Table Of Content
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
