The Drawing-rooms of the Comtesse de Fuchs--The Prince Philip
of Hesse-Homburg--George Sinclair--The Announcement of
a Military Tournament--The Comtesse Edmond de Périgord--
General Comte de Witt--Letters of Recommendation--The
Princesse Pauline--The Poet-functionary and Fouché.
Among the most distinguished women of Austrian society was the Comtesse
Laure de Fuchs, of whom the numerous visitors to Vienna during the
Congress have preserved the most delightful recollection. Graceful
and witty, she conveyed the highest idea in her own person of the
courtesy of her country. Foreigners considered it a signal honour to be
admitted to her receptions. In 1808 and 1812, I, and the few Frenchmen
who were in Vienna at this period, met with the most cordial welcome
on her part. Among those who composed her most intimate circle, all
the members of which were friends, special mention ought to be made
of the Comtesse Pletemberg, her sister, the wife of the reigning
comte of that name; the Duchesses de Sagan and d’Exerenza, and Madame
Edmond de Périgord,[29] a niece, by marriage, of Prince de Talleyrand.
They were all three born Princesses de Courlande, and were called the
Three Graces. In addition to these, there were the Chanoinesse Kinski,
belonging to one of the most illustrious families of Hungary; the Duc
de Dalberg, one of the French plenipotentiaries; Marshal Walmoden, the
three Comtes de Pahlen,[30] the Prince Philip of Hesse-Homburg, the
Prince Paul Esterhazy, subsequently Austrian ambassador to the Court of
St. James; the Prince Eugène de Beauharnais, the Russian general Comte
de Witt,[31] M. de Gentz,[32] the secretary of the Congress, and the
intimate friend of M. de Metternich; General Nostiltz, the clever man
of letters; Varnhagen (von Ense), the poet Carpani, Doctor Koreff, the
Baron d’Ompteda, former minister of Westphalia at Vienna, whom the fall
of his sovereign had left without an embassy, and who attended this
great diplomatic Sanhedrim as a simple amateur.
A sweet and gentle animation pervaded those gatherings, which were
never interrupted by irritating political discussions. With her
charming grace, the countess imposed on all her friends a law of mutual
intimacy; consequently, they unanimously bestowed on her the title of
their _queen_, a title she had accepted, and which she bore with a kind
of serious dignity.
Her family as well as the number of her friends had increased during
my absence from Vienna. The former were growing into beautiful beings,
the latter, of whom she gave me some short biographical sketches, were
as devoted as ever. Fortune, thanks to the rapidly succeeding events
of the last few years, had forgotten none of them. All had become
generals, ambassadors, or ministers.
The one to whom I felt most attracted was the Prince of Hesse-Homburg,
then occupying a rank far distant from his exalted position of to-day.
Parity of age, of tastes and of ideas drew me towards him. Like many
of the princes of German sovereign houses, his fame was solely due to
himself.
Having joined the army at fifteen, he became a prisoner of the French
in one of the first wars of the Revolution, and was taken to Paris,
where he was confined in the Luxembourg. He had the luck to have his
life spared. Some time afterwards there was an exchange of prisoners,
and he resumed his military career. All his grades were conferred upon
him for distinguished services in the field, and at the period of which
I am treating he was numbered among the most meritorious generals of
the Austrian army.
When, subsequently, he became a field-marshal, he was sent to the
Emperor of Russia, during the latter’s campaign against the Turks
in 1828. To-day (1820) as Landgrave of Hesse-Homburg, Prince Philip
is respected and worshipped by his subjects, whose happiness is his
foremost thought.
Mme. de Fuchs asked me if I had seen anything more of George Sinclair,
the young Englishman whose adventure with the Emperor Napoleon had at
first drawn attention to him in Vienna, a few days before the battle of
Jena. Mr. George Sinclair, who was on his way to Austria, was arrested
by French scouts, and taken to headquarters on the suspicion of being a
spy.
‘Whence came you, and whither are you going?’ asked the Emperor in a
tone which foreshadowed a death-sentence. Sinclair, who spoke French
with great facility, answered as briefly. ‘I have come from the
University of Jena, and am going to Vienna, where letters and orders
from my father, Sir John Sinclair, are awaiting me.’
