Friday, 5 July 1878

With Madame Gavini to the solemn requiem Mass for the repose of the soul of that poor young Queen of Spain.
To love and be loved by one’s husband, to be eighteen, to be Queen of Spain — and to die! I shall let the Figaro speak of the ceremony, which struck me as cold and left me unmoved.
Yesterday at eleven o’clock, a solemn service was celebrated at the church of the Madeleine for the repose of H.M. the Queen of Spain. The funeral ceremony was organised by the Spanish colony residing in Paris, on the initiative of a commission composed of:
Two halves of column 3 of the front page of Le Figaro of 6 July 1878, side by side: the item «À travers Paris» on the solemn service held at the church of the Madeleine for the Queen of Spain
Le Figaro, 6 July 1878, p. 1 — the memorial service for Queen Mercedes at the Madeleine gallica.bnf.fr / BnF
MM. the comte de Fernandina, the duc de Fernan Nuñez, both Grandees of Spain; Palan, senator; Mora, deputy; Biadra and Abaroa.
The church was entirely hung with black draperies with silver borders, upon which the royal escutcheons alternated with palms.
Beneath a canopy supported by four columns had been erected a great white catafalque, disappearing beneath a mass of wreaths and natural flowers; furthermore, rose petals had been scattered in profusion around the funerary monument, upon which the royal crown in pearls and diamonds had been placed.
At precisely eleven o’clock, King Don Francisco de Asís, in the uniform of a Spanish captain-general followed by his household, entered the church by the great door between a guard of honour formed by some thirty Spanish soldiers. The king took his place with his suite in a gallery to the right of the high altar. Shortly after, a fanfare of trumpets was heard and Queen Isabella, visibly moved, arrived with two ladies-in-waiting and went to kneel in a gallery opposite the king’s.
The nave was already filled by a large congregation, among whom we may cite the duchesse de Magenta, the marquis d’Abzac representing the Maréchal:
The duc de Nemours, the comte and comtesse d’Eu, the princess Mathilde, the duchesse de Saxe-Coburg, the duc and duchesse d’Alençon, the prince de Monaco:
The nuncio and all the ambassadors and heads of mission.
All the French ministers, the government of Paris, the Grand Chancellor of the Légion d’honneur, Maréchal Canrobert, the president of the Conseil d’État.
The Cardinal-Archbishop of Paris in full mourning, which he wears only for reigning princes:
The duc de Noailles, the duc d’Ossuna, the duc Decazes, all the members of the Rothschild family; Général Fleury, Général Chabaud-Latour; and finally the entire Spanish colony and the embassy in full dress uniform. The Mass was said by the abbé Lerebour, curé of the Madeleine, and the absolution was given by H.E. the apostolic nuncio.
The ceremony, during which the choir performed very beautiful religious pieces, lasted an hour and a half.
I keep the invitation cards. Then the Bois, where I already find a few familiar faces, thanks to the Gavinis.
On our way back we stop beside Multedo to tell him to come this evening to the Orangerie to hear the Gypsy women. While we were speaking to him, the little aunt had entirely hidden herself under a parasol and turned her back so as to be even less visible. It was a charming scene, which inspires the letter you are about to read, addressed to Multedo.
Monsieur,
Since you persist in feigning ignorance, I will tell you why I have never wished to show you my face. Know, Monsieur, that I am not one of those who receive without flinching letters such as you dared write me every week. Those letters and your gifts of bonbons revolted me to the highest degree. I was obliged to conceal these persecutions from my family, with whom I was staying, and from my husband, who would have killed you. I turned it all into jokes. I should never have done a man like you the honour of writing; this letter is dictated to my lady’s maid.
An outraged woman.
This will be the crowning touch of this little-aunt hoax.
Do you know, my dears, that Multedo is seriously furious? It seems I seriously showed him the door yesterday. And this evening at the concert he told me that one ought not to treat men of thirty-two like boys of fifteen — that I shall one day run into a man who will speak ill of me, who will not be as he is, and moreover will never forgive me, even while loving me madly.
I replied that I had nothing to apologise for, but that if I told him to go away it was a joke — I would have to be raving mad to say it seriously, and he absolutely an idiot to believe it. I do not want to go away leaving a bad impression. There are six of us: my aunt, Dina, Etienne, Filippini, Multedo, and I.
