime, because the last novelty of this century that is dying amidst mud and tears is that criminals are praised and victims are declared guilty. That is the thesis of Les Misérables, La Dame aux camélias, and so many other fashionable novels. We cannot accept such doctrines, but after studying the archives of this house, I must admit that within the family one finds exemplary lives such as those of the Bishop Rigobert and Venerable Maria-Francisca alongside other less fortunate cases. Some have been kept a secret. Others, such as that of Dona Anna, a great-grandmother of Dona Xima and an aunt of the Senyor, were publicly known. Around the middle of the century, one Bearn ended up in prison. Therefore the Canon of Binimelis, who was not one to mince his words, would mumble out of the side of his mouth: Bearn, fish and fowl implying that there was a bit of everything in the family. These blunders are rather widespread even in the most illustrious genealogies. They should be a lesson in humility.
The object or the excuse for the trip was to attend the première of Faust. In Paris, the Second Empire was richer and more ostentatious than the Third Republic. I have lived the rapture of those days through the pages of the Memoirs and long conversations with my benefactor, speaking softly by the fireside while Dona Maria Antònia crocheted or said her prayers. Those conversations could have been taken as a confession had it not been for their degree of objectivity, which prevented pain from emerging and unfolding like a flower.
‘We all felt the temptation of selling our souls to the devil,’ he said, ‘specially those of us who were no longer young. Paris was magical. There was gold everywhere and the boulevards were bustling with luxury and elegant women. Alboni was having a brilliant success at the Théâtre des Italiens with La Sonnambula, and Le Prophète, a French work playing at the Opéra, was the subject of much discussion. Lesseps, protected by Eugenia de Montijo, strove to join two oceans. Haussmann was opening up avenues, railways were being built, the telephone and the sewing machine were invented…France had been very rich, but never before had it reached such a degree of comfort and luxury.’
Nor had it ever reached such a degree of dissipation, for that matter. Vice was out in the streets, on stage, in the theatre boxes and in the lavish équipages driving along from the Bois de Boulogne to the Porte de Saint-Martin. Offenbach had created a comic and grotesque genre that delighted an audience eager for novelties. The Empress was admired more for her dresses than for her virtues. However, the real queen of the boulevards was La Rigolboche, a miserable can-can dancer who, according to Alarcón,* was neither beautiful, virtuous nor much of an artist, her only attribute being her ability to lift her leg high enough to kick the hats off her admirers.
The best lodging in Paris at the time was the Grand Hotel, on the Boulevard des Capucines, and there they went, paying eighteen francs a day per person. The Grand Opera, not the one we know today, was on the rue le Pelletier, a little farther away than it is now, but too close, according to Dona Xima, because it seemed inappropriate to take a coach from the hotel. The Senyor, however, could not sleep at night on account of the noise in the neighbourhood, so they finally rented a furnished townhouse near the Etoile, with a garden, a bath and electric bells. Thirty years ago that area was not as popular as it is now; only the rich and idle lived there. But Dona Xima, who had not a penny to her name, never worried about prices.
‘She wanted an ermine coat,’ my benefactor told me, ‘dresses, a carriage waiting outside her door…I didn’t argue, even though it all seemed excessive to me.’
Dona Xima found the perfect setting for her fantasies. Dumas fils has immortalized Marguerite Gautier, Marie Duplessis in real life, in La Dame aux camélias, a work that extols vice and embellishes it with the best of colours. She did not suffer from tuberculosis (her body was as sound as her soul was unhealthy) but in every other respect Dona Xima was the queen of fashion just like Dumas’ heroine, a dazzling star in a society as fictitious as the Empire itself. There is an anecdote about Louis Napoleon that my benefactor assures me is true. Napoleon III had been a disciple of Senator Vieillard, a renowned Freemason who had been so bold as to give him a book with the following epigraph: ‘Le dieu de l’antiquité n’est plus; aujourd’hui l’Humanité est Dieu.’ The disciple read the epigraph, looked at his master, reread it, pondered for a while, and finally said: ‘Disrespectful, but true.’
Man above God. The anecdote gives us a notion of the Humanism that characterized the Second Empire. In his Viaje de Madrid a Nápoles, Alarcón described the materialism that infiltrated the customs and reached the throne, causing so many bitter tears.
The setting could hardly have been more appropriate for the success of Dona Xima, a mortal and dangerous beauty, an incitement to rebellion and war. Her reign was short-lived and collapsed with the defeat of Sedan and the horrors of La Commune, The Emperor was lucky enough to die shortly afterwards, while she continued to live and spread evil, fulfilling her destiny, as you will see when this story reaches its conclusion.
