The Last Love-Tryst of the Prince de Ligne--A Glance at the Past
--Z----or the Consequences of Gaming--Gambling in Poland
and in Russia--The Biter Bit--Masked Ball--The Prince
de Ligne and a Domino--More Living Pictures--The Pasha of
Surêne--Two Masked Ladies--Recollections of the Prince de
Talleyrand.
I had spent the evening at the theatre of the Carinthian Gate, and
was returning home by way of the ramparts, confident of meeting no
one whom I knew; for on that night, in spite of the many strangers in
Vienna and the multitude of fêtes, everything was unusually quiet long
before midnight. It was magnificent weather for the time of the year.
In the recess of a bastion jutting over the dry moat, I noticed a lank
figure wrapped in a white cloak, which might easily have passed for
that of Hamlet. Impelled by curiosity, I drew nearer, and to my utter
astonishment recognised the Prince de Ligne.
‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing here, prince, at this hour of the
night and in the biting cold?’
‘In love affairs the beginning only is delightful; consequently, I
always find great delight in recommencing. At your age, though, it was
I who kept them waiting; at mine they keep me waiting; and, what’s
worse, they don’t come.
‘I am keeping an appointment, but as you can see for yourself, I am
keeping it alone. Well, people forgive hunchbacks the exuberance of
their dorsal excrescence; why, at my age, should not people forgive my
exuberance?’
‘If it be true that woman’s happiness consists in the reflection of a
man’s glory, where is the woman who would not be proud to owe hers to
you?’
The prince shook his head, and declaimed mock-tragically:
‘“No, no; all things flee as age approaches,
All things go, illusion too:
Nature would have done much better
To keep that until the last.”’
‘I’ll leave you to your appointment, prince,’ I said.
‘No, I’ll wait no longer; lend me your arm and take me home.’
We slowly went in the direction of his house, and on the way his
conversation betrayed the feeling of slighted pride; his words were
marked by a tinge of melancholy which was new to me.
‘I am inclined to believe that in life reflection comes as a last
misfortune,’ he said. ‘Up to the present I have not been among those
who think that growing old is in itself a merit. At the dawn of life
love’s dream balances its illusions on the spring within us. One
carries the cup of pleasure to one’s lips; one imagines it’s going to
last for ever, but years come, time flies and delivers its Parthian
darts; from that moment disenchantment attends everything, the colours
fade out of one’s existence. Ah me, I must get used to the idea.’
‘But, prince, you attach too much importance to a trifling
disappointment. You must put it down to the exactions of society, which
those who are in it cannot always disregard.’
‘No, no, there’s an end of my illusions; everything warns me of the
years accumulating behind me. I am no longer considered good for
anything. In days gone by, at Versailles, I was consulted on this,
that, and the other, on balls, fêtes, theatres, and so forth. At
present my advice is dispensed with. My time is past, _my world_ is
dead. You’ll tell me that no man is a prophet in his own country. A
company of comedians has invaded the stage to drive me from it, or to
hiss should I persist in remaining. My prophecies miss fire on account
of the prophet’s age. Tell me honestly, what is the worth of young men
nowadays to justify the world in lavishing its favours on them? Envy
has never entered my heart until this moment.’ Then he harked back to
his past, impelled by the kind of melancholy pleasure we all experience
in retracing our road through life, even if it is beset with thorns.
‘I had an intense admiration and passionate love for the science of
warfare,’ he added, ‘and I may safely say that from the day I joined
the regiment of dragoons from Ligne, I have won all my grades at the
point of my sword. That science has been the occupation of my life; my
labours have gained me many sterling friends. As a soldier and as a
general I have done my duty.’
‘History will forget neither the taking of Belgrade nor the battle
of Maxen, and your glorious share in both. It will also remember the
brilliant welcome you received at Versailles when Maria-Theresa sent
you thither bearing the news.’
‘Yes, these are memories of which no one will be able to deprive me,
and henceforth I’ll exclusively wrap myself up in them. When the body
threatens ruin, memory alone supports the structure, but merely as a
hint of our being still alive. To my last moments, as a compensation
for the vicissitudes of my own existence I shall be proud of having
been on terms of intimate friendship with men upon whom the eyes of
the universe were fixed. I may confess to having always been fond of
glory; indifference to it is a mere pretence. Well, every succeeding
day I become more and more convinced of the emptiness of what people
conventionally call celebrity.’ Then he drifted to the happy moments of
his life.
‘I have also passed through that delicious period of life when youth
gets intoxicated with all kinds of flattering promises, which a riper
age rarely keeps, and which old age altogether disperses. At that
period, days fly like moments, and the moments are worth centuries.
Happy he who knows how to profit by them! Life is a limpid cup which
becomes troubled while one drinks from it; the first drops are like
ambrosia; but the lees are at the bottom; the more agitated one’s life
is, the more bitter does the draught become at last. The loss, when all
is said and done, is perhaps not so great. Man gets to his grave as the
absent-minded get to their house. Here’s the door of mine. Good-night,
my dear lad. You, who are beginning your career, take care to employ
every minute to the greatest advantage, and don’t forget that the
saddest days of our lives are counted in the tale of our years just as
much as the happiest. Delille was right when he said, “Our best days go
first.”’
