Prince EugÈne de Beauharnais—Recollections of the Prince de Ligne—The Theatre of the ‘Ermitage’ and of Trianon—The Baron Ompteda—some Portraits—The Imperial Carrousel—The Four-and-twenty Paladins—Reminiscences of MediÆval Tournaments—The Prowess of the Champion—FÊte and Supper at the Imperial Palace—The Table of the Sovereigns.

One morning, a few days after the last-described event, I called upon Prince EugÈne de Beauharnais. Our acquaintance dated from my youth, and whenever circumstances brought us together either in Paris, Milan, or Vienna, I, like all his other friends, had ever found him kind, helpful and sympathetic. The bonds of sympathy so quickly contracted in youth had never been severed by the difference in rank. It had not been his fault that his rule in Italy had been fruitless to me as far as a brilliant administrative career went. And these proofs of his affection had made me deeply grateful to him.

On the occasion of my visit he was slightly ill, and it did not take me long to discover that the cause of his indisposition was mental rather than physical. It was not surprising, considering the misfortunes that had accumulated around him. There were the disasters of France, the fall of Napoleon, the loss of a brilliant position, and, to fill his cup of grief, the death of his mother, whom he worshipped.

His position at Vienna was constrained and more or less false. His reception there had been the subject of diplomatic discussions; but for the persistence of his father-in-law, the King of Bavaria, and the affection of Emperor Alexander, he would probably have been excluded. In spite of this, the fact of his being the adopted son of Napoleon could not be forgotten. It was, moreover, well known that his noble character would never belie itself, and that he would bring all his influence to bear in favour of the man who had been his benefactor. Between the Powers celebrating France’s reverses with fÊtes and the representatives of the government of the Bourbons, he seemed isolated amidst that crowd and in that whirlpool of pleasure.

He welcomed me in his cordial and amicable way. Glad to find somebody with whom he could talk about his recollections, he referred to his past, which was so brilliant and glorious. His attitude and the expression of his face were stamped with a melancholy that could not fail to win one’s heart. We went over the various phases of his military career, when all at once he became most animated. Yielding to a strong emotion, he carried me with him to Egypt, and began to describe the loss of his first friend, killed by his side by a cannon ball at the battle of the Pyramids. At the last words of that mournful story I noticed his eyes filling with tears, which he vainly endeavoured to repress. In order to divert his thoughts to brighter subjects, I spoke to him of our first meeting at a luncheon given by Mme. RÉcamier during the short-lived Peace of Amiens, a luncheon graced by the presence of all the celebrities of France and England. As a matter of course, our conversation drifted to all the gay doings of Vienna during the last few weeks, and also of those to come. I soon noticed, though, that all those functions, so intoxicating to the majority of both actors and spectators, constantly reminded him of the sad cause nearest to his heart. I was not sorry, then, when we were interrupted by the servant announcing the Emperor of Russia, who, according to his custom, came to take him, without any ceremony, for a walk in the Prater. I took my leave of him, after he had made me promise to come and see him often. I need not say that I gladly acceded to his request, and that the duty really became a pleasure.

On leaving him, I went to pay my daily visit to the Prince de Ligne. I delighted in giving him an account of my previous day’s doings. Although at that happy period my occupations mainly consisted of a life spent away from my own quarters and in consorting with my young friends in the pursuit of pleasure, it was like a lullaby to me to go to him to gather from his lips some of his witty and subtle sallies, and to study in a familiar way a small section of that living panorama.

The little house was as full as it could hold, and the amiable host was, as usual, dispensing large doses of wit and wisdom to his visitors. His never-failing spirits and the brightness of his recollections reminded his listeners that though the body might be tottering, he prevented it from collapsing. No one conveyed a more accurate idea of the sparkle and the almost indefinable grace of the French intellectual qualities of former days. Hearing the Prince de Ligne talk, I always fancied I was going back a century in the history of French society.

The prince’s visitors were repeating to him some of the rumours with which the amateur politicians of the Graben kept public curiosity alive. After having distributed crowns and allotted states, the quidnuncs and newsmongers had taken it into their heads to try their hand at match-making. According to them, the King of Prussia was reported one day to be betrothed to the Grand-Duchess of Oldenburg, the next to one of the Austrian arch-duchesses.

