Some Original Types at the Congress—M. AÏdÉ—A Witticism of the Prince de Ligne—Mme. Pratazoff—Mr. Foneron—The Old Jew—His Noblesse and his Moral Code—Mr. Raily—His Dinners and his Companions—The Two Dukes—The End of a Gambler—The Sovereigns’ Incognito—Mr. O’Bearn—Ball at the Apollo—Zibin and the King of Prussia—Charles de Rechberg and the King of Bavaria—The Minuet—The King of Denmark—Story of the Bombardment of Copenhagen—The German Lesson.

This unique scene of the Congress seemed a composition of thousands of pictures forming a general view. Each separate actor was a complete novel, and the lives of most of them would have offered material for long poems. As may be easily imagined, extraordinary personalities were not wanting in this motley gathering; their presence did not constitute the least conspicuous singularity.

Among the types not easily forgotten by the visitors to Vienna in 1814–15 stood first and foremost M. AÏdÉ. He was one of those cosmopolitans who make up for the lack of genuine credentials and ascertained pedigree by an overweening amount of assurance. His career was a problem and his fortune an enigma. Born at Smyrna, he came to Vienna years before the Congress and while very young. His Eastern costume and the title of Prince du Liban, which he flourished somewhat ostentatiously about then, attracted some notice. At the time of the Congress he had become more modest; he had discarded both the Mussulman dress and the princely title. He was to be met with everywhere; no drawing-room or reception seemed complete without him. Very amiable and obliging, he apparently belonged to no camp or party, though perfectly at home in every one. It was, nevertheless, noticed that he was a guest at Lord Castlereagh’s more frequently than elsewhere, and it was tacitly admitted that his lordship favoured him for the sake of his private secretary, between whom and M. AÏdÉ there had formerly existed some commercial relations at Smyrna.

The particular mania of M. AÏdÉ was to obtain presentations to any and every one. The moment a new drawing-room was opened, M. AÏdÉ’s fixed idea was to find an introducer to facilitate his admission to it. He often addressed himself to that effect to people with whom he could scarcely claim acquaintance; and it was exceedingly difficult to shake him off. The Prince de Ligne, whose kindness he had often laid under contribution in this way, finally got tired of the thing, and one day, when badgered as usual, he introduced the obstinate Greek in the following words: ‘I present to you a man very much presented and very little presentable.’

The excellent prince often said that he was sorry for what he had done, for the sentence was repeated, and drew still greater attraction to M. AÏdÉ without curing him of his mania. Some years afterwards, while he was travelling in England, the elegant manners he had acquired in his constant intercourse with good society captivated, during his stay at Cheltenham, a young and exceedingly rich girl, whom he married. The uncertainty of his existence seemed, as it were, at an end, when he got involved in a quarrel with the young Marquis of B—— at a ball at Mr. Hope’s. The cause, it was said, was most trifling—an introduction. A duel was the result, and M. AÏdÉ was killed on the spot.

A not less curious individuality, notably for the memories she recalled, was the old Comtesse Pratazoff, the favourite of Catherine II., near whom she had occupied a most intimate if not most important position. In Vienna she was accounted a celebrity. I was indebted for a glimpse of that relic of the past to the Prince de Ligne. ‘Our acquaintance dates from very long ago,’ he said, while taking me to her temporary residence one day. ‘She also belonged to the company during that famous Crimean journey, not because she had any particular functions, but because the empress had got so used to talk to her, especially in the morning and in the evening, as to be unable to dispense with her. Royal favour often springs from nothing more than a mere habit on the part of the sovereign of seeing a certain person near him. In the Comtesse Pratazoff’s case it was, however, something more than that.’

Catherine the Great’s intimate friend had taken up her quarters at the inn. On entering the room I saw, seated on a couch, a voluminous mass filling the whole of its space. To judge from the quantity of jewels she wore, she might have passed muster as an Indian idol. From the top of her head to her waist, she was literally covered with necklets, diadems, bracelets, pendants, brooches, earrings, etc. This jeweller’s shop seemed to me about seventy.