‘Sir John Sinclair who has written frequently on agricultural
questions?‘[33]
‘Yes, sire.’
The Emperor said a few words to Duroc, and continued his interrogatory
in a kindlier tone. Mr. Sinclair, who was barely eighteen, was
exceedingly well versed in geography and history. His conversation
fairly astonished Napoleon, who, after talking with him for a couple of
hours, ordered Duroc to give him an escort as far as the outposts, and
to let him resume his journey. It was altogether an unexpected favour,
and wholly due to his own worth.
I had practically lost sight of him altogether, but I knew that after
a journey through Italy he had entered Parliament, where he had become
one of the followers of his friend Sir Francis Burdett, and had gained
a brilliant reputation as a speaker in the Opposition.
Two events of a wholly different order occupied people’s minds at
that moment: the future destiny of the kingdom of Saxony, and the
announcement of a musical ride, a fête of knightly prowess which was
contemplated from the very first days of the Congress, and was to
take place in the Imperial Riding-school. Saxony came in for a scant
part of the conversation, but the preparations for the tournament
were discussed at great length. It was to be one of the most
magnificent entertainments hitherto projected, and there were frequent
consultations of the printed and engraved descriptions of the famous
_carrousels_ of Louis XIV., which were to be eclipsed in splendour.
The Comtesse Edmond de Périgord, one of the twenty-four ladies who were
to preside at the fête, told us that the dresses which were being
prepared for it would surpass in richness everything that had been
handed down concerning the elegance and the splendour of the Court
ladies of the Grand Monarque.
‘I really believe that we shall be able to display all the pearls and
diamonds of Hungary, Bohemia, and Austria combined,’ she said. ‘There
is not a relative or friend of these ladies whose jewel-case has not
been laid under contribution; and this or that heirloom in the way of
precious stones, which has not seen the light of day for a century,
will glitter on the dress of one of us.’
‘As for the knights,’ said the young Comte de Woyna, ‘in default of
gorgeous dresses, they’ll certainly have magnificent horses. You’ll
behold them go through evolutions and dance minuets with as much grace
as the most nimble gentlemen of the Court.’
After this there was some animated conversation about the colours of
the different quadrilles, and the supposed skill of the champions.
Mottoes were quoted, and the ladies tried to get at their hidden
meaning. The excellent King of Saxony and his states were absolutely
forgotten; their cause had to make way for the more important
discussion.
On leaving Mme. de Fuchs’s, I caught sight on the Graben of General
Comte de Witt--a piece of luck, for the meeting reminded me of those
happy and delightful days I had spent in Ukraine, at the hospitable and
magnificent domain of Tulczim, the home of the Comtesse Potocka, the
comte’s mother.
The only son of the first marriage of his handsome mother with General
Comte de Witt, the descendant of the Grand Referendary of Holland,
Comte de Witt’s military career was as rapid as it was brilliant.
A soldier from his childhood, he was a colonel at sixteen, and at
eighteen commanded one of the most splendid regiments in Europe,
namely, the cuirassiers of the Empress. The campaigns of the last
three years had given him excellent opportunities of distinguishing
himself. In six weeks he had raised and equipped at his own cost, and
on his mother’s property, four regiments of Cossacks, which he had
taken to the Emperor, who made him a lieutenant-general, and entrusted
him with the organisation of the military colonies. In 1828, in the war
against the Turks, he re-entered the service and commanded the army
of reserve. After the Peace of Varna, there was every prospect of his
happiness, when death removed him unexpectedly and at an early age.
Comte de Witt had married the Princesse Josephine Lubomirska, one
of the most distinguished women of Europe. Charming and graceful,
her quick and well-read intellect only equalled by her inexhaustible
kindness--such was the portrait of the Comtesse de Witt traced by all
those who had the privilege of coming in contact with her.
Mme. de Fuchs had kept up the habit of supping, a habit so dear to our
fathers, and the disappearance of which is so much regretted by those
who are fond of joyous, frank, and unrestrained conversation, inspired
by the gaiety of the moment.
At one of those gatherings I had been placed close to the Comte de Witt.