‘Those gentlemen strangely put our credulity to the test,’ remarked the Comte de Witt. ‘Nothing less will satisfy them than the divorce of Marie-Louise, so that she may be joined in matrimony to his Majesty of Prussia.’

‘Mirabeau was in the habit of saying that there is no piece of idiocy, however crude, that may not find acceptance on the part of a clever man, provided one gets his valet to repeat it to him every day for a month,’ laughed the prince. ‘I am afraid, though, that the Viennese journalists credit us with a somewhat too robust faith. I am not at all certain how “Robinson” on his island of Elba would appreciate the joke?’

The conversation drifted to the theatrical performances the Empress of Austria was offering at the Imperial Palace.

‘No stage can dispute the palm with yours,’ said the prince, turning to me. ‘I have seen your pieces played everywhere. In Prussia before the great Frederick they only performed the masterpieces of the French stage; in Russia at the “Ermitage” theatre [the palace and museum of the Hermitage at St. Petersburg] I have seen Le Philosophe MariÉ and Annette et Lubin performed before Empress Catherine, whom nature had eminently fitted to appreciate grace and subtlety as well as grandeur and brilliancy. I well remember the select company of that most brilliant Court when SÉgur’s Crispin DuÈgne was produced, and Cobentzel gave his admirable interpretation. Then there was my own play, L’Amant Ridicule, whose author, I am afraid, was, perhaps, more ridiculous than the lover. The most amusing part of the entertainment, however, was enacted in the house itself with its throng of cranks, faddists, and eccentric characters, each of whom had supplied me with a kind of model, and who, as everywhere, applauded like mad without recognising themselves. Most vivid to my mind is the theatre at Ferney, where Voltaire himself played before us the most comic scenes from MoliÈre, and was convulsed with laughter, which rather spoilt the effect he aimed at. Then came Trianon, “Trianon with an angelic queen playing royally badly before a crowd of courtiers intoxicated with her beauty.”’

After that, with his essentially eighteenth century grace, he recounted to us some of the conversations of Versailles, redolent of wit and cleverness.

‘These are admirable recollections, prince,’ said the Comte de Witt.

‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘I have opened my eyes and ears a great deal, and I have an excellent memory. My stories are only reproductions.’

That day was spent delightfully among friends. In the evening I went to admire the expressive pantomime of Bigottini in Nina, and I wound up by going to the Comtesse de Fuchs’s. Her drawing-room was crowded as usual; fortunately I managed to find a seat near the Baron Ompteda. With the serious face of an ancient augur, Ompteda was one of the most originally clever men I have ever met. No one could sketch a portrait in a few words better than he. People dreaded his tongue as much as his sketches. But a staunch friend withal, whose epigrams were due to a twist of the intellect rather than to a deficiency of heart.

While the crowd was buzzing around us on every side, Ompteda took to reviewing some of our acquaintances that were there and also those who entered subsequently.

‘Since you were last in Vienna,’ he said, ‘the capital has suffered a siege and a foreign occupation; nevertheless, you’ll find few changes. Matters lending themselves to ridicule are as plentiful as ever; they are practically the image of the immobility of the Austrian government. Only, they are becoming more apparent, in consequence of the century’s progress.

‘The drawing-rooms of society are just as you left them. The one in which we are seated has not ceased to be the special resort of the friends of our charming queen. Never was a title more deserved, and her subjects have never revolted against her yoke. I have seen few women who have as many friends as she; but, what is more rare, she has the talent of binding them so closely together that in spite of events and absence they never become strangers to each other. A common affection for her seems to be the basis of her government; our union is its strength, and our happiness a guarantee of its duration. Honestly, I do not think there is a more easy despotism than hers, or a code more gentle to observe. In her empire, you’ll find, as always, politeness without sham, frankness without abruptness, mutual regard without flattery, and willingness to oblige without constraint.

‘There is, on the foremost plane, dear Major Fuchs, the happy and peaceful possessor of this treasure. We all envy him. He continues, as of old, the enthusiastic champion of the organisation of the Vienna Militia, to which he owes his grade, and on which, he maintains, depend the glory and the salvation of the Austrian monarchy.