After the concert we go for ices and summon two of the prettiest Gypsy women and two Gypsy children, to whom we give ices and wine. It was very amusing to talk with these girls, all young and virtuous — they are closely watched.
written across the page
These girls are not common mountebanks. They have morals and yield only when they love. Then they leave the band and flee with the beloved. In short, it is a passion. Their songs always sing of the Gypsy woman’s love.
Afterwards... my aunt takes Etienne’s arm, Dina takes Filippini’s, and I take the other one’s. We walk home — it is so fine an evening. Multedo, calmed, speaks to me of his love... It is always the same thing. I do not love him, but his fire... warms me. No doubt that is what I used to take for Love two years ago!!
He speaks of it well... he even wept. Drawing near to the house I laughed less; I was softened by the beautiful night and by this song of Love. Ah! How good it is to be loved... there is nothing as good as that in all the world... Now I know that Multedo loves me — one does not play a comedy like that; and if he were after my money, my disdain would have put him off long since — besides, there is Dina, who is believed to be equally rich, and there are plenty of other marriageable girls...
Multedo is no pauper — he is a perfect gentleman; he could have found, and will find, something other than me.
I teased him about Berthe, and as he laughed it off and spoke to me of myself, he tried to take my hand...
— How many times have you kissed Berthe’s hand?
— Not once — never!
— Come now... does she permit it easily?
— If I were to kiss a young lady’s hand it would be because I wished to marry her, to make her my wife. I have never had any idea of marrying Berthe.
And as I was about to reply, he took my hand, kissed it long and fervently, and said from the depths of his heart, with fire, with passion: I love you — I love you for always, whatever may come — I am entirely yours, entirely yours, entirely yours!
What a pity it is he rather than someone else!! Someone else, richer, whom I could marry. I would have followed Cassagnac to the ends of the earth, without a penny — but the others must be rich.
On the subject of Cassagnac, Multedo — intending to vex me (he does not vex me at all) — says that I am heartbroken by the marriage, and that my aunt had already had a dream, and that we had all shared the dream: to marry the future leader of the party, to be the right arm of the Emperor, to soar over France... But, he adds, you see, Mademoiselle — your system has not worked. You treated him like all the rest, mocked him, discouraged him, enraged him — and he took it at face value and went and threw himself into the arms of Mademoiselle Acard. You have been well caught out... You did it in order to do better, and he took it literally...
If that monster were telling the truth, I... Never mind — it is over. I have wasted my life... Did he at least read my letters? Oh! Certainly.
Multedo is very kind — perhaps I was wrong to leave my hand in his at the moment of parting. We were in the drawing room, people talking around the table; I was apart with Multedo and he kissed my hand. He had certainly earned as much — and besides, he loves me and respects me so much, poor man. I questioned him like a child; I wanted to know how it had come about, since when, everything. It seems he loved me immediately — but it is a strange love, he says, love with love with sympathy. The others are women; you are above humanity. It is a bizarre feeling — I know you treat me like a hunchbacked buffoon, that you have no goodness, no heart, and yet I love you. One always admires, a little, the heart of the woman one loves, and I... have, so to speak, no sympathy for you, while adoring you.
I went on listening, for I tell you truly — words of love are worth all the spectacles in the world, except those one attends in order to be seen; but then that too is a kind of song, a declaration of love — one is looked at, one is admired, and one opens like a flower in the sun. Multedo left with my guitar under his arm — he had broken it.
Ah! If I had only known — if God had been kind... But no doubt it was necessary for it to be thus, for some celestial combination.
How I would have loved him...
The madman! He could have said a word to me on receiving my letters — we should have gone away together...
They offer me Multedo as consolation!... I shall never love Multedo... He will console himself.

Notes

Queen Mercedes (1860-1878), wife of Alfonso XII, married on 23 January 1878 and died of typhoid on 26 June 1878, aged eighteen. ↩
Le Figaro, no. 187, Saturday 6 July 1878, p. 1 — read the issue on Gallica (BnF). The item «À travers Paris» reports the memorial service for Queen Mercedes held at the Madeleine on 5 July 1878. ↩