On our entering the apartment, she made an attempt to rise, but fell back into her original position, trying, not, however, without great difficulty, to find room for the prince on the sofa beside her. Having become aware of my presence, she welcomed me with some of those ultra-polished, not to say finical, phrases the whole vocabulary of which was a very open book to the educated Russians of her time. Then the conversation drifted on to the halcyon days of the fÊtes of the Hermitage. The past was dignified and the present vilified. The most curious feature of this hour’s visit was the prince’s seeming oblivion of the thirty years that had passed since that journey to the Crimea, and his persistent effort to treat this enormous dowager as a young and skittish thing, calling her ‘my dear’ and ‘my little girl’; and her absolutely serious acceptance of this kind of flirting by mincing and mouthing in a most ridiculous, though to her evidently natural, manner.

When we left her, I promptly repaired home to inscribe on my notes the portrait of that puppet who had come to show Europe in Vienna the sight of her decrepit old person, her ancient jewels, and her superannuated pretensions.

Another ‘character’ was an Englishman named Foneron. He had been for a long time a banker at Leghorn, and had amassed a great fortune there, after which he migrated to Austria. As humpbacked as Æsop, as careful as the Phrygian, and nevertheless endowed with a sensitive heart, he had strenuously calculated the discomforts of a union with a fair one of any thing like Circassian stature. With admirable foresight, he had looked for and found a young girl with a most charming face, but more deformed than he. He offered his hand, which was accepted, for the girl was poor. The marriage took place secretly, but there were still too many witnesses, for never assuredly was there a more strangely assorted marriage. A host with an excellent wine-cellar and an almost matchless cook is sure to meet with indulgence from every one. Mr. Foneron had both, and in spite of the far from good-natured remarks about himself and his wife, made a point during the Congress of giving the most exquisite dinners. Few strangers admitted to his sumptuous board have forgotten the Friday’s fare, and the classic beefsteaks forming part of it. They might have called Mr. Foneron the cook of the Congress. Amidst that crowd of pretenders and petitioners, he asked for nothing, claimed neither indemnity nor titles, nor orders. His titles and orders were his dinners. His sole ambition might have been to preside at the Beefsteak Club of London.

At one of those receptions I met M. Ank——, a Jew by birth, who did not belie the instinct of his race for gold. He had a great quantity of it, he was literally bursting with it; but his reputation for avarice at least equalled his reputation for wealth. He took it into his head to invite me to breakfast. Curious to verify the proverb to the effect that there is nothing more lavish than a miser, I accepted the invitation. Both the size and the tidiness of the whole of his apartment produced as it were a cold shiver. There was scarcely any fire, few carpets, and some hard-worn furniture. As a kind of penance, no doubt, for the many glorious banquets I had partaken of during the preceding months, he offered me a little dubious black liquid which he called chocolate. When I had courageously swallowed the Lacedemonian broth, he took to showing me his artistic treasures. M. Ank—— was a numismatist; he had one of the richest and most complete collections of medals in Vienna, rivalling that most celebrated one of the Comte Vitzay. After this he showed me some rather good pictures and then a heap of bric-À-brac, collected less for the love of art than from the wish for gain, for he put a madly exaggerated price on all that old rubbish. I had accepted the chocolate, I had drunk it, and I swallowed the rest of the bitter cup. When he had shown me everything, he drew from an iron chest a portfolio full of drafts to order, bills of exchange, and bills at sight. They represented an immense amount of money. ‘These are no family parchments,’ he said, ‘or emblazoned scutcheons, but patents of nobility calculated to blanch the cheeks of the world’s aristocracies, and patents of nobility which shall never derogate. There are neither misalliances nor hereditary stains of gold in that book. Gold, from the day it was first purified by fire, is the only pure genealogy, the only one retaining its pride, the only one whose brightness cannot be dimmed. Find me an aristocracy capable of vying in multiplicity of quarterings and services rendered with that one, and I’ll kneel down and worship.’ And he stroked the bills of exchange, and waved the flimsy bits of paper in the air, to prove to me the enormous total of those patents of nobility of his imagination. ‘With all this,’ he went on, ‘the world is an immense Garden of Eden, where no fruit is forbidden. Whatever the moralists of the school of Seneca may pretend, here you behold the motive of all virtue, and also the motive of all pleasure. I hold the whole of it in this hand without trouble, without confusion, without remorse—the whole of it, from the most sumptuous palace, the most exquisitely appointed carriages, the most exquisitely prepared banquets, to the most divinely beautiful woman.’ Saying which, he strained his ‘bill case’ to his heart with more fervour than the old man hugs his purse in the ‘ScÈne du DÉluge’ of Girodet.