‘Next comes the Comtesse Laure, his wife, ever the same, kind and good, and wholly unaffected. Her girlish face seems to be the mirror of her excellent heart. There are women whose features are more regularly beautiful, but hers are stamped with a sweet and animated expression which the mere art of pleasing would vainly endeavour to imitate. And the real secret of keeping her friends attached to her for all time lies probably in her conciliatory disposition, which, however, is not marked by any weakness where firmness is required.

‘Here is the Chanoinesse Kinsky, whose expression of unaffected kindness imparts a charm to her face to such a degree as to hide the ravages of gradually advancing years.

‘Here are the Princesses de Courland. In the first place, the beautiful Duchesse de Sagan, with her ardent admiration for everything that is grand and heroic. Her exceeding loveliness is only the least of her qualifications. Her sister, the Comtesse Edmond de PÉrigord, presents an indefinable but charming whole by reason of her gait, movements, bearing, and voice. Both her face and her figure possess the irresistible charm without which the most perfect beauty is practically powerless. It is a flower seemingly ignorant of the perfume it emits. Finally, there is the third of the Courland Graces, the delightful Duchesse d’Exerenza, in whose person are united all the admirable attributes of the other two.

‘On the second plane stands Walmoden, who in spite of his being a field-marshal to-day, has remained the simple and good-natured creature of former times. The same may be said of the Prince de Hesse-Hombourg. Military glory has not induced pride; his noble and stately manners are altogether tempered by a sweet and affectionate disposition. Prince Philippe is one of those men whom neither spite nor sarcasm can touch. In his familiar intercourse with his fellow-mortals, he is as distinguished for the noble impulses of his heart as he is famed on the battle-field for his brilliant valour and his promptness of perception.

‘Reuss is always in the clouds; I do not pretend to follow him thither. Not having travelled, he has had little opportunity of seeing things; consequently, he mistakes the effects of his imagination for the results of learning, his desire to know for the elements of science, vagueness for tact. In short, he is the living proof that with much cleverness and the germ of talent, a man may make himself unbearable in society by the constant display of small defects calculated to irritate those around him.

‘Just cast your eye in the direction of the Courland princesses, to the Prince de Lichtenstein seated near them, who is as much at home in the drawing-room as on the battle-field. They call him the “monster-prince,” but I can assure you he is an Azor who has captivated many ZÉmires.67 He counts as many successes with the fair sex as mentions in the “orders of the day.”

‘The Duc d’Exerenza, the happy husband of a charming woman, is one of the mortals who, as Figaro has it, “gave themselves the trouble to be born.” All things considered, he is not a “bad sort.”

‘De Gentz is the custodian of all the secrets of Europe, just as in a short time he’ll possess all the orders of it. One of the many voices of that silent being constitutes the Austrian government; what with his manifestoes, his newspapers, and his proclamations, he has, perhaps, been as formidable an opponent to Napoleon as the snow-bound steppes of Russia. The honours and the ribands are, however, not exclusively the things he wants. The sovereigns are also aware of his love of money, and they simply gorge him with it. Overwhelmed with work and business, satiated with pleasure, he has, nevertheless, flung himself into the maËlstrom of society in the hope of finding some excitement which will take him “out of himself.” It is most doubtful whether his road to happiness lies in that direction.

‘Ferdinand de Palfi is as sprightly as a fairy figure: his cousin is a living Pactolus. The first gambles, wins much money, and with his gains has built himself a magnificent mansion, which people call “a house of cards.” He welcomes his friends there with the happy face he wears to-night, and his friends are legion. FranÇois is handsome among the handsome, very lavish with women, who simply worship him. Both, it is no exaggeration to say, are under a lucky star.

‘Prince Paul Esterhazy is kind and affectionate, but somewhat distant in manner. He also has only to let life glide by without taking trouble. Assuredly, he has a unique future before him. I asked Malfati yesterday how Paul’s father, Prince Nicolas, who is no longer young, can keep up with all these gay doings without impairing his health. “It is his happiness that keeps him up,” replied the physician. Happiness considered in that light is, unfortunately, not as yet a medical prescription.’

