Also by John Julius Norwich Mount Athos (with Reresby Sitwell, 1966) The Normans in the South (1967) Sahara (1968) The Kingdom in the Sun (1970) A History of Venice: The Rise to Empire (1977) A History of Venice: The Greatness and the Fall (1981) Fifty Years of Glyndebourne (1985) A Taste for Travel (1985) The Architecture of Southern England (1985) A History of Byzantium: The Early Centuries (1988) Venice: A Traveller’s Companion (1990) A History of Byzantium: The Apogee (1991) A History of Byzantium: The Decline and Fall (1995) A Short History of Byzantium (1997) The Twelve Days of Christmas (1998) Shakespeare’s Kings (1999) Paradise of Cities: Venice in the Nineteenth Century (2003) The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (2006) Trying to Please (2008) The Popes: A History (2011) A History of England in 100 Places (2011) Sicily: A Short History (2015) Four Princes (2016) Edited by John Julius Norwich Great Architecture of the World (1975) The Italian World (1983) Britain’s Heritage (1983) The New Shell Guides to Great Britain (1987–90) The Oxford Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Art (1990) The Treasures of Britain (2002) The Duff Cooper Diaries (2005) The Great Cities in History (2009) Darling Monster (2013) Cities that Shaped the Ancient World (2014) An English Christmas (2017) A History of France JOHN JULIUS NORWICH Copyright © John Julius Norwich 2018 Maps drawn by Rodney Paull Cover design by Royce M. Becker Cover artwork, from top, clockwise: The Battle of Austerlitz, by Gerard, Francois Pascal Simon, Baron (1770-1837) © Bridgeman; Captain Alfred Dreyfus © Len Collection Alamy; Louis XIV in Royal Costume, by Rigaud, Hyacinthe Francois (1659-1743) © Bridgeman; General de Gaulle walking down the Champs-Elysees, 1944 © Science History ImagesAlamy; Joan of Arc, by Rossetti, Dante Gabriel Charles (1828-82) © Bridgeman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected]. First published in Great Britain in 2018 by John Murray (Publishers), an imprint of Hachette UK Printed in the United States of America First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: October 2018 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title. ISBN 978-0-8021-2890-4 eISBN 978-0-8021-4670-0 Atlantic Monthly Press an imprint of Grove Atlantic 154 West 14th Street New York, NY 10011 Distributed by Publishers Group West groveatlantic.com 18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 To the memory of my mother who first took me to France and taught me to love it as she did. Contents Cover Also by John Julius Norwich Title Page Copyright Dedication Preface Maps 1. Very Dark Indeed: 58 BC–843 2. Their Own Destruction Sure: 843–1151 3. The Gift of Excalibur: 1151–1223 4. The Fatal Tower: 1223–1326 5. A Captured King: 1326–80 6. A Foregone Conclusion: 1380–1453 7. The Universal Spider: 1453–83 8. A Warm, Sunlit Land: 1483–1515 9. With His Usual Flourish: 1515–47 10. ‘Well worth a Mass’: 1547–1643 11. ‘L’Etat c’est moi’: 1643–1715 12. The Writing on the Wall: 1715–89 13. ‘I am indeed your king’: 1789–93 14. ‘Pas de faiblesse!’: 1793–5 15. A Blessing or a Curse?: 1795–1815 16. The Perfect Compromise: 1815–48 17. ‘A symbol of national glory’: 1848–52 18. A Sphinx Without a Riddle: 1852–70 19. The Last Manifestation: 1870–3 20. ‘J’accuse!’: 1873–1935 21. The Cross of Lorraine: 1935–45 Epilogue Photo Insert Acknowledgements and Illustration Credits Suggestions for Further Reading Index Back Cover Preface ‘T OUTE MA VIE, je me suis fait une certaine idée de la France.’* The opening words of General de Gaulle’s memoirs have become world famous. I too, in my own infinitely humbler way, have always cherished just such a conception. It stems, I suppose, from my first visit, as a child of nearly seven in September 1936, when my mother took me for a fortnight to Aix-les-Bains, largely in an attempt to wean me from my English nanny. I can still feel, as if it were yesterday, the excitement of the Channel crossing; the regiment of porters, smelling asphyxiatingly of garlic in their blue-green blousons; the raucous sound all around me of spoken French (which I already understood quite well, having had twice-weekly French lessons since the age of five); the immense fields of Normandy, strangely devoid of hedges; then the Gare du Nord at twilight, the policemen with their képis and their little snow-white batons; and my first sight of the Eiffel Tower. We fetched up at Aix in a modest pension with a pretty garden, and a young girl called Simone† looked after me while my mother was doing the cure and talked French to me from morning till night. There were two more pre-war trips, one with both my parents for a week in Paris during which we did all the usual things. We took a bateau mouche down the Seine, went to the Louvre which bored me stiff and to the sewers which I found fascinating, climbed on to the roof of the Arc de Triomphe, where you get a far better view of Paris than you do from the Eiffel Tower, which is like looking at it from an aeroplane. Of course we did the Eiffel Tower as well, not only going up to the top but having lunch in its extremely smart restaurant, which my father claimed was his favourite in Paris because it was the only place you couldn’t see it from. I remember being astonished at the number of restaurants all over the city, at many of which people were eating outside; in pre-war London there were comparatively few, and tables on the pavement were almost unheard-of. My other memory is that almost every teenage boy wore a beret and plus fours, hundreds of them meeting regularly at a huge market for collectors of postage stamps at the Rond-Point des Champs- Elysées.* Eight years later, when my father became ambassador, we led a very different sort of life. I was still at school, but now holidays were always spent in France – including Christmas 1944, when the war was still on – and in a palace. The Hôtel de Charost (to give it its proper name) on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré is, I believe, the most beautiful embassy of any country in the world. Previously owned by Napoleon’s sister Pauline Borghese, it was bought by the Duke of Wellington when he was briefly ambassador after Waterloo and has been the British Embassy for the past two hundred years. The weather that winter was bitterly cold, and it was one of the few warm places; it could also provide limitless quantities of whisky and gin, which had been non- existent in France since the war began, it was full every night with the Parisian beau monde from Jean Cocteau down. Soon it became a sort of institution, known as the Salon Vert. The queen of it was the poetess – and my father’s mistress – Louise de Vilmorin, who would stay in the embassy sometimes for weeks at a time. (My mother, who had no conception of jealousy, loved her almost as much as my father did, which was no surprise: she was one of the most fascinating women I have ever known. We became great friends, and she taught me lots of lovely old French songs, which I would sing to the guitar after dinner.) There were very few politicians, but writers, painters and actors in plenty. I remember the stage designer Christian Bérard, always known as Bébé, another regular attender. One evening he brought his little pug, which instantly deposited a small dry turd on the carpet. Without hesitation he picked it up and put it in his pocket; my mother said afterwards that it was the best manners she had ever seen. But the company was by no means only French; there were visiting English, and Americans, and anyone whom my parents knew and happened to be passing through. Looking back on those days, I have only one regret: I was two or three years too young. I was, I think, moderately precocious for my age, but all these celebrities were only names to me; I called Jean Cocteau Jean and mixed him dry martinis, but I had never read a word he had written. Had I been eighteen in 1944 instead of fifteen I would have known – and learnt – so much more. But there: no complaints. I was