‘I think I have heard enough, M. Ank——,’ I said; ‘you not only make an end of all virtue, but you would justify crime. Why should not a brigand adopt your plea after killing you, by saying that he also wishes to judge whether the reality your gold would procure could not weigh up against all your illusions?’

As may be imagined, I had had enough, and more than enough, of the man, of his breakfast, of his code of morals, and of his bill-book, and I bade him good-bye with the firm intention of never seeing him again.

Another Englishman who at that time contended with Mr. Foneron for the honour of entertaining both strangers and his countrymen was Mr. Raily. Thanks to his enormous expenditure, he was, according to some, soon enabled to beat the exquisite comfort of the family dinners of his rival. Not feeling particularly anxious to swell the number of Mr. Raily’s guests, I had persistently neglected every opportunity of procuring for myself invitations, of which Mr. Raily was not sparing.

‘I wish you to make his acquaintance,’ Griffiths said to me one day: ‘an observer must see everything and study everything. Mr. Raily, as well as several other “characters,” will figure very well in your recollections; at any rate, there will be the merit of variety.’

I let Griffiths have his way, only asking him a few questions on the personage we were going to visit.

‘Mr. Raily,’ answered Griffiths, ‘seems to me one of those mysterious and strange individuals, like the Comte de Saint Germain98 and Cagliostro, who appear to me to live upon everything except their incomes. When you have seen him, I’ll give you a more detailed biography. In all my journeys I have invariably met him living upon a footing either implying the possession of great wealth or the clever means of getting it. The first time I met him was at Lord Cornwallis’s in India; since then I have seen him in Hamburg, in Sweden, in Moscow, in Paris at the period of the Peace of Amiens, when he told me he had just arrived from Spain. And now, he is here in Vienna, where he outshines the most opulent. One is almost tempted to say that he seeks to forget or to hide the origin of his wealth. His dinners are much run after; his guests are of the highest rank, for he seems to set particular store upon their quality and titles. A duke seated at his board fills him with joy, an excellency produces merely a glowing sensation of comfort; but a royal highness produces a kind of feeling no mortal pen can describe. If etiquette permitted their majesties to visit him, Mr. Raily would in a few days be bereft of his reason. You shall judge of it for yourself, for I dare say he’ll invite us, if only from sheer ostentation.’

Mr. Raily had taken up his temporary quarters in the magnificent mansion of the Comte de Rosenberg. He welcomed us with the exaggerated courtesy common to all those who are not affable either by instinct or constant habit. He was very important about his house, the furniture, his horses and carriages and the servants, which provided, as it were, the conversational transition to the dinners, and became a bore to the guests. He enumerated the highnesses and the celebrities that had partaken of his hospitality, or were about to do so, and, as Griffiths had foreseen, wound up by saying:

‘If you do not mind an invitation at such a short notice, gentlemen, I shall be delighted if you’ll dine with me to-day with the hereditary princes of Bavaria and WÜrtemberg, the Grand-Duke of Baden, Admiral Sir Sidney Smith, several ambassadors and chargÉs and other personages of distinction whom you doubtless know.’

