I didn’t see much of W. in the daytime.  We usually rode in the morning in the Bois and immediately after breakfast he started for Versailles in the parliamentary train.  Dinner was always a doubtful meal.  Sometimes he came home very late for nine-o’clock dinner; sometimes he dined at Versailles and only got home at ten or eleven if the sitting was stormy.  The Hotel des Reservoirs did a flourishing business as long as the Chambers sat at Versailles.  When we were dining out it was very disagreeable, particularly the first winter when I didn’t know many people.  I remember one dinner at the Countess Duchatel’s where I went alone; we were ten women and five men.  All the rest were deputies, who had telegraphed at the last moment they would not come, were kept at Versailles by an important question.

One of the most interesting things I saw in 1873, just before my marriage, was the court-martial of Marshal Bazaine for treachery at Metz—­giving up his army and the city without any attempt to break through the enemy’s lines, or in fact any resistance of any kind.  The court was held at the Grand Trianon, Versailles, a place so associated with a pleasure-loving court, and the fanciful devices of a gay young queen, that it was difficult to realise the drama that was being enacted, when the honour of a Marshal of France—­almost an army of France, was to be judged.  It was an impressive scene, the hall packed, and people at all the doors and entrances clamouring for seats.  The public was curious, a little of everything—­members of the National Assembly, officers all in uniform, pretty women of all categories—­the group of journalists with keen eager faces watching every change of expression of the marshal’s face—­some well-known faces, wives of members or leading political and literary men, a fair amount of the frailer sisterhood, actresses and demi-mondaines, making a great effect of waving plumes and diamonds.  The court was presided over by the Duc d’Aumale, who accepted the office after much hesitation.  He was a fine, soldierly figure as he came in, in full uniform, a group of officers behind him, all with stern, set faces.  The impression of the public was generally hostile to the marshal; one felt it all through the trial.  He was dressed in full uniform, with the grand cordon of the Legion of Honour.  It was melancholy to hear the report of his career when it was read by his counsel,—­long years of active service, many wounds, often mentioned for brave conduct under fire, having the “Medaille Militaire”—­the grand cordon of the Legion d’Honneur, the baton de Marechal de France,—­all the honours his country could give him—­to end so miserably, judged not only by the court but by the country, as a traitor, false to his trust, when his country was in the death-throes of defeat and humiliation.  His attitude at the trial was curious.  He sat very still in his armchair, looking straight before him, only raising his head and looking at the Duc d’Aumale when some grave accusation