And I took my leave of this excellent prince, of this extraordinary
man, whose only weakness consisted in not making his pleasures fit in
with his age, and in persisting in keeping up a struggle with time,
that invincible athlete whom, as yet, no one has conquered. Alas, he
believed in the fable of Anacreon, whose love-affairs still provided
wreaths of roses for his hoary locks at eighty.
This love-tryst of the Prince de Ligne was to be his last. When he
talked thus of man’s arriving at the brink of the grave without
thinking of it, he was far from perceiving that he himself already had
one foot therein. Since then I have often reflected on the melancholy
sadness of all his words, but the Prince de Ligne never seriously
considered the idea of death. Not that he was afraid of it. At no time
of his life did fear approach within an arm’s length of him. If now and
again he spoke of old age with a kind of melancholy, it was because he
dreaded the idea of not being in unison with the new generations around
him, as he had been in unison with the friends of his youth. Thinking
of all this, I continued my nocturnal stroll by myself, repeating the
verses the prince had improvised on the subject, and I reached the
hotel, the ‘Roman Emperor,’ just as the Comte Z---- was going in. To
dispel the sad thoughts induced by the prince’s remarks, I accepted
Count Z----‘s offer of a glass of punch and accompanied him to his
apartments.
Z----,[87] the son of a favourite minister of Catherine II., had
recently lost his father, who left him a considerable fortune,
estimated at more than thirty thousand serfs. I had seen a great deal
of him while I was in St. Petersburg, where his birth, his gentle
disposition, and his extensive attainments, much beyond his years, had
made him a favourite in the highest circles. Having been appointed
only a short time before a ‘gentleman of the chambers,’ he proposed
to improve his education by travel, and he began at Vienna. It was
starting with a most interesting preface the book of life, which, as he
said, he wished to read from the first page to the last.
‘I have spent the evening at Prince Razumowski’s, who, as you know, is
a relative. His palace is still littered with furniture, draperies,
and flowers, the remains of the brilliant fête. Truly, the ruins of a
ball are as interesting to contemplate as the ruins of monuments and
empires.’
I, in my turn, told him of my meeting, and, the punch gradually
dissipating my fit of melancholy, we began, like the selfish and
unthinking young men we were, to joke about old men who, with the
snows of many winters upon them, pretend to melt them in the sunny
rays of love. I told him the adventure of the Comte de Maurepas which
had so highly diverted the Court of Versailles at the period of his
last ministry. Like the Prince de Ligne, M. de Maurepas, at eighty,
had preserved the habits of extreme attentiveness to the fair sex
which ought only to be indulged in by young men. The witty and handsome
Marquise de ---- was the object of those octogenarian attentions.
Worried by Maurepas’ assiduities, to which there could be no possible
sequel, she determined to put an end to them. The superannuated
Lovelace was seated one day near her in her boudoir, and was commenting
upon his unhappiness, caused by the want of feeling of the woman
he adored. The marquise appeared touched by the recital; the lover
became more pressing, the marquise apparently more yielding. At last
she murmured a faint consent, adding, however, ‘First go and bolt the
door.’ Maurepas went to bolt it, not on the inside, but on the outside,
and stole away on tiptoe without saying good-bye to the malicious fair
one. The _dénouement_ met with our full approval.
I was expecting next morning two Hungarian horses, which I had been
assured were the best trotters in Vienna. Being anxious to try them at
once, I asked Z---- if he would come with me to the Prater to do so. He
promised. While talking about trotters, none of which in Europe come
up, to my thinking, to those harnessed to the sledges at Moscow for the
runs on the frozen Moskowa, the comte got into bed, being tired by the
mazurkas in which he had the night before been compelled to initiate
some German ladies, who experienced great difficulties in their
transition from the stiff German minuet to the graceful elasticity of
the Polish dance.
‘Good-night, comte, I’ll leave you to your well-earned rest. I’ll put
the lights out, and give one candle to your servant, I hope you’ll
have a good sleep, so that you may be ready to-morrow at twelve.’ With
this I left him. Next morning at twelve the horses were put to the
cabriolet, and I went upstairs to fetch Z----; but when I got to his
door, his servant told me he was asleep. ‘What! asleep at twelve, when
he went to bed before midnight. I think I’ll wake him,’ I said, and
made my way into the room, where the curtains were drawn to exclude the
daylight.
‘Up, up!’ I shouted, ‘the horses are waiting for us. Or are you ill?’
He woke up, sat upright in bed, and began to rub his eyes, as if to
suppress his tears. ‘My dear father; why have I lost my father?’ he
exclaimed.
‘Have you had a nightmare, dear comte? What has the memory of your
father to do with the horses we are going to try?’
‘Alas, my friend, it’s not a dream, but a horrible reality. I lost two
millions of roubles last night.’
‘Are you mad or joking? You are in bed as I left you when I put out the
lights. Do you walk in your sleep, or are you not awake?’
‘No, friend, but I’m awaking from a sleep which I wish had been my last
one. S---- and the Comte B---- entered the room immediately after you
left it. They relighted the candles which you extinguished: we played
all night, and I have lost two millions of roubles, for which I gave
them my bills. Here, look for yourself.’