That same morning I had had a strange visit. I was just stepping out
of bed when told that a young Frenchman wished to speak to me. The
caller turns out to be a man of good appearance, who presents me with a
small parcel he is carrying. ‘This,’ he says, ‘is a letter M. Rey, the
advocate with whom you dined at M. de Bondy’s, the Prefect at Lyons,
has asked me to hand you.’ While I motion him to be seated I open the
epistle, in which M. Rey, after the usual greetings, asks me, supposing
I should be in Vienna, to interest myself for the bearer, M. Cast ...
in order to get him some employment.
‘By the date of the letter, monsieur, you must have left Lyons some
time.’
‘Yes,’ replies the visitor, ‘having the whole of the world thrown open
to me to choose a _habitat_, I made my way to the present one on foot.’
‘You have no doubt other recommendations?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Allow me to compliment you on your courage. To do three hundred
leagues on foot simply on the strength of a letter from a person whom
I have only seen once, and without even the certainty of finding
me--assuredly you ought to succeed! In spite of this, I can give you
but little hope. If you came to the Congress to claim a kingdom, a
province, an indemnity, you would probably be listened to, but a post
for a Frenchman in the Austrian States--that, I am afraid, will be a
difficult thing to get. Nevertheless, I will do all I can for you. What
have you done up to the present?’
‘I have served in the Guards of Honour.’
‘What sort of post have you in view?’
‘I am not at all particular. I can be a secretary, or pretty well fill
any kind of post, whether it be civil or military.’
‘You are certainly determined to make the best of things,’ I could not
help saying, for that particular aptitude for making the foot fit the
boot in a cheerful and intelligent way is unquestionably French. I felt
decidedly interested in my young compatriot, and I asked him to give me
a few days to look round for him. Meanwhile I took his address, though
with considerable doubt about the final result of his bold journey.
At supper the conversation happened to turn on the sudden resolutions
and the unhoped-for and unexpected bits of daring that often determine
a man’s whole existence. As a matter of course, instances were quoted,
and notably that of General Tettenborn, who, in something like four
months had worked his way from major to general-in-chief.
‘I could mention a trait of courage and a reliance on luck which,
save for the favourable results to come, is worth all those we have
mentioned.’
On being questioned, I told them all about my visitor of that morning,
about his economical journey with nothing at the end of it but a simple
letter of introduction, and about the coincidence of his reaching
Vienna but a couple of days after my own arrival. The Comte de Witt had
listened very attentively.
‘Your young man’s courage is worthy of consideration,’ he said, ‘and
inasmuch as he has been in the Guards of Honour, he is probably at home
on horseback. Send him to me to-morrow morning; I’ll find him something
to do.’
I thanked the comte; then, turning to the other guests: ‘This is my
countryman’s second step on the road of chance in one day,’ I said,
‘You’ll admit that if a letter of recommendation is often addressed at
random, it now and again happens to get into the hands of Dame Fortune.’
‘Yes,’ remarked the young Comte de Saint-Marsan, ‘a letter of
recommendation sometimes constitutes a whole fortune. Would you like to
have an instance of this?’
And without further ado he told us with his habitual grace and
sprightliness the following anecdote in connection with a period which
already seemed far removed from us in the past, although the actors had
scarcely left the stage.
‘A young Parisian poet,’ began Marsan, ‘named Dubois, who was probably
as poor in wit as he was in money, had exhausted all his faculties
in singing the powers that were without getting the smallest favour.
As a forlorn hope, he addressed an ode to Princesse Pauline, the
favourite sister of Napoleon. In his poetical confusion, and without
reflecting upon the fate of Racine when the latter presented to Louis
XIV. his _Memoir on the Wretched Condition of Peoples_, Dubois mingled
with his praises of the princess counsels to Mars, embroidered on a
philanthropic dream of universal peace. The greatest effects are
often due to the most trivial causes. It so happened that one of the
princess’s waiting-maids was a distant relative of the poet, and she
seized a favourable opportunity of presenting the epistle to her
highness, who only read the rhymes of “Pauline” and “divine,” recurring
at almost every strophe, and promised her influence to the author of
such beautiful and kind sentiments. “But where is he?” asked Princesse
Pauline. “There,” said the relative, pointing to the ante-chamber. “In
that case let him come in,” remarked the princess, and in less time
than it takes to tell, the poet enters the perfumed boudoir of Pauline,
and finds himself _tête-à-tête_ with his future Providence. “Well, what
can I do for you?” asked the princess, after having listened to the
usual compliments. “If Madame by her influence could get me some small
post in this or that government office, I should for ever be grateful
to her.” “A letter of recommendation to Fouché may do the thing. Not
later than yesterday he said that I never asked for any favours. I’ll
put him to the test. Do you think that this would suit you?” Naturally
the poet replied that such a letter could not fail in its effect,
and that it would make him the happiest of mortals. Handsome Pauline
Borghese immediately opened her escritoire, and being in one of the
happy moods when sentences shape themselves on paper, in her petition
to his Grace of Otranto she spoke of M. Dubois as a man of superior
gifts, apt at many things, and in whom she took the greatest interest.