Just as the baron had finished his portraits, supper was served.

The principal topic of conversation was the imperial carrousel which was to take place the next day. The young Comte de Woyna, who was to be one of the twenty-four knights, gave us all the particulars of the preparations, and was eagerly listened to, for the interest and curiosity of the moment centred there. Even business and pleasure paled before that memorable fÊte, which in itself was to condense all the splendour of the Congress.

The day so much longed for broke at last. The preparations had occupied so many weeks as to leave no doubt about the intentions of the Court to display all the marvels of its pomp and the resources of its wealth. The fÊte was to conjure up all the brilliant and poetical traditions of the past. The last traces of the recreations of ancient chivalry were effaced before the last vestiges of feudalism. Our age, wholly practical in war as in love, no longer lends itself to those ingenious and delightful theories of mediÆvalism. The enthusiasm of the heart, the elevation of thought, and the abnegation of passion have disappeared from our manners and customs, and been replaced by a serious and polished selfishness. One is no longer the chosen knight of this or that fair one. One no longer maintains, lance in hand, the superiority of her charms against all comers; one no longer risks one’s life for a scarf embroidered by her fingers. Love nowadays avoids attracting attention; it is only an accessory of life, and its first care is to wrap itself round as if with some mysterious veil.

The manners and customs of ancient chivalry are, nevertheless, deserving of regret. Love, thus understood and openly professed, was not only the life of the heart but the source of great thoughts and noble passions. It must have been grand to proclaim one’s disinterested courage, one’s contempt of danger, when the sole recompense hoped for was a word or a smile from the woman beloved.

The fair sex especially must regret those changes in our social habits. Ever since the levelling tendency of general civilisation lowered the standard of our feelings, women have lost that ideal empire in which they reigned as sovereigns; they have descended from a throne to be confounded with the crowd. It is not difficult, then, to imagine their interest in the preparations for a fÊte the object of which was to bring back to the mind, and to revive, as it were, the forms and spirit of the age of chivalry.

The Prince de Ligne had presented me with one of the tickets sent to him by the great Marshal Trauttmansdorff. At seven we were on our way together to the Burg.

‘Do not imagine,’ said the prince while we were trundling along, ‘that you are going to witness a combat to the death. It will be neither a pas d’armes [the disputing of a passage by one or several knights], nor, least of all, an appeal to “the judgment of God,” in which the vanquished could only redeem his life by entering a monastery. Those serious contests have been replaced by more graceful and less violent exercises. Our modern redressers of wrongs in their tournaments uphold the incomparable beauty of their lady by the power of their lances in as peaceable a manner as the champions of old defended a thesis at the “Courts of Love.” Hence, we need apprehend no fatal accident like that which put an end to the life of Henri II., and caused the abolition of the lists of the Middle Ages.’

Several officers, under the orders of the grand-master of the ceremonies, the Comte de Wurmbrandt, were ready at the doors to conduct the guests to their seats. General curiosity had reached so high as to lead, it was said, to the forging of tickets, which were sold at an enormous price. In consequence of this the police of Vienna had been compelled to institute the most minute researches. The imperial riding-school, constructed by Charles V., and ever since called the ‘Hall of the Carrousel,’ had been set apart for the function. The structure, the vast interior of which is as spacious as an ordinary church, has the form of a long parallelogram. All around it there runs a circular gallery communicating with the apartments of the palace. Seats for twelve hundred spectators rose in a magnificent sweep of tiers. The gallery was divided into four-and-twenty sections by as many Corinthian columns, against which were hung the scutcheons of the knights with their arms and mottoes.

At each end of the vast arena two stands, occupying the whole length of the building, had been erected. They were draped with the most gorgeous textile stuffs; the one set apart for the sovereigns, empresses, queens, and reigning princes; the other, exactly facing it, intended for the ladies of the twenty-four paladins about to prove that they were the fairest among the fair. Above these stands were the orchestras, in which forgathered all that Vienna could boast in the way of distinguished musicians.

