The Dean of St. Patrick’s has immortalized an Irish festival of the
eighteenth century, by declaring that
“O’Rourke’s noble feast will ne’er be forgot
By those who were there,—or those who were not.”
Some such memories will cling for ever about the last of the great
European Congresses,—that of Vienna. It will be a costly reminiscence
for Europe as long as the world endures; and no one is likely to forget
the assembly of monarchs and statesmen who, after arranging the affairs
of the universe, amused themselves by enacting the French vaudeville of
‘La Danse Interrompue,’ and, in the very middle of that ominously-named
piece, received intelligence that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and had
thus interrupted their dance indeed.
Among the most useful of the personages who figured at Vienna during
the celebrated period of 1814-15 there was none whose utility could
be compared with that of a gay and generous young Frenchman, who was
known by the _sobriquet_ of “the King of Good Fellows.” He did not serve
much, it is true, for the furtherance of political purposes; but he was
always indispensable, and never missing, when a ball, a masquerade, a
concert, or a pic-nic was in question, and some difficulty opposed its
successful accomplishment. Little was known of him, save that he had been
attached to the French Legation at Lisbon; but whispers were circulated
to the effect that in the days of the exile of the French nobility, he
had earned a livelihood in London by application of the needle, while it
was more loudly asserted that he had given lessons on the guitar in the
English capital, and that he and his father had played duets, under the
patronage of Banti, at the Pantheon. Two or three out of the dozen of
Talleyrand’s discreet secretaries confidently affirmed, that when a boy
he had been confined in the prison of Orléans, “on suspicion of being
suspected” by the Republic. But Baron Thierry himself was profoundly
silent on his antecedents; and he was wont to say that the memories of
the past were of a very unsubstantial nature, and that his designs for
the present and the future were to make the most of all opportunities,
and get a crown, if he could, since one might perhaps be had at the mere
cost of setting up a pretension to it.
People laughed at the idea of Baron Thierry becoming a monarch; but at
such mirth the baron assumed a gravity that was very majestic, and which
looked like determination.
“Who is that pretty child whom your Majesty keeps so close to your side
tonight?” said a lady to Thierry at a ball given by Wellesley Pole. The
lady was remarkable for her natural beauty and her bad taste. She wore
her husband’s “Garter” as an ornament round her head, and _Honi soit qui
mal y pense_ glittered in diamonds upon her radiant brow.
“She is the half of an imperial princess,” replied the Baron, in a
whisper; “and she and I are characters in a romance of an hour. Watch us
well, and you will see the _dénouement_.”
The Baron had scarcely uttered the words when the lovely and childless
Czarina of Russia passed by his side. The Czarina paused for a moment at
an open window, and then stepped on to the balcony overlooking a handsome
garden. No one accompanied, and no one followed her. The Baron however
occupied the centre of the window, and the angelic-looking child, at his
bidding, passed on to the balcony, and stood by the imperial lady’s side.
Lady Castlereagh, and some three or four persons who were aware that
Thierry was contriving something for the especial gratification of the
Czarina, contrived to witness what passed without appearing to do so.
The scene that ensued was curious, touching, and rapid. The Czarina burst
into tears, kissed the wondering child with a fiery and uncontrollable
emotion, and gazed upon her with an almost frantic look of mingled love,
jealousy, and despair. The Baron slightly coughed, the Czarina re-entered
the _salon_, and the spectators appeared unconscious of anything but the
imperial presence, and the reverence due to it. Lady Castlereagh alone
heard her say to the Baron, as she passed. “Thanks for your courtesy,
Monsieur le Baron. Tell her mother I envy and forgive her!”
“Who is her mother?” asked Lady Castlereagh.
“Madame Krudener, the mistress of Alexander, the pious Czar. The Czarina
has just kissed her rival’s child, and her heart is breaking that she is
not the mother of it.”
The night that succeeded was a brilliant one at the imperial palace
of Austria. In a small room adjoining the great gallery was assembled
a strange group. A very handsome young man, in the costume and with
the attributes of Jupiter, was walking to and fro, eating a slice of
pine-apple, and declaring that the Count de Wurbna was mad. A somewhat
older but a fine-looking personage, easily recognizable as Mars, was
lying recumbent on a sofa, repeating the declaration that De Wurbna
was mad. These two theatrical deities were, in their mortal positions,
no other than Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg and the Count de Zichy. De
Wurbna was seated on a stool, bending forward to fasten his sandal. His
dress, his lyre, and his insignia told at once that he was Phœbus Apollo.
There was nothing like insanity about him; but when he raised his head,
the beholder was constrained to confess that there _was_ something about
him very unlike the lover of Daphne and Coronis. In fact, he wore a
very formidable pair of mustachios. However appropriate this adornment
might be to the Apollo Corybassides, who disputed the dominion of Crete
with Jupiter himself, it little suited the fair son of Latona, the only
one of all the gods whose oracles were in general repute throughout the
world. Be this as it may, the Viennese Apollo, whose transcendent beauty
had designated him as the only man who could fittingly represent the
graceful god, strictly refused to sacrifice his cherished moustache.