I stepped to the window and drew the curtains aside: the floor was
littered with cards, which they must have got in the hotel, and the
ruin of the young fellow had been accomplished before daylight.
‘This can only be a joke on their part, dear comte; make your mind
easy. They could not possibly harbour the thought of despoiling a
friend in that manner. They are also my friends, although I should
certainly cease to consider them as such if they hesitated for a moment
to destroy every trace of such a disgraceful night.’ Having said this,
I immediately left him, to go to S----, to whom I submitted the same
argument in order to persuade him to waive his claim. I said much more;
I pointed out the consequences to himself if such a story came to the
ears of the Emperor Alexander. Referring to the sovereign’s well-known
dislike of any kind of gaming, I did not disguise from him the
possibility of the emperor taking up the matter personally, with a view
of preventing such deplorable transactions in the future, and that he,
S----, might be selected, not without some justification, as an example
for the sake of enforcing the lesson. All my efforts to bring him to
reason and to arouse a feeling of equity were in vain. He positively
derided what he was pleased to call my sentimental pathos, and ended
up by proposing a game for my cabriolet and horses, so that I might be
enabled to preach from experience. I felt disgusted, and left him.
From the military man I proceeded to the diplomatist, who proved to
be much more frigid than the other. With many fine phrases he tried
to convince me that it was not disloyal or dishonourable to wake up
a young man of twenty-one at midnight in order to despoil him of his
fortune in a couple of hours.
‘Is it worth while to make so much ado about the loss of a few
_boumashkis-boumashkis?_‘--being the name of Russian paper money--he
said. ‘We have only to look around us to find the same thing going on
every day in another shape. You have merely to count the claimants to
thrones they lost because the game went against them. Do you think
people pay any heed to them? You may have noticed a gentleman who left
when you came in. That’s the Marquis de Brignoli. He came to Vienna to
claim the independence of Genoa. The ambassador of a republic which
is at its last gasp, he has treated the Congress to a most energetic
protest, which you may read if you like, for I have it here. In spite
of his logic, M. de Metternich politely bowed him out, and Genoa is to
be given to Piedmont, which has won it, and means to keep it. Venice
disappears in spite of its ancient wisdom. Is it being swallowed up
by the Adriatic? Not at all. It’s Austria that has won it, and means
to keep it. Malta only claims from the Congress its rock and arms to
defend itself against all comers: England, it is told, has won it, and
means to keep it. Prussia gains Saxony; Sweden gains Norway; Russia
gains Poland. Europe in Vienna sits round a table covered with a green
cloth; she is gambling for states, and a cast of the diplomatic dice
involves the loss or the gain of a hundred thousand, nay, of a million,
of heads.[88] Why should not I win a few bits of paper when luck
favours me?’
‘But from your friend, Monsieur le Comte?’
‘They are very scrupulous about relatives here, not to say about
friends, when it comes to the appropriation of thrones, aren’t they.
No, no, all this is so much nonsense. Figaro resolved the problem long
ago: “What’s worth taking, is worth keeping.”’
What answer could I make to such maxims, except to treat them with
contempt? I left him and went back to Z---- to inform him of the
failure of my efforts.
‘I felt certain it would be so,’ he said. ‘The sting of a serpent is
less cruel than the ingratitude of a friend. There is but one way with
people like this, and I’ll employ it.’
He was quite himself now; he dressed and went out to call upon the
grand-chamberlain, Narischkine, who was his superior in virtue of
his Court charge. He intended to inform him of the disaster that had
befallen him, and the means he meant to use for redress. He would not
allow me to go with him; and I tried my horses by myself. I could have
wished them, in their rapid course, to carry me right away from the
painful impressions of the last few hours.
Such episodes were by no means rare in Russia and in Poland. The fatal
passion of gambling was carried to excess. It had become a frenzy, a
positive madness. Russian and Polish society teemed with victims, the
whole of whose fortunes had been lost at the gaming table in a dozen
hours.
I remember that after Potocki’s death at Tulczim, the children of his
first marriage came into possession of his immense fortune. Two of
these, educated at Leipzig, received during the life of their father
only a few ducats per week for pocket-money. The moment they were the
masters of their inheritance, they went headlong into all the excesses
of gaming, and the elder of the two lost thirty millions of florins in
three years by playing at faro with his own land-stewards. A short time
after that his friend, M. de Fontenay, who had clung to him through
good and evil fortune, had to borrow a hundred louis to have him buried
at Aix-la-Chapelle, where he died.
Sometimes the incidents of those terrible gaming parties presented the
most wonderful reversals of luck. Here is an instance. Prince Galitzin,
one of the richest of Russian nobles, was playing on one occasion with
the most persistent bad luck. Estates, serfs, revenues, town-houses,
furniture, jewels, everything had been swallowed up. He had nothing
left but his carriage. That was waiting for him outside; he staked it,
and lost that in a few throws of the dice. A few minutes afterwards the
horses were also gone. ‘I did not stake the harness,’ he said; ‘it is
all in silver, and has just come from St. Petersburg.’
