Our first great function that winter was the service at the Madeleine for the King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel, who died suddenly in the beginning of January, 1878.  France sent a special mission to the funeral—­the old Marshal Canrobert, who took with him the marshal’s son, Fabrice de MacMahon.  The Church of the Madeleine was filled with people of all kinds—­the diplomatic corps in uniform, a very large representation of senators and deputies.  There was a slight hesitation among some of the Left—­who were ardent sympathisers with young Italy—­but who didn’t care to compromise themselves by taking part in a religious ceremony.  However, as a rule they went.  Some of the ladies of the Right were rather put out at having to go in deep mourning to the service.  I said to one of them:  “But you are not correct; you have a black dress certainly, but I don’t think pearl-grey gloves are proper for such an occasion.”  “Oh, they express quite sufficiently the grief I feel on this occasion.”

It was curious that the King should have gone before the old Pope, who had been failing for some time.  Every day we expected to hear of his death.  There were many speculations over the new King of Italy, the Prince Humbert of our day.  As we had lived so many years in Rome, I was often asked what he was like, but I really had no opinion.  One saw him very little.  I remember one day in the hunting-field he got a nasty fall.  His horse put his foot in a hole and fell with him.  It looked a bad accident, as if the horse were going to roll over on him.  I, with one of my friends, was near, and seeing an accident (I didn’t know who it was) naturally stopped to see if our groom could do anything, but an officer rode hurriedly up and begged us to go on, that the Prince would be very much annoyed if any one, particularly a woman, should notice his fall.  I saw him later in the day, looking all right on another horse, and no one made any allusion to the accident.

About a month after Victor Emmanuel’s death the old Pope died, the 8th of February, 1878, quite suddenly at the end.  He was buried of course in Rome, and it was very difficult to arrange for his funeral in the Rome of the King of Italy.  However, he did lie in state at St. Peter’s, the noble garde in their splendid uniforms standing close around the catafalque—­long lines of Italian soldiers, the bersaglieri with their waving plumes, on each side of the great aisle.  There was a magnificent service for him at Notre Dame.  The Chambers raised their sitting as a mark of respect to the head of the church, and again there was a great attendance at the cathedral.  There were many discussions in the monde (society not official) “as to whether one should wear mourning for the Saint Pere.”  I believe the correct thing is not to wear mourning, but almost all the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain went about in black garments for some time.  One of my friends put it rather graphically:  “Si on a un ruban rose dans les cheveux on a tout de suite l’air d’etre la maitresse de Rochefort.”