One of the lateral galleries was reserved for the ambassadors, the ministers, and the plenipotentiaries of Europe, for the military celebrities, and for the illustrious foreign families. The Austrian, Hungarian, and Polish nobles occupied the other gallery. Immediately under the imperial stand was the row of rings to be carried away by the competitors at full tilt. Ranged round the arena on pillars were Turkish and Moorish heads with the traditional turban, equally intended to serve as targets for the combatants. No doubt the hatred of the Teuton warriors for their invaders and implacable foes was kept up in days of yore by similar devices. Finally, in order to prevent accidents, the floor of the riding-school was hidden beneath a layer of fine sand, half-a-foot deep. At the door of the hall there was a barrier, marking the entrance to the lists. Behind that door were posted the heralds-of-arms with their trumpets and in gorgeous costumes. Numberless lustres and candelabra holding wax candles shed through this huge interior a light scarcely inferior to that of day.

We were seated between Field-marshal Walmoden and the Prince Philippe de Hesse-Hombourg. Near us was the Prince Nicolas Esterhazy in his uniform of the Hungarian hussars, the magnificent embroidery of which was in itself sufficient to excite the greatest curiosity. The first row of our gallery was occupied by the handsomest and most eminent women of Viennese society: the Princesses Marie Esterhazy, de Wallstein, Jean de Lichtenstein, de Stahremberg, de Colloredo, de Metternich, de Schwartzenberg, the Comtesses Batthyani, de Durkeim, etc. The opposite gallery held the foreign ladies. In the back rows, the ‘highnesses,’ the diplomatic ‘excellencies’ of every country, of every degree of importance, constituted an almost unbroken line of glittering gold and diamonds in their Court dresses and uniforms disappearing beneath their orders and embroideries. A relief was afforded by the red of Cardinal Gonzalvi’s dress; and a little further on by the turban of the Pasha of Widdin, the caftan of Mauroyeny68 and the colpack of Prince Manug, Bey of Murza. These seemed to supply a kind of variant to this incomparable splendour. ‘Just look at Lady Castlereagh, close to the stand of the sovereigns,’ said the Prince de Ligne. ‘She is wearing her husband’s Garter in diamonds as a kind of tiara. That is a little bit of facetious vanity, not contemplated by courteous Edward III. when he picked up the blue ribbon that fastened the stocking of the handsome Alice of Salisbury. Pride, when it wishes to make itself conspicuous, often plays us some scurvy tricks.’

At eight to the minute a blast of trumpets by the heralds announced the arrival of the twenty-four ladies, escorted by their valiant champions. They took their seats in the first row of their stand.

All, in virtue of their grace and beauty, deserved the name of ‘belles d’amour’ that had been given to them. They were the Princesses Paul Esterhazy, Marie de Metternich, the Comtesses de PÉrigord, Rzewuska, Marassi, Sophie Zichy, etc. It is impossible to imagine a more gorgeous and at the same time graceful spectacle. These ladies were divided into four quadrilles, each distinguished by the colour of their dresses, namely, emerald green, crimson, blue, and black. All their dresses were made of velvet, trimmed with priceless lace and sparkling with precious stones.

The whole of their costumes had been copied in the minutest details from those of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The quadrille that had adopted emerald green wore the Hungarian national dress. It consisted of a long open tunic over a petticoat of white satin, fastened from the bust to the knees with diamond pins. Placed at regular intervals, the openings between these pins disclosed the satin, the dazzling white and glimmer of which presented a most delicious contrast to the rich green of the velvet. Other diamond hooks likewise marked openings from the waist to the shoulder. The bodice itself, flat-busted, was covered with valuable gems. A principal wide and floating sleeve of velvet, opening from the shoulder, fell along the arm; beneath was another ample sleeve of white satin, embroidered like the bodice, but in gold and coloured jewels. On their heads they wore velvet toques, entirely covered with precious stones. Finally, a long gossamer veil, picked out with gold, fastened to the head-dress, and descending as far as the feet, enwrapped the wearer in a kind of beautiful haze.

The other quadrilles had chosen respectively the Polish, Austrian, and French costumes of the Louis XIII. period. A glance at them easily induced the belief that all the trinket-caskets of the Austrian monarchy had been ransacked. The ornaments worn on that evening by these two dozen fair ones were estimated at thirty millions of francs. Those of the Princesse Esterhazy, nÉe Tour et Taxis, figured in that estimate for about six millions.