His adversary nodded, and a game was begun for the harness. At
that moment, though, the luck turned as completely in the Prince’s
favour as a few moments previously it had been against him. In a few
hours he not only won back the horses, the carriage, and the family
jewels, but everything else he had lost so rapidly, and that, thanks
to the harness, which literally seemed to be attached to the wheel
of fortune. It is absolutely astounding to find that men are not
positively shattered by those shocks of fortune. Galitzin was not
ungrateful in his worship of the harness. In his palace at Moscow I
have looked at it--in fact, it was pointed out to me, suspended in the
most conspicuous spot of the building, and protected from the tiniest
speck of dust by a framework of glass, like a precious relic, and as a
tangible proof of the strange vicissitudes of gaming.
During my stay in Russia, that same Prince Galitzin was the victim
of probably the cleverest piece of fraud ever perpetrated, in which
his luck forsook him. He was a great amateur of diamonds and precious
stones, and also claimed to be a judge. One day, in the card-room of
the English club at Moscow, he noticed an Italian wearing a ring with a
diamond of the first water, and of extraordinary size. The prince went
up to the wearer of this magnificent jewel, and asked to be allowed to
look at it. ‘And you also, prince, are taken in by it,’ replied the
Italian. ‘What looks to you like a diamond is only a bit of paste, very
beautiful paste, but after all, paste.’
The prince shook his head. ‘No paste ever sparkled like that. Will you
mind confiding it to me for a few hours?’ he asked. ‘I wish to show it
to the emperor’s jeweller, in order to prove to him the rare degree of
perfection imitation can attain.’
The Italian made not the least difficulty in granting the request. The
prince ran to the jeweller to ask him the value of the magnificent
single stone. The dealer examined, weighed, and tested the thing,
admitting that he had rarely seen so perfect a specimen of petrified
carbon. ‘But it’s a bit of paste,’ exclaimed the prince with glee. The
dealer examined and weighed again, subjected the stone to more tests,
and finally pronounced the gem to be a diamond, a diamond of the first
water, which in the trade would fetch at the lowest estimate a hundred
thousand roubles, and for which he, if it was to be disposed of, would
be willing to give eighty thousand. Galitzin makes the dealer repeat
his words again and again, and finally returns to the card-room, where
the Italian is engaged in a quiet game of piquet. The prince gives him
his ring, asking him to sell it; to which the Italian replies that he
is not in want of money, and that in any case the ring has not the
slightest value. Galitzin will not take no for an answer, but cannot
get the Italian to budge. He sets great store by the bauble, not
because of its worth, because it has none, but for the associations
attached to it, inasmuch as his mother gave it to him, exacting his
promise never to part with it. Seduced by the prospect of an enormous
bargain, Galitzin would take no refusal, offered ten thousand roubles,
increased his offer to thirty thousand, and finally proposed fifty
thousand.’
‘Very well, prince,’ said the Italian, as if weary of the struggle,
‘fifty thousand be it then; and you, gentlemen--’ this, turning to the
lookers-on--‘you can bear witness that the prince compels me to sell
him for fifty thousand roubles a mere bit of paste.’
‘Never mind, give me the ring,’ exclaimed Galitzin impatiently; ‘I know
what I am doing.’ Thereupon the Italian took the ring off his finger
and handed it to the prince, who, delighted with his purchase, gave
him there and then a voucher for fifty thousand roubles, to be paid at
sight by his business-manager. An hour afterwards the money was in the
Italian’s pocket, and the next morning Galitzin repaired once more to
the jeweller’s, telling him of his success in obtaining the diamond,
and holding it up for his inspection.
‘But this is only a bit of paste,’ exclaims the dealer; ‘a splendid bit
of paste, but after all, paste. It’s wonderful, though, how closely it
resembles the single stone you showed me yesterday. It’s the same size,
the same cut, the same shape. It’s calculated to deceive better judges
than your excellency.’
His consternation notwithstanding, Galitzin soon perceived that he had
been duped by an adroit scoundrel, who at the moment of handing him the
ring had cleverly substituted a paste imitation of it, but an imitation
calculated to impose upon all but the most expert. A hue-and-cry was
raised after the Italian in Moscow, but immediately after securing the
amount of his voucher, he had left. As for the prince, in addition to
the loss of his money, he had the mortification of being pitied by no
one; he was simply looked upon as ‘the biter bit.’
The affair of Z---- made a great noise in Vienna. The enormous amount
of his loss, the circumstances under which it was sustained, the
place itself of the gambling transaction, everything pointed to a
diabolically conceived combination, scarcely to be reconciled with the
age of the gamblers, the oldest of whom was only three-and-twenty.
The sequel fully confirmed my prediction to S----. Alexander had the
deepest aversion to gamblers and gambling. From that moment he withdrew
his favour from S----, and eight months afterwards in Paris, in the
private room of the Emperor at the Elysée Bourbon, S---- was forced
to admit that he would willingly part with half of his fortune if the
affair had never occurred, or if he had taken my advice about hushing
it up.
Z---- and the Comte B---- fought a duel with swords, in which the
latter was worsted, and the sum paid in settlement of his winnings was
comparatively a modest one. The Emperor Alexander would neither forgive
nor forget the affair. A few years later the young comte, knowing
that in Russia it is not sufficient to be somebody, but that it is
necessary to be also something, wrote to the emperor to be attached to
the legation at Florence; but Alexander sent a refusal in the following
terms:
‘In consideration of the services rendered to our august mother by the
Comte B----, your father, I excuse the glaring presumption of your
request.’
