CHAPTER IV

LIFE ON THE RIVIERA

THE Nice we found at this period was so unli the southern French Brighton that has since spru up on its site, that it is, in a measure, difficult me to realise the identity of the two. It was alm entirely confined to the old town on the left bank the Paillon. On the right bank it could show lit more than one row of buildings-most of them me and dilapidated-extending from the old brid down the Quai St. Jean Baptiste and the Qu Masséna, as far as the corner of the present P menade des Anglais; and at the back, stretchi farther on, the suburb of the Croix de Marb containing a sprinkling of good houses, such the Maison Masclet, the Maison Guiglia, and t Villa Avigdor, with gardens reaching down to t shingly beach. Of the vast quartiers of St. Etien and Carabacel; the network of streets round t Boulevards de la Gare or Dubouchage; the har some buildings along the quays; the square the Jardin Public; and, above all, the Promena des Anglais, with its trim, dainty villa residen and splendid hotels-a drive in itself worthy of great capital-there was no trace at the time speak of.

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NICE AS IT WAS AND IS

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Nice was then probably one of the dullest and most neglected of Sardinian cities. It had little trade and no industry, but few shops and only two inns of any standing,' no hackney carriages, no roads to speak of, no gas, but little water, and no press. On the other hand, it could boast of a considerable Piedmontese garrison, a military governor with a brilliant staff, shoals of priests, delightful donkeys, sedan-chairs, a free port, the moon and stars in all their southern brilliancy to light its streets, and a climate the most delicious I can remember-and which likewise seems to me to be a thing of the past. Nous avons changé tout cela! Nice since then has been haggled for and sold, has found new rulers and lost her commercial privileges. She now wears the gilded fetters of Imperial France, while feigning to sigh for her old Italian masters; and has strayed from her sleepy, Arcadian innocence into the most naughty and luxurious of nineteenth century ways. When first I knew her she was governed by a de Maistre. When last I saw her she professed in her heart to worship Garibaldi, but was fast yielding to the blandishments of her neighbour Monsieur Blanc.

2

1 The very comfortable Hôtel de France on the Quai Masséna (which has kept up its position to the present day) and the Hôtel des Etrangers in the inner town.

2 Nephew of that eminent Catholic writer, the Comte Joseph de Maistre, author of the Soirées de St. Pétersbourg, Du Pape, &c.

tresol in the Maison Corinaldi at the corner the Quai Masséna and of the Rue du Paradis-a when the great heat had passed away, derived mu pleasure from our walks and excursions in the lov neighbourhood. The town was nearly deserted wh we first arrived, but we, nevertheless, soon made quaintances among the few foreign residents, so of whom were English. Among them were Adolp Lacroix, the British Consul, and his family, a a clergyman of the name of Slinger, the hap father of three charming girls, one of whom, Isab was quite Hebe-like in her beauty. As win drew near, the influx of strangers began, and o relations soon found themselves surrounded by pleasant foreign coterie which frequently met an evening, either at our house or at some oth of the set. Here I first met the Comte de Ribea pierre, Grand Maître de la Maison of the Empre of Russia, whose handsome daughter Sophie, wi of Comte Kutusoff, late Russian Military Pler potentiary at Berlin, became my aunt's great frien and whose other daughters afterwards married t Prussian diplomatist Brassier de St. Simon and t millionaire Prince Youssoupoff. These, with t Marquis de Massigny, Charles de Viry (both Savo ard subjects of his Sardinian Majesty), and t Carlist General Elio, formed a small circle of intim which before long received a charming addition the Comtesse de Sonnaz-Madame la Gouvernan as she was styled in Piedmontese French-the wi

THE MILORD-PAYSAN

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of the general who succeeded M. de Maistre in the Government of Nice.

The local society at this time owned for its head a remarkable old lady of illustrious descent, Madame de Ste. Agathe, great-granddaughter of Madame de Sévigné. Her receptions in the Rue du Pont Neuf were attended by the more distinguished foreign visitors her daughter, Madame de Cessole, then a very pretty woman, helping to do the honours of the house. The principal English people of this winter season of 1847-48 were Sir Charles Burgess Lamb and his wife, Lady Montgomerie, mother of the late Lord Eglinton. Sir Charles was as eccentric as heart of man could desire, but of a jovial, hearty disposition. He was a great promoter of picnics and riding parties, at which he took care to be surrounded by a bevy of young ladies, somewhat, it was said, to the discomfort of his elderly spouse. His rough country clothes and bluff, loud manner had obtained for him from the natives the appellation of milord-paysan, and he was dreaded by the rude muleteers, whom he would charge along the dusty roads and lanes, laying about him with his heavy hunting-crop to make them clear the way. Another character was deaf old Captain Grindlay, who, during the winter season, gave weekly afternoon concerts in an apartment on the Quai du Midi, at which all the musical dilettanti of the place were laid under contribution. Captain Grindlay's watercolour sketches of India, where he had long resided,

are among the most brilliant amateur performances I have ever seen. Nor must I forget, among my remarkable characters, the renowned Sir Charles Napier, on his way home from the East, and on a visit to his brother Sir George-that other son of the charming Lady Sarah-who lived on the first floor above us in the Maison Corinaldi, and was a friend of my relations. The victor of Meeanee, despite his Scindian laurels, looked with his shabby, untidy clothes, hooked nose, ragged white beard and portentous mustachios tied up behind his ears-the Jew Fagin all over. Of all diversions in the world, a subscription ball was given in honour of this hero at the brand-new Hotel Victoria opened that same winter. I ought before this to have mentioned Colonel Peregrine Cust and his family, if only out of respect for the memory of his son, and my namesake, Horace Cust. We were much of the same age, and became great friends, and many were the scrambling walks and drives we took together. Poor fellow! I can well remember the glee with which he one day announced to us that he had been given a commission in the Coldstream Guards. He was destined to be the first officer to fall on the deadly slopes of the Alma.

We had now entered on the memorable year 1848, and it may easily be imagined how anxiously we old Parisians watched the surprising events of February. Brought up as we had been in holy horror of the execrable excesses of the first Repub