‘An hour afterwards the protégé was at the door of the dispenser of
favours, but being unknown to the ushers, and not specially recommended
to them, it may easily be imagined that he got no further than the
ministerial ante-chamber, and that he was obliged to remit his letter
to the hands of those who did not care a jot. As a matter of course,
it was flung with many others into the basket set apart for such
epistles, which as often as not went straight from the receptacle into
the stove of the ante-chamber. Nevertheless, when Fouché returned that
evening from the Council of Ministers, and the basket was, as usual,
set in front of him, by the merest accident his eye fell on the paper
displaying the imperial arms. Naturally, he opened it at once, read it
from the first line to the last, and immediately ordered four gendarmes
to accompany his carriage at nine in the morning. Among his _entourage_
it was taken for granted that he was proceeding to Saint-Cloud for some
communication of great importance; hence the surprise of his servants
was intense when they were ordered to take him to a mean street in the
neighbourhood of the Halles. It was there that our favourite of the
Muses had established his aerial quarters on the sixth floor.
‘There was neither porter nor number to the entrance of that residence,
and inquiries had to be made of the baker of the quarter as to the
domicile of M. Dubois, a man of letters.
‘“There is,” answered the baker’s wife, “a person of that name, very
poor, who inhabits an attic in the place. I do not know whether he is a
public scribe, but he owes me two quarters’ rent.”
‘And issuing from her shop, she begins to bawl out the name at the top
of her voice. The poor poet puts his head out of the window of his
garret, and espying below a carriage escorted by gendarmes, comes there
and then to the conclusion that the boldness of his remarks with regard
to a universal peace has been badly received by Jupiter the Thunderer,
and that they have come to arrest him in order to make him expiate his
audacity at Bicêtre.
‘Prompted by his fear only, Dubois considers it most prudent to hide
under his bed. Fouché, receiving no answer to the summons of the
baker’s wife, makes up his mind to mount the six flights. A courtier
does not stop at that when it becomes a question of proving his zeal
to those in power. It would want the facetious genius of Beaumarchais
or Lesage, or the comic talent of Potier, to paint the originality of
the scene, and of the Minister finally discovering the protégé under
the worm-eaten wooden structure that served him as a couch. Hence I
abridge the particulars. Fouché reassures Dubois, and induces him to
come forth from his improvised hiding-place. Regardless of the poet’s
very profound _négligé_, he places him by his side in the carriage,
which takes its way to the Ministry, where luncheon is soon served.
‘“What would you like to be, M. Dubois?” asks his Excellency in the
interval between a dish of cutlets _à la Soubise_, made short work of
by the famished poet, and a _salmis de perdreaux_ equally appreciated,
at any rate ocularly. “Now tell me what can I do for you?”
‘“I’ll be whatever your Excellency likes; and I shall be grateful for
any kind of post.”
‘“Well, would you like to go to the island of Elba? I can give you the
appointment of commissary general of police.”
‘“I’ll go to the end of the world in order to please your Excellency,”
replies the poet, not quite sure whether for the last hour or so he has
been awake or dreaming.
‘“Very well then, I’ll go and make out your nomination, and you’ll
start to-morrow. On reaching Porto-Ferrajo you’ll find further
instructions. Meanwhile take this on account of your stipend.” Saying
which, Fouché presses a roll of napoleons into the poet’s hand. The
latter’s luggage was the reverse of voluminous; it would have filled a
big snuff-box, and did not take long to pack. Dubois engaged a place
in the diligence, and, in imitation of the awakened sleeper, departed,
like Sancho, for his island, which he reached without any further
adventures.