Under the painful impression of that scene in the morning, I spent a
sad day, full of depressing thoughts. The rapid ruin of Z----, the
callousness of his two adversaries, the inevitable consequences of such
a startling affair, did not make me feel disposed to enjoy any of the
daily gaieties of the Congress. The arrival of Ypsilanti put an end to
my serious mood. He came to take me to the masked ball given by the
Court in the small hall set apart for routs, which was to be preceded
by ‘living pictures.’ I at first refused, but was finally persuaded to
accompany him.
The entertainment differed but little from similar ones that had gone
before; at that period there was one almost every week. After a few
turns through the magnificent rooms, which, as usual, afforded the most
complete and animated example of everything that wealth could procure
and the constant craving for pleasure could relish, we went into
the room arranged for ‘the living pictures.’ In the front rows, the
emperors, the sovereigns, and queens, had already taken their seats;
behind them were the political celebrities of the Congress. In a few
minutes the curtain rose.
The first picture was ‘la Conversation Espagnole,’ and the second
‘la Famille de Darius aux pieds d’Alexandre,’ after the handsome
painting of Lebrun. The Comte de Schönfeldt represented Alexander,
and the charming Sophie Zichy impersonated Statira. The features
of the male character were stamped with the gentle pride of the
victor, still further tempered by the kindness and modesty of the
hero; the comtesse, even more beautiful than the figure of Lebrun’s
painting, expressed both admiration and grief. The youngest and most
charming women of the Court represented the daughters of Darius and
the attendants of Statira. The heroic and touching expression of the
principal personages, the numerous delightful figures, the fidelity
of the attitudes, the arrangement of the light--in short, everything
gave to the picture a completeness both elevated and sensuous, and it
was not surprising to hear it unanimously applauded. It was followed
by a performance of the sparkling comedy _Le Pacha de Surêne_, by M.
Etienne. The principal parts were played by the Comtesses Zichy and
Marassi, the Princesses Marie de Metternich and Thérèse Esterhazy,
the Comte de Wallstein, the Prince Antoine Radziwill, and a few other
distinguished personages. This pretty piece, interpreted with the
ability of experienced actors, was greatly applauded.
After that we went to the ball-room. One of the first persons that
caught my eye on entering was the Prince de Ligne. He was beaming with
happiness, and his step was as elastic and graceful as that of any
young man. It was not the same man who had confided his griefs to me
on the previous night. On his arm hung a woman in a blue domino. Her
figure, her voice, and the whole of her bearing fully explained the
disappointment and regret of the prince at finding himself alone at the
love-tryst. I brushed gently past him, and whispered in his ear: ‘It
appears that you were lacking in patience last night.’ ‘You are right,’
was the answer. ‘The great art of life is the exercise of patience.’
I went away, but I fancied I recognised the prince’s companion. It
was, unless I made a mistake, Mme. A---- P----, the young and charming
Greek, who was attracting so much attention in Vienna. An unhappy
love affair, of which the Prince de C---- was the hero, had aroused
the interest of the fair and most impressionable half of the Austrian
aristocracy; her great beauty had easily obtained for her many friends
among the other half of the European celebrities. Her romantic story,
which was told in whispers, was simple and touching. Having fallen a
victim to the Prince de C----‘s blandishments when she was still very
young, she almost immediately became a mother. Both her existence
and her heart were broken by desertion. There was no lack of would-be
consolers; but doubtless her experience had taught her that a first
lapse is only condoned on condition of its not being repeated. Unable
to dispense with a protector, she judiciously chose the Prince de
Ligne, whose great age, she probably thought, would silence all adverse
comment. The liaison, it was said, remained strictly within the limits
of a platonic correspondence; the young Greek contributing her share
by epistles such as all women of all countries and conditions know how
to write; the illustrious old man replying with effusions of which he
alone had preserved the secret. The latter contained the expression of
a sentiment more intense, perhaps, than that of mere friendship, but
tempered by the gentle logic of a wholly paternal affection.
Contrary to the invariable etiquette prevailing at state balls, where
only the polonaise was danced, quadrilles were speedily organised. A
few moments later I caught sight once more of the Prince de Ligne, but
this time he was alone. As a matter of course, I went up to him. ‘Just
watch that pretty bayadère figuring in the quadrille close to us,’ he
said. ‘Would you not take her for one of the most tantalizing girls
at the ball? Well, before she had spoken three words I guessed her
identity. It’s young Alfred, the Comte de Woyna’s brother.’
‘A young man, prince?’
‘A young man dressed as a girl. There’s nothing surprising in that.
Your celebrated dancer Duport came all the way from Paris to Vienna in
woman’s clothes. He alighted from his post-chaise at the Princesse Jean
de Lichtenstein’s, where he danced the whole of the evening, still in
woman’s clothes, and to the admiration of that circle of admirers, all
of whom went to applaud him next evening at the theatre at the Court,
where, still in female attire, he danced in the ballet of _Achille à
Scyros_. Look you here, my boy: there are disguises elsewhere than at
routs, and inasmuch as you have taken to collect the trifles I wrote
during the spring of my life, as well as in its fall, I’ll read you
to-morrow one of the transgressions of my youth, entitled, _Le Roman
d’une Nuit_. Only my extreme youth can be the excuse for that.’