As soon as the ‘love beauties’ had taken their seats, presenting, as it were, a line of angelic faces, all eyes were turned towards them. Motionless, and enveloped in their long, transparent veils, they seemed to await with the utmost calm the moment of their triumph. A second blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the sovereigns. At their entrance everybody rose, the four-and-twenty ladies flung back their veils, and stood forth revealed in all their beauty, and were greeted with unanimous applause, mingled with the acclamations due to the presence of the monarchs.

The Emperor of Austria took his seat in the centre of the stand, with the two empresses by his side; the other sovereigns and reigning princes being placed according to their precedence. The seats, upholstered in velvet, were resplendent with gold and embroidery. The Emperor of Russia, confined to his apartments through indisposition, was not present at this fÊte, but another was given in his honour a few days later, at which the details of the first were reproduced with mathematical precision.

The illustrious guests of the Austrian Court in their most brilliant uniforms, or with their most magnificent ornaments, constituted an imposing sight. In the front row of the imperial stand, to the right and to the left of the empresses, were the Queen of Bavaria, the Duchesse BÉatrice d’Este, the Grande-Duchesse d’Oldenbourg, and her sister, Marie de Weimar; behind them sat the Kings of Prussia, WÜrtemberg, and Denmark; the Princes of Prussia, WÜrtemberg, and Bavaria, the Prince EugÈne de Beauharnais, and finally the Arch-Dukes Charles, Albert, Ferdinand, Maximilien d’Este, Jean, and Regnier.

There had been whispers to the effect that Marie-Louise and her young son would be present at these fÊtes, but they neither came to this one nor to the other. Marie-Louise, in fact, was in such a false position as to have considered it simply consistent with her dignity in misfortune to live in retirement.69 Consequently she rarely left the Palace of SchÖnbrunn. The Prince de Ligne told me, however, that in the company of her father and of her young sisters she had been present at several of the rehearsals.

The sovereigns and the spectators being seated, the building immediately rang with stirring military music, and the twenty-four champions appeared at the barrier. They were the pick of the nobility of Europe. The majority had gained their spurs elsewhere during the recent wars. If all shone in virtue of their personal glory and their illustrious birth, they were not less distinguished by their physical advantages. It was said that there had been rivalry in earnest in pursuit of the honour of filling a rÔle in the scenes imitated from ancient times. Finally the choice, which was tantamount to a patent of elegance and grace, was fixed on the youngest and handsomest. Foremost among them were the Princes Vincent Esterhazy, Antoine Kadziwill, Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg, the Comtes Felix Woyna, Petersen, the Vicomte de Wargemont, the Prince Charles de Lichtenstein, Louis de Schenye, Louis de SchÖnfeldt, and young Trauttmansdorff, the son of the Master of the Horse.

The dresses of these knights had been exactly modelled on those of the reign of FranÇois I., i.e. of the period when ‘chivalry,’ after a last short blaze, was extinguished for ever. Like their fair dames, the knights were divided into four quadrilles, each being marked by the colour adopted by the corresponding feminine quadrille. The dress was composed of a velvet doublet, tight at the waist, with puffed sleeves, and lappets lined with satin. The front of the doublet was fastened with buttons and laces of gold; below this came the close-fitting hose and trunks, with yellow boots reaching to the calves, and provided with gilt spurs. The hands were cased in gloves of a similar colour, embroidered with gold, and ending in gauntlets; while on their heads they wore large hats turned up in front, with the plume of feathers drooping from the side and fastened with a diamond buckle. The swords were suspended from baldricks encrusted with precious stones. Each fair one had presented her knight with an ample band of stuff embroidered in silk and gold. The scarf was tied in a bow at the side of the sword-hand. The knights bestrode Hungarian horses of the rarest beauty, and remarkable for their quickness of movement and their perfect training. Their sleek coats, black as ebony, were almost entirely hidden beneath their rich caparisons. Each knight carried a long lance ‘in rest’ on his knee. Four-and-twenty pages with banners displayed preceded them, while in their wake came an equal number of squires, dressed Spanish fashion, their bucklers inscribed with emblems and mottoes.

