EUGENIE—LAST PHASE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIII, Issue 16234, 20 May 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

EUGENIE—LAST PHASE.

FOUR SCORE YEARS AND TEN.

BY MRS. LEO MTEB.S. j > J j j I

There is only one Eugenie—that tragic ex-Empress of France, whose romance lingers longer in memory than pages of manmade fiction, and whose eyes witness the final act of her life-drama on the war stage of to-day. The mill stones of memory weigh heavily on the shoulders of the once young and beautiful Countess de Monti jo : who, in all the radiance of her chirms, married in 1853 Louis Napoleon, Napoleon 111. : and reigned gorgeously as Empress of France until the disastrous days of 1870, when—as all the world knows—the French surrendered to the Germans at Sedan. . . Escaping to England, Eugenie lived in semi-royal state at Chislehurst in Kent, where, a year later, Louis Napoleon joined her, and there resided until his death. Their only son—the Hope of the Napoleonic dynasty—the young and handsome Prince Imperial, who was on the -field of battle with his father, also escaped to England and entered Woolwich Academy. . . . , On him, too the tragic hand of Fate, fell. . . . Volunteering to serve with the English in the Zulu campaign of 1879, he was killed by Zulu spears. Looking Back Ninety Years. The ex-Empress Eugenie lives on. Ninety years have passed over her head. . . . Nine times ninety me--romantic and —dwell with her."... She sees with dim eyes, the vivid spacious days of Bonapartist triumphs, with all the glitter, pomp, and dross of Court life. . . . Then the lights are quenched. . . . Quickly come War, Tragedy, Exile, Widowhood, a Mother's life-long griefand then the long, long lonely years. What are her thoughts to-day What phantoms rise from out the mist of Time and point the fingers of avenging Fate at Prussia's onslaught? . . . Again Eugenie sees France at grips with her old arch-enemy, Germany. Again, she beholds the spectacle of national hatred aroused: but a thousand times more fierce, ten thousand times more vengeful than in 1870; . . . • The New Life of Trance. Since Sedan, France has found her Soul. Into her body, military and moral, a new life has entered—a life virile, heroic, dauntless. . . . With jaws square set and back stiffened, with limbs strong and sinews taut, Fiance stands powerful to repel, powerful to attack, and marches resolute to Victory. Marches nobly inspired by St. Denis and St. George to slay the Dragon of Prussian aggression. It is France Resurgam— route que coute " ('cost what it may). And Eugenie, ex-Empress of France, the last human link surviving the Past, keeps vigil in England. And where? . . . not in Chislehurst, sylvan and serene ; but at Farnborough, within a few miles (as the aeroplane flies) from Aldershot! Within sight and sound of the greatest military camp in- all the vast British Empire! . . . Thus, does Destiny play great Drama with its puppets.

At Famborough.

Leaving Aldershot and its miles of brick barracks alive with pink-faced Khaki, we still breathe the military atmosphere, ex-

panding our chest with a pleasant patriotic fulness. . . . This divine inflation increases as we pass the huge Aerodrome round which cluster many hangars, over which fly our many engines of the air. . . . As they dip and soar and speed into the clouds, it is not easy for merely earthly humans to keep feet firmly fixed on the

ground. . . . But the mind descends to earth too quickly in these hustling days. . . . We pass on. The gates of Farnborough Hall, shadowed deep in trees, appear at the crest of the hill. Close clustered in woods and hedges, nothing of the old mansion can be seen. . . . Within its walls, Eugenie— years and tenkeeps vigil.

It is well to pass on with reverential step. It is well we cannot srlimpse her. Wiser and kinder not to intrude upon the privacy of that venerable heroic figure, living sweetly sacred to the memory of a wonderful Past. The Tomb of Louis Napoleon. At'best, "the world is too much with us." . . . We pass on. . . . Further along, we enter the grounds of the Cathedral enshrining the last Napoleons. It is Sunday. A benign winter sun shines on the very beautiful church built of grey stone in French flamboyant Gothic style. A service High Roman Catholic—is ending to the soothing strains of low chanting voices. Incense floats from high altars. A monk, in dull brown robe and cowl —quite in the pious picture conducts us solemnly to the crypt.

It is very beautiful —purs and impressive. Cold and calm. Down the marble aisle, to right and to left of the altar, the tombs of Napoleon 111. and the Prince Imperial stand. The mausoleums in massive brown marble are indentical in classic form. . . . The one holding the morI tal remains of Louis Napoleon was gifted by the late Queen Victoria to her friend— the ex-Empress Eugenieas a loving and lasting tribute. At its base, lies a solid gold bunch of Ascension lilies tied in Royal Purple. . . . The tomb of the . young Prince Imperial is the same as that i of his father: but at its foot, there stands j a curious cross made of the dried branches ; cut from the tree under which the Zulus ; speared his body. i In the centre wah, above an altar upon ; which burn perpetual lights in golden jrhalices, there is a noble marble intaglio 'of Eugenie : behind it there will, some I day, rest all that is mortal of the once- ' radiantly young and royally beautiful Em- ! press. The romance and tragedy of whose ! lite—enduring to the endstill" sheds its j light from the. sanctuary of England across i to the heroic, shores of France. . ~