He referred once more to society; to the society he had bitterly
stigmatised as ungrateful. ‘I shall always consider myself fortunate
in having been a witness of that unique spectacle, the Congress. In
that varied crowd I look upon each individual as a separate page of the
great book of society. Believe me, man is not as bad as he is painted.
Woe to the misanthropic moralists who care to look only at the sombre
side of him. They are the painters who only study nature at night.’
Amidst this boisterous, bustling throng, where people looked for their
friends without finding them, though they might be elbowing each other,
two female dominos came up to me and drew me away from the prince. One
took my hand. ‘Why were you in such a hurry to leave us?’ she asked.
The voice, which sounded altogether natural, was entirely unfamiliar
to me. ‘When a man addresses verses to a woman,’ she went on, ‘he
assuredly does not expect her to travel three hundred leagues for the
sake of thanking the author.’
‘Gentle mask, Vienna is three hundred leagues from Paris, an equal
distance from Naples, and as much from St. Petersburg, and in all
these places I have unfortunately addressed verses to ladies. I must
therefore ask you to be more explicit, for unless you are, I shall be
travelling a long while in search of my unknown heroine.’
‘Very well, let us say it was at St. Petersburg, and that Lafont set
them to music.’
‘In that case I should not be sufficiently conceited to aspire to
thanks from the object of my poetry.’
‘Why not, if the verses bestowed caused pleasure?’
‘Or,’ added her companion, who had hitherto been silent, ‘if the proof
of the pleasure is the thanks offered.’
It has been said with truth that the whole destiny of a life is decided
in an instant. I immediately recognised the voice, which I had only
heard once before. The strange and brilliant dream of a night was about
to be reproduced a second time with all its former illusions. I did not
know what to say; the liberty of speech, tacitly admitted under cover
of a mask, only added to my confusion. ‘Have you nothing to say?’ asked
the same voice. ‘Sweet mask,’ I replied, ‘the timid bird may sing at
sunrise, only the eagle dare fixedly look at the sun in its zenith.’
Thereupon I endeavoured to get my two interlocutors out of the crowd,
in order to be more free in the interview, which I felt was to decide
the whole of my life, but Grand-Chamberlain Narischkine came up to
us, recognised the ladies, took their arms and led them away. I had
no longer any doubt. I had met once more the angel of a dream the
realisation of which would not occur on earth.
I remained rooted to the spot, then rushed after the dominos like a
madman. I saw nothing, I heard nothing except the magic words that had
gone to the core of my heart. My pursuit was in vain, the crowd had
parted us for evermore.
In one of the quadrangular rooms I came upon the Prince Cariati talking
very animatedly to a lady disguised as a gipsy, who immediately
revealed her _incognita_. It was the Comtesse Zamoyska, our neighbour
on the Jaeger Zeill.
‘I wish you to join our plot,’ she said; ‘it ‘s a complicated piece of
mystification, the sequel to an intrigue begun at one of these balls,
which has lasted now for several weeks. The personage I wish to mystify
is worthy of my attempt.’ Without knowing or caring much what I did, I
fell in with the wish of the comtesse, who left us, laughing.
I was getting weary of it all, when I noticed my friend M. Achille
Rouen occupying a rout seat all by himself, and apparently as bored as
I was. I asked him if he had seen the dominos of whom I was in search.
‘If you mean the two who were with Narischkine,’ he replied, giving me
an exact description of them, ‘they left the ball a quarter of an hour
ago.’
From that moment the charm of the evening seemed to have vanished, as
far as I was concerned. We began chatting about the Congress and the
current news, and as a matter of course the name of M. de Talleyrand
cropped up. No other name was so often mentioned in people’s comments
on the difficult and critical questions of the moment. Achille Rouen,
who never missed a day without seeing him, was sincerely attached to
him.
‘It’s impossible to know M. de Talleyrand thoroughly without liking
him,’ he said. ‘All those who have come in close contact with him judge
him as I do. He is an inexplicable, I might say indefinable, amalgam
of simplicity and lofty thoughts, of grace and logic, of critical
faculty and courteous tolerance. In one’s intercourse with him, one
learns almost unconsciously the history and politics of all times, and
thousands of stories in connection with every Court; his company is
practically a guide through an enormous gallery, where events are as
instructively depicted as personages.’
‘And in spite of this, my dear Achille, how people have rent him to
pieces! Is mediocrity always to exact such a heavy toll from talent for
the latter’s success? For, if such be the case, the only happy people
are those whose obscurity does not breed envy in others.’
‘History will reward M. de Talleyrand for the evil his contemporaries
have said of him. When, in the course of a long and difficult career, a
statesman has preserved a great number of faithful friends, and counts
but few enemies, one feels bound to credit him with having been wise
and moderate, honourable and thoroughly able. In the prince’s case, the
heart is even better than the ability. Not long ago, M. de R---- came
to borrow twenty thousand francs of him. M. de Talleyrand lent them. A
month later the news came that in consequence of business reverses, M.
de R---- had blown his brains out. “I am glad I did not refuse him the
money,” exclaimed M. de Talleyrand, and one sentence like this suffices
to paint the man.