The pages and squires drew up in line on each side of the arena. The four-and-twenty knights, two abreast, rode up first to the stand of the sovereigns, and lowered their lances in sign of salutation and obedience before the queens and empresses; the latter graciously responded with a wave of their hands. Retracing their steps, the knights direct their horses to the other stand, and offer similar homage to their ladies, who, however, rise in response, and thus give the spectators an opportunity of judging the beauty of their features, the elegance of their figures, and the richness of their dresses. After riding twice round the arena, all the paladins retire, awaiting a new signal.

The heralds soon sound a joyous blast, which is answered by the musicians in the orchestras. The lists are open, and the different games intended to show the skill and strength of the competitors begin. Six knights, followed by their pages and squires, appear. They begin with the pas de lance (tilting at the ring); the horses are put to the gallop, and each knight, rapidly borne along, removes at the point of his lance one of the rings suspended before the imperial stand. Each quadrille repeats the same movement three times, until the rings have mostly disappeared, and the dexterity of the competitors has been put to a severe test. At the end of this first exercise the lances with the rings carried by each upon them are handed to the squires, and the second game begins. Each champion, armed with a short dart, flings it with consummate skill at the Saracens’ heads, and without slackening his pace picks from the ground, by means of a second curved javelin, the dart he has just flung. After that, drawing their swords, and bent on the necks of their cattle, the knights gallop towards their motionless adversaries, and strike them, endeavouring, however, to cut them down altogether.

Half-a-dozen different games followed, and the whole was wound up by a cleverly simulated combat between the knights—so cleverly simulated that the Prince de Lichtenstein bit the dust, and was carried away unconscious. It was an accident which, but for the cries from the ladies’ stand, would have passed unnoticed, for though the knights endeavoured, as in the jousts of old, to dismount their rivals, certain regulations strictly limiting the bounds of attack and defence had been fixed, and the moment there was the faintest sign of their being exceeded by this or that combatant, the heralds-of-arms interfered, suspended the offender, and a new knight took his place.

The shrieks of the belles d’amour were altogether spontaneous, for they did not imitate their ancestresses, who in the tourneys of old encouraged their champions by their cries to do battle for their renown to the last; the modern dames and damsels confined themselves to the bestowal of expressive looks and sweet smiles. Perhaps these contained as much encouragement as the more noisy demonstrations of approval, although the Prince de Ligne, to judge from his remarks, would have fain seen the fair ones revert to the ancient customs, ‘What delights me above all in these revivals of chivalric practices is the image of valour and skill inspired by love,’ he said. ‘Unquestionably, our ancestors understood the love-passion better than we do. They introduced it into everything—into their games and into their combats. The love-passion in those days must have been a grand and noble feeling; it was the twin-sister of glory. With us, love is only a matter of pleasure. Instead of making it, as of old, an incentive to the dangers of war or to the splendid perils of the lists, our poets and novelists have relegated it to a cottage. But “love in a cottage,” as has been aptly said, “soon becomes a cottage without love.” The modern taste for tournaments,’ he went on, ‘is no new thing. I did not see the jousts organised by the great Catherine at St. Petersburg in the first years of her reign, but I have often been told the particulars. Their most remarkable feature was the active participation of women. They competed as well as the men. The celebrated Marshal MÜnnich70 was principal umpire. The favourite, Gregory Orloff, and his brother Alexis were at the heads of the quadrilles. The first prize for skill and grace was won by the handsome Comtesse Bouturlin, the daughter of the great Chancellor Woronzoff. When handing it to her, the old marshal decided that she should distribute the rest of the wreaths to the dames and knights. It really seemed as if Catherine had exhausted all kinds of pleasure and splendour, but there is, after all, something left.’

While the prince was talking the four-and-twenty knights, this time actively assisted by their pages and squires, executed several difficult evolutions, attesting their skill and perfect horsemanship, and the whole was wound up by a kind of equine set-dance, in which the quadrupeds disputed the palm with their riders. Then the knights made the round of the arena, saluted the sovereigns and their own dames, and disappeared in the same order as they had come.