‘It so happened that at that identical moment, two competitors were
endeavouring to get the concession of the iron-ore mines of the
island of Elba, the yield of which is very considerable. The new
commissary-general of police seemed to enjoy immense credit in Paris.
He was entrusted with an important charge in the administration of the
island, and each of the competitors tried to secure his goodwill. One
of these offered him an interest in his enterprise in return for his
influence. The new functionary, who perceived himself to be on the
high road to fortune, took particular care not to refuse the offer.
He promised everything, and wrote to Paris whatever the speculator
directed. Whether it was sheer accident or his recommendation that
finally procured the concession for his partner will, perhaps,
never be known, but the merit of it was attributed to the child of
the Muses. He was, however, sharp enough to be aware of his utter
ignorance with regard to the working of mines in no way connected with
those of Parnassus, and sold his interest in them for three hundred
thousand francs, which with equal good sense he invested in government
securities, thus making his newly acquired wealth safe against all
vicissitudes.
‘Meanwhile the Princesse Borghese went to Bagnères to take the waters,
and it was some time before Fouché met with her at the Tuileries.
‘“I trust your Highness is pleased with the manner in which I have been
able to provide for your protégé;” said the minister. “What protégé,
M. le Duc?” answered Pauline. “I am afraid I do not understand.” “But,
madame, I mean M. Dubois.” “M. Dubois? I don’t think I know any one
of that name.” “Does not your Highness recollect a letter sent to me
about three months ago, most pressingly recommending a M. Dubois, a man
of letters, in whom your Highness took the greatest interest?” “One
moment,” said the princess, and then a smile overspread her beautiful
features. “My protégé, M. le Duc, was a poor poet, a relative of one of
my maids, who sent me an ode. What have you done with him? Have you
given him a stool in one of your departments?”
‘The minister, nettled at having been duped in that way, took
particular care to suppress the fact of his having made a grand
functionary of Dubois. Unfortunately, Fouché’s friends at Court got
wind of the thing, and there was an end of the secret. Napoleon himself
was vastly amused at it, and bantered his minister, whose habits, as
every one knows, were not of the bantering kind.
‘Naturally, Dubois’s order of recall was despatched with the same
promptitude as that for his departure. Our poet fell from his
commissaryship-general as Sancho had fallen from the governorship of
his island, and become a nonentity as before. But the three hundred
thousand francs had been paid to him and properly invested, and on his
return to Paris, he was enabled to pursue in peace his cultivation of
the Muses, and we may be sure did not lack for parasites to applaud
his verses and share his dinners, which were amply defrayed by the
iron-mines of Elba.’
Thus far the narrative of the Comte de Marsan, to whom I leave the
responsibility for the story, although I have no doubt of its veracity,
for Fouché, the Terrorist of old, was an excellent courtier.
M. Cast***‘s progress on the road to fortune was not as rapid as that,
yet sufficiently rapid for him to look back with satisfaction on his
pluck, as exemplified in his journey to Vienna. His interview with
Comte de Witt resulted in his appointment as his secretary. He came to
tell me of his wonderful piece of luck, and that same night went to
the Leopoldstadt theatre and was arrested by the police, who in Vienna
were very severe with foreigners. He showed fight, received several
blows, was bound hand and foot, and flung into a cell pending inquiry.
When brought before a magistrate next morning, he referred to his new
patron, the Comte de Witt, belonging to the suite of the Emperor of
Russia, and on the deposition of the general, was set at liberty. Not
being provided with a passport, he would, had this happened one day
earlier, have been taken as a vagrant to the Austrian frontier.
Subsequently, I was told by the Abbé Chalenton, the tutor of the young
Polignacs, that M. Cast***, having accompanied the Comte de Witt to
Russia, married at Tulczim a Dutch girl of excellent birth, with an
income of two thousand Dutch ducats, and on that occasion the abbé,
at that time the tutor of Comtesse Potocka’s children, gave the bride
away. M. Cast*** returned afterwards to Lyons in a different condition
from that in which he had left it three years previously.
The moral of all this is that, thanks to a plucky resolve, he also
had his share in the good things which were going at the Congress
of Vienna. Who after this shall deny the workings of chance on our
destinies and the usefulness of letters of introduction?