‘But,’ Rouen went on, ‘what is the circumstance to which he lately
referred during a conversation, and which he said might have
considerably influenced your life?’
‘That circumstance, my dear Achille, never presents itself to my mind
without reviving my regret at having allowed to escape one of the rare
opportunities which offered themselves in one’s young days. Everything
in the way of creating for oneself a career, of making a friend, even
a female friend, depends upon a moment. The goddess of chance must be
caught by the forelock as she rushes past; our regrets have no effect
upon her when we have neglected her momentary proximity to us, I shall
tell you how it happened. I had been living for something like two
months at Raincy, where M. Ouvrard,[89] then at the height of his
fortune, had offered me a couple of rooms in the building belonging
to the fire engine. I was only seventeen; you are acquainted with
the circumstances which at that period brought me into contact at
such a youthful age with the whole of the society of what I must call
“rejuvenated France.” I had received an invitation to a dinner given
by M. Davencourt, the newly appointed “Captain-General of the Hunt,”
in honour of his new functions. It took place in a kind of Russian hut
built in the park, and at the end of a hunt. The other guests were MM.
de Talleyrand, de Montrond,[90] Ouvrard; Admiral Bruix; Generals Lannes
and Berthier. The only woman present was Mme. Grant, who subsequently
married the Prince de Talleyrand. In spite of the many elements of
interest and the clever guests, the conversation slackened; to give it
a fillip, Ouvrard asked me how I had managed on the previous day to get
back to Paris, my horse having got hurt while out hunting, and there
being by a strange coincidence no other animal left in the stable.
* * * * *
‘In a very simple way,’ I replied. ‘As you said just now, there was
not a horse to be had for love or money, and I had to be in Paris at
three to meet Mme. Récamier, whom I would not have missed for anything,
inasmuch as she was about to leave the capital immediately. When
there is no chance of a horse or a carriage, the simplest means is to
walk, so I made up my mind to foot it. It was very hot, but at twelve
o’clock I got into the plain about midway between Bondy and Pantin. I
felt thoroughly knocked up, and, moreover, literally as hungry as a
hunter; I stopped at a mill near the high road, and asked them to get
me some breakfast. While it was being prepared, I began to think of
my second want, and asked the miller if there was no means of getting
a horse. “There is mine,” he replied, “and for a crown of six francs
it’s at your service. It will take you very comfortably, and to-morrow,
when I get to Paris, I’ll come and fetch it from your house.” The
courser was brought to the door; it was about as high as an ass, and
in fact performed the duties of one; it had no other equipment than a
pack-saddle.
‘“How am I to get on to that?” I said to the miller. “Haven’t you got a
riding-saddle? But there is one hanging on the wall.”
‘“Oh, that’s my own saddle, my brand-new English saddle, and I don’t
let it out for hire, monsieur.”
‘In vain did I insist, and beg, and persuade. The miller was obstinate,
and I might have saved my breath. I beheld myself riding through the
streets of Paris perched on that lamentable pack-saddle, which had
never carried anything but flour or manure. Assuredly the horse was of
no use to me without the saddle. “Now, gentlemen,” I said, interrupting
my story and addressing my fellow-guests, “what would you have done in
view of the miller’s obstinacy?” Then I appealed to each in particular.
“You, Monsieur Ouvrard, who, in virtue of your administrative
capacities, admired by everybody, sustain our military glory by looking
to the inner comforts of our soldiers? You, Davencourt, who, in spite
of all the ruses of the fox, put on its scent a dozen packs after they
have lost it? You, Monsieur l’Amiral, who brave both the storm and the
guns of the enemy? You, Generals Berthier and Lannes, who in Italy and
in Egypt proved yourselves the Parmenios of the new Alexander? And
finally you, Monsieur de Talleyrand, who as our Minister of Foreign
Affairs have shown and continue to show your profound observation of
men and things:--what would you have done to get hold of the saddle
the miller refused to lend at any price?” There was no answer, they
only laughed. “May I remind you,” I said, “that laughter scarcely
contributes a reply. I have, however, already discovered the master of
all of you,” I went on, turning to Mme. Grant. “Her smile shows me that
she has guessed my last resource. Yes, madame, you guessed rightly; I
appealed to the miller’s wife, and with a few carefully chosen words,
managed to enlist her sympathy. The new saddle, the horse, and the mill
if I had been in need of it, were finally at my disposal. Such, in the
cottage as in the palace, is the power of feminine influence.”
* * * * *
‘No sooner had I finished my break-neck story than loud applause broke
forth, followed by the drinking of my health and to the result of my
negotiation. Encouraged by everybody’s approval, I began to talk, like
the boy I was, right and left, and my remarks were evidently relished
by Mme. Grant. M. de Talleyrand, who at that period was very much in
love with her, because, as he said, she had everything that completed
the charm of a woman, namely, a soft skin, a sweet breath, and a sweet
temper--M. de Talleyrand seemed equally pleased with me. The rest
of the guests followed his lead, considering it easier to adopt the
opinion of a clever man than to go to the trouble of making one for
themselves.