Madame de Wilhelm, the destined Venus of the _tableaux vivans_ about to
be represented, had suggested that his head should be turned from the
spectators; but the proud Minerva of the night, the Countess Rosalie
Rzewouska (the original of M. Sue’s Fleur de Marie), declared that the
suggestion lacked wisdom, and that, if adopted, Miss Smith, the daughter
of the Admiral Sir Sidney, would spoil her Juno, and laugh outright, as
she did at everything.
“I thought Thierry could do anything,” said Jupiter. “He has
superintended the getting up of all our costumes; and he engaged, a
fortnight ago, to render De Wurbna reasonable.”
Apollo caressed his very objectionable hirsutory adornment, humming as he
did so, “Du, du liegst mir im Herzen.” He smiled as Mars asserted that
if Thierry had entered into any such engagement, Apollo would be shaved,
and the heathen goddesses in raptures. The ubiquitous and indefatigable
Baron had, at all events, done his best, but hitherto he had failed. At
the eleventh hour however he thought of the claim which he had on the
Czarina Elizabeth, for whom he had contrived the strange gratification
of kissing the daughter of her husband’s mistress. He procured an
audience, and stated the predicament into which he and the court-players
were thrown by the obstinacy of Apollo. The Czarina had recourse to her
sister of Austria, but the two imperial ladies knew not how to solve the
difficulty. The Emperor of Austria was called in, and then the difficulty
began to wear an aspect less redoubtable.
The mythological deities were yet disputing in their luxurious
green-room, when an officer of the Imperial Guard appeared at the door,
and summoned De Wurbna to the imperial presence. The latter flung a cloak
over his shoulders and hastened to obey.
“My dear fellow,” said the officer, “you will not appear before the
Emperor in those mustachios!”
“Why not?” said the son of Latona, who began to suspect a mystification.
“Because of this morning’s general order, which commands the entire guard
to which we belong to be shaved.”
De Wurbna had already remarked the smooth lip of his Hungarian comrade,
but, still doubting, he proceeded to wait upon his master the Emperor.
“I’ll wager a whole chest of Latakia,” said Mars, “that this is a feat of
Thierry’s accomplishing. He is well named the ‘King of Good Fellows,’ for
he knows how to meet every emergency. He deserves to get a crown in the
general scramble.”
“He _is_ a good fellow,” said Prince Leopold, “but he is about as likely
to get a crown as I am.”
“Who knows?” asked De Zichy, who cared little for crowns, and felt no
envy at kings. “There may be half-a-dozen political earthquakes before
another score of years have been added to the register; and another
remodelling of kingdoms may strangely affect the market for monarchs.”
In another moment Apollo entered, half laughing, half ashamed, and
entirely shaven. The Emperor had really issued an order that the Guard
should be shaved; De Wurbna had forthwith submitted, and, in his private
quarters, he consummated the heavy sacrifice. The decree however, which
had been issued to please the imperial ladies, only lasted for a day. It
nevertheless served its purpose; and never was such honour done to the
diplomatic abilities of Thierry, as when the mimic Olympus discovered
that by his aid a king of men had subdued a refractory deity, and that
the consistency of a mythological _tableau_ was saved from shipwreck.
The representation went off with extraordinary _éclat_. The only persons
among the spectators who were not enraptured with the spectacle, were the
obese King of Würtemberg, who was sound asleep in his chair, and who was
never awake except at dinner-time; his son, the Crown Prince, who was
breathing out his soul in the ear of the young Duchess of Oldenburg; and
that youthful widow herself, whose eyes beamed with a lustre born, not of
the outward show, but of inward feeling.
With these exceptions, all were delighted; and when Thierry, in the
intervals of the performance, took up his guitar and discoursed eloquent
music, the entire audience declared that they had never heard so
exquisite a voice, nor seen so king-like a fellow.
The loudest in his praise, and the best-dressed man among the eulogizers,
was the nonagenarian Prince De Ligne; an old dandy, of whom his tailors
made, as nearly as dress could do it, a comparatively young-looking
man. He was more carefully dressed than ever on this eventful night. It
was the night on which he went through the snow, to keep, at least he
said so, an assignation of a tender nature on the ramparts, and where he
was kept waiting so long in vain by his Cynthia of the minute, that he
caught a cold which, within a very short space of time, carried him into
a bronze coffin, and covered him up in a marble tomb. All Vienna laughed,
except the tailors; for though he patronized these, he never paid them.
Thierry was standing by the burying-place when he first heard of the
return of Napoleon.
“Well,” thought he, “there are no crowns to be had here. The kingdom of
good-fellowship is a sorry monarchy. Perhaps something may turn up under
the Corsican.”