The sovereigns themselves intimated by rising that the entertainment was at an end, while the knights made their appearance in the stand allotted to their dames, escorting them to the huge rooms of the palace set apart for the ball and the supper. These rooms were filled with flowers, and decorated with exquisite taste; a flood of light as brilliant as the orb of day showed the women in all their resplendent beauty; they and their champions became the centre of general admiration, the sovereigns having resumed the incognito, some of them, by the aid of dominos, disappearing altogether in the crowd.

In the principal room there was a chief table with its service entirely of gold. It stood on a kind of platform a few feet from the ground, and was reserved exclusively for the royal guests of the Congress. To its left there was another table almost equally magnificent, set apart for the princes, the archdukes, the chiefs of reigning houses, and the ministers of the great Powers. To the right there was a third table of forty-eight covers for the actors of the tournament. Around the room and in the adjoining ones smaller tables were spread, at which the guests took their seats without distinction of rank. The perfume of the baskets of flowers, the glitter of the ornaments worn, the brilliancy of the diamonds, mingling with the colours of the floral decorations, and constituting, as it were, ever so many shifting rainbows, the sheen of the golden fruit-baskets—in short, the whole presented the most magnificent sight hitherto witnessed anywhere. The magic of that picture transported the spectator to one of the fairy scenes created by a poetic imagination. During the collation minstrels sang, to the accompaniment of their harps, lays to the beauty of the dames and to the valour of their knights.

At the royal board the Empress of Austria was seated between the Kings of Prussia and Denmark. Emperor Francis had by his side respectively the Empress Elizabeth and the Grande-Duchesse d’Oldenbourg. A little further on was the charming Marie, Duchesse de Weimar, and by her side the Prince Guillaume de Prusse [the future Wilhelm I. King of Prussia and German Emperor]. The ‘immense’ King of WÜrtemberg looks, as usual, pre-occupied. The table, in front of him, has been cut away to accommodate his portly person. A glance at him causes one to speculate upon the potentiality of nature in stretching the human skin. King Frederick of Denmark supplies an instance to the contrary; but his intellect, his never-failing animation, his tact and the rest of his admirable qualities, which would have transformed an ordinary individual into a remarkable man, have made of this monarch a being worshipped by everybody. Excellent Maximilian of Bavaria shows on his open face the genuine expression of satisfaction and kindness. At the table occupied by the paladins, Mme. Edmond de PÉrigord is seated by the young Comte de Trauttmansdorff, her knight. As remarkable for her beauty as for her tasteful dress, she captivates everybody by the charm of her remarks, both animated and clever. The other feminine glories of the tournament vie with each other in keeping the conversational ball rolling. After the banquet a move was made to the ball-room. More than three thousand invitations had been issued. All that Vienna contained in the shape of illustrious personages, whether in virtue of their birth, rank, or functions were there forgathered. No memory could recall so many names celebrated in this or that respect. No pen could adequately describe all those statesmen to whom Europe had confided the interests of her destiny. Here, the Comte de Loevenhielm, M. de Bernstorff, and the Prince d’Hardemberg71 calmly discussing the claim submitted to the Congress by the deposed King Gustavus-Adolphus—a claim supported by Admiral Sir Sidney Smith with more perseverance than success. There, M. de Humboldt, the Duc de Dalberg, the Baron de Wessemberg, familiarly debating the problems connected with Saxony and Poland. Further on, the Commandeur Alvaro Ruffo and M. de Palmella speculating upon the fate reserved for Italy. Still further on, M. de Metternich and M. de Nesselrode in lively conversation with Lord Castlereagh, and, to judge from the seriousness of their faces, not commenting on the joke just perpetrated by the Englishman [Irishman?] in connection with the temporary transformation of the Garter into a tiara. While the fate of Naples, Sweden, and Poland is apparently hanging in the balance, waltzing and dancing are going on, without the least concern about all these questions. The quadrilles had been arranged beforehand. In the centre of the principal ball-room, the quadrilles of the ‘forty-eight’ notable figures formed the chief attraction. The sun had appeared on the horizon before the last guests left the Burg.