‘When we left the table, M. de Talleyrand beckoned me to a corner of
the room and talked to me for a considerable time. He seemed to enjoy
the account of my travels in Sweden and in Denmark. The description of
the shelling of Copenhagen, at which I was present, interested him. My
remarks on all those countries, on the _émigrés_ in Hamburg, and on
Hamburg itself, he qualified as exceedingly just. “Come and see me in
Paris to-morrow,” he said. “I’ll expect you. But you are very young,
and perhaps you’ll forget. Promise me that you’ll not fail to come.”
Saying which he grasped my hands very affectionately. Mme. Grant, who
had joined us, was equally pressing. I promised, and I ought to have
kept my promise, for it was one of those lucky opportunities which
often decide the whole of a man’s life and which the great Frederick
called “His Majesty, Accident.”
‘But, my dear Achille, happiness is a ball after which we constantly
run and then push with our feet when we have come up with it. I did
not keep my appointment with M. de Talleyrand. That unfortunate
shyness which too often paralyses youth had once more got the upper
hand. I’ll not go as far as to say that I was practically frightened
at the possible consequences of this good-will towards me. But I did
ask myself what people could offer me in exchange for that constant
succession of happiness, of maddening joys which at that moment made up
my existence? I dreaded the end of a dream which my thoughtlessness,
my ignorance of all serious things, sought to prolong. The contact
with, the goodwill of, such a man, his influence, would have given a
different direction to my ideas and to my career; in short, would have
finally created for me a different life. Yes, friend, the goddess of
chance absolutely stood in my path, and I was foolish enough not to
catch hold of her. I learnt too late that her favour has wings, as
desire is said to have.’
‘I am not surprised at the prince’s recollection of the incident. His
memory is excellent.’
‘Since then I have often thought the matter over, and always regretted
my neglect to let M. de Talleyrand know the causes of my apparent lack
of gratitude.’
‘Your story reminds me of one I heard recently in Rome in connection
with the banker Torlonia, whose enormous fortune is, again, a
consequence of one of those inspirations that decide the fate of a man.
‘Torlonia, who sprang from very humble people, began by a small
traffic of jewellery between Paris and Rome. A short time afterwards
he established himself as a banker, and then an unhoped-for and
altogether unexpected circumstance brought him in contact in a very
strange manner with Cardinal Chiaramonti. At the death of Pius VI. the
conclave for the election of a new Pope was obliged to assemble at
Venice. Chiaramonti positively had not the money to pay his travelling
expenses, and Torlonia advanced him three or four hundred crowns
without much thought as to the small risk involved, and certainly
without foreseeing the consequences. Chiaramonti proceeded to Venice,
where, in the church of St. George’s (?), he was elected to the papacy.
As a proof of his gratitude, the new Sovereign Pontiff appointed
him Court Banker, then made him a marquis and finally a duke.
To-day, thanks to that small loan, Torlonia is one of the wealthiest
capitalists of Europe.’
These last words had just been spoken when Ypsilanti, Tettenborn, and
some other friends came to tell us that supper was being served. We
followed them to the supper-room, where the conversation turned once
more on the subject of M. de Talleyrand and his remarkable influence
on the deliberations of the Congress. Everybody was agreed that
this preponderance was not due either to mere chance or to the just
appreciation of his political knowledge, but to his character, which
had laid it down as a principle that the first and foremost essential
of all diplomatic negotiations was an impenetrable discretion; and
to the fact of his having imbued all those whom he employed with the
same reserve. In connection with this, some one cited the recent reply
of M. D---- in a gathering of friends where M. de Talleyrand and the
particulars of his life were being discussed.
M. D----, who had been with M. de Talleyrand for twenty years,
accompanied him to the Congress. People naturally concluded that this
long intimacy had made M. D---- familiar with a number of particulars
of the minister’s life, and bearing also upon the events with which he
had been mixed up. Worried with questions, M. D---- invariably replied
that he knew nothing; but the questioners would not be satisfied, and
returned to the charge. ‘Very well,’ finally said M. D----, ‘I’ll
tell you a peculiar and altogether unknown fact in connection with
M. de Talleyrand. Since Louis XV. he’s the only man who can open a
soft-boiled egg with one backward stroke of his knife without spilling
a drop of the contents of the shell. That’s the only peculiarity I know
in connection with him.’ Discretion had scored a decisive victory. From
that moment the questions ceased.
The topic of M. de Talleyrand seemed really inexhaustible. More stories
about him were told, and then the Prince de Reuss came up to our
table, said a few words to M. Rouen, and once more left us.
‘It was his father, the reigning prince,’ said one of our friends,
‘who at the time of the Directory began an official despatch in the
following terms: “The Prince de Reuss begs to acknowledge the existence
of the French Republic.” M. de Talleyrand, who in his capacity of
Minister of Foreign Affairs had to reply to the missive, began his
document with: “The French Republic feels most flattered at making the
acquaintance of the Prince de Reuss.”’
On leaving my friends, I could not help reflecting with regret upon
my adventure at Raincy, the recollection of which had so unexpectedly
cropped up a few hours previously. I kept thinking of the chance
offered to me by M. de Talleyrand, which my lack of foresight had
caused me to disdain.