Faust had its première in March ’59, and despite all expectations, it was not particularly successful. The audience did not appreciate Gounod’s beautiful score until ten years later, when it was staged again. However, the theatre was a sight to see. The Emperor seemed blind as a bat concerning international affairs (in that respect he was much like Napoleon I), and thus mistrusted Catholic Austria and turned to the godless kings of Prussia. Faust, as we all know, is the most authentically Prussian of all Germanic legends: that sufficed for the Emperor to support it to a certain degree. The Empress was dressed in white and covered in jewels. Dona Xima appeared in the box next to them, also dressed in white, but without a single jewel. Since they entered simultaneously a murmur of surprise ran through the crowd. Whether it was a coincidence or not, it looked like an act of rivalry and was interpreted by many as such. Dona Xima, more beautiful and graceful than Eugenia de Montijo, also surpassed her in natural distinction. ‘She seemed so sure of herself,’ the Senyor wrote, ‘that the fact that she was wearing no jewels—because she had none—was interpreted as what they now call a handicap, an advantage granted to the Sovereign by Dona Xima in that contest. Society is frivolous and gossipy; Dona Xima was the winner. Few listened to the opera, their attention being divided between the two Spanish ladies; I have often thought they were the reason why the performance passed unnoticed. I went to congratulate Gounod during the intermission. I wanted to express my admiration, but he spoke only of Dona Xima: “Je vous serais bien obligé, Monsieur, de vouloir me nommer Madame.” He was a charming man. We went back to our box and there, in front of all Paris, he kissed Xima on both cheeks. Some applause started up and it seemed to me that Eugenia de Montijo was made rather uncomfortable by the scene. However, she smiled and we heard her say to the ladies in her company: “Elle est ravissante.” Louis Napoleon had picked up his opera glasses and stared at us insistently, which was hardly polite considering we were virtually next to him. They assumed we came from some great family. Paris is generous in that way. A few days later, Gounod appeared at the town house at the Etoile. He came with a young beau from the court who was friendly with Louis Napoleon, and, apparently, even more so with the Empress. This cub had the title of Duke of Campo Formio and seemed to be in charge of some extremely important mission. His master was rather naïve to trust certain embassies to such a rich and fashionable man.’
These lines are followed by a series of rather bold considerations on preferment that I would rather leave without comment. My benefactor does not hide his contempt towards the nobility of the Empire. ‘It was all a hoax,’ he writes, ‘imitation, pastiche, like the Pompeian style, the sphinxes and the bronzes of Bardienne. In Paris I heard a story about Campo Formio’s father. He had been granted the title of Duke by Napoleon I, who would touch a washerwoman with his magic wand and turn her into a princess, or so he thought. Apparently one day a friend went to call on him and the servant said he had gone off to see the painter “to order a few ancestors”.’
The anecdote may be false, because Don Toni liked to draw upon his imagination for the sake of amusement. The matter ended as could be expected of people with no moral sense whatsoever: Dona Xima accepted the ambassador for the time being. ‘You understand, don’t you, Tonet? You’re so kind…’
Feelings can hinder understanding. To the Senyor, Campo Formio was a fake. He could not get used to the man’s insolent courtesy, his monocle, his Prussian clicking of the heels. It all seemed ridiculous in the eyes of an old Mallorcan nobleman, but besides, Dona Xima’s preference for a younger man would have been enough to displease the wisest philosopher.
‘When I get tired of Campo Formio,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask to be introduced to the Emperor.’
‘That’s some company you’re keeping!’ replied her uncle, who did not accept the First Empire and even less the Second. ‘Do as you please. You will anyway.’
‘You’re so right, Uncle Tonet. But I hope you won’t start lecturing me about morals. Do you know that Lesseps is also in love with me?’
They parted on friendly terms. He sought comfort in the doctrines of Zoroaster and returned to Mallorca with his curiosity equally divided between Hormuz and Ariman. For him, not only were the Bonapartes not entitled to the throne, but Louis Napoleon was not even a Bonaparte.
‘It’s a known fact that he isn’t his father’s son.’
Paternity seemed increasingly doubtful to him: in the last years of his life, he ended up questioning everyone’s ancestry. However, in that specific case history seems to be on his side. Queen Hortense, who in his opinion was not a queen either, had a rather public relationship with the Admiral Verhuell, and, in fact, Louis Napoleon does not resemble the Bonapartes; he has the face of a Dutchman. It is strange that the Senyor, for whom only natural laws applied, should speak of the right to the crown and condemn a man, or, in other words, a free spirit, for his illegitimate origins. The human heart is full of contradictions.
‘In fact,’ he would sometimes say, ‘every man is his father’s son; who really cares whether his name is Peter or Paul? There’s nothing more adulterated than lineages. Those who still believe in them are fools. If they had archives that date back centuries, as we have here, they’d know a lot more. Have no regrets, son,’ he added, stroking my head, ‘about coming from a poor family. Not even I can be sure that I’m a Bearn.’