Feeling that the gathering would present a piquant picture, Griffiths promptly accepted; and we left the happy master of the house superintending the preparations for his serenissimo banquet. At six o’clock we were once more in the magnificent apartments, and dinner was served shortly after. The table had been laid in a long gallery, at the end of which there was a kind of English sideboard, i.e. a buffet in tiers. The plate, both gold and silver, and the crystal on it attested wealth rather than taste. The host, positively beaming, had the Prince Royal of Bavaria on his right, and the Prince Royal of WÜrtemberg on his left; the rest, highnesses, generals, ministers, etc., took their seats according to their own sweet pleasure. A lucky chance placed me next to Admiral Sidney Smith, and his interesting conversation, ranging over a period of ever so many years, opportunely broke the monotony of the banquet. For though it is difficult to imagine a more sumptuous banquet than that, the hours went wearily, and, in spite of the abundance and the delicacy of the dishes, the aroma of the wines, and the profusion of everything, the guests seemed anxious to come to the end of it all. No one tried to enliven the conversation, or to make it general. The majority of the eminent personages whom curiosity or the importunity of their host had gathered round the table seemed, as it were, more or less embarrassed by their position. As for Mr. Raily himself, he felt convinced that a repast graced almost exclusively by princes, diplomatists, and grand seigneurs must necessarily be one of the finest things the world had to offer. The coffee and ices were served in one of the great drawing-rooms, and, according to a Russian custom, which Mr. Raily had no doubt brought back with him from Moscow, several tables were covered with jewels, precious objects, and trifles from the many lands Mr. Raily had visited. As it happened, the display caused the impression of a bazaar rather than that of a drawing-room of good society. Nor did the music of a well-selected and numerous band succeed in checking the ennui and removing the constraint which had manifestly fallen upon everybody. It was nine o’clock when we rose from the table; at ten all these noble guests had left Mr. Raily’s. In an adjoining drawing-room, the host had put up some whist tables, which kept in countenance those most bored. A small group had gathered round a tall, upright old man, with a pair of bright eyes and a skin as dry as a chip. It was Mr. O’Bearn, who bore the reputation of being the oldest, and was probably still the foremost, gambler in Europe. He had made gaming the occupation of his life, his sole study; he had lived by it, and was still living by it. He was fond of recounting some of his gambling stories, and even his hopeless Irish accent could not rob them of their charm. ‘For many years,’ he said, ‘the Duke of H—— was anxious to pit himself against me. Personally, I was willing enough to give him that little gratification. He chose piquet; we began our game at nine in the evening, and the next morning when the sun streamed through the windows I had gained more gold off his grace than his father had ever gathered during his Governor-Generalship of India. After the last hand, which was for an enormous stake, and which, like the rest, he lost, the duke got up and said: “Mr. O’Bearn, I am afraid the whole of my fortune will not be sufficient to pay you. I’ll send you my steward, he’ll settle with you and hand you the titles to my estates.” “Very well, sir,” I answered, “these are the words of an honourable man. But do not for a moment imagine that I am going to let you ruin yourself in that way. It shall not be said of me that I reduced the bearer of one of our most historic names in the House of Lords to beggary. On the other hand, as I do not wish to have wasted my night, a thing I am not in the habit of doing, I’ll ask you to send for a priest and for a solicitor. Before the priest you shall take an oath never to touch another card in your life; the solicitor shall draw up a settlement giving me a thousand pounds sterling annually for life.” I need scarcely tell you,’ added the old gambler, ‘that my conditions were accepted and strictly carried out. The Duke of H—— has never touched a card since, and for nearly half a century I have been enjoying my income.’

Then the veteran gamester told us another story, not less characteristic. ‘Shortly before the Revolution, I came to Paris, and as usual took up my quarters at the HÔtel d’Angleterre. The play was very high there in those days. On the evening of my arrival, I went to the drawing-room. The tables were set out, and I sat down to one of them. Two gentlemen were playing piquet. The Duc de Gramont, who was then the king of fashion, the type of everything that was elegant and extravagant, took a seat opposite me. He looked very fixedly at me, and then, intentionally or not, he said: “We hear a great deal of Englishmen who risk enormous sums either at cards or betting. Here we never catch sight of them.” I did not answer, and a few moments later the game took an unexpected turn. “I’d bet on monsieur’s hands,” said the duc, pointing to one of the players. “Very well,” I replied, “I’ll take the other side for eight thousand pounds sterling.” “How much, monsieur, did you say?” asked the duc. I repeated the sum in French money, and the duc felt that he could not draw back. “I take the bet,” he said. In another moment I was the winner: the duc rose and came towards me, saying, “Milord——” “My name is Mr. O’Bearn,” I said; “I have no title. What is your pleasure?” “I may not be able to discharge this considerable sum at a moment’s notice.” “Pray do not mention it, your grace, take your own time. But please to remember that when I play, I always have the money handy in my valise.” A little while afterwards, he paid me,’ Mr. O’Bearn went on, ‘and from that moment he was perhaps a little less hasty in giving his opinions about the English. As for me, it has always been a delightful recollection, this deserved lesson to the Duc de Gramont.’

While Mr. O’Bearn was telling us his stories, the tables had gradually become deserted, and now the small group of his listeners took their leave on this or that pretext. We went away endeavouring to attract no notice, asking ourselves how people could take so much trouble and lavish so much money to arrive at a result absolutely nil. Each member of this gathering had appeared to ask himself during and after the dinner: ‘How and why am I here?’

‘Well, have you got the key to the puzzle?’ said Griffiths, as we were leaving the house. ‘This man, whose opulence causes surprise even here, where everything is pomp and splendour and extravagance—this man is simply a gambler. We have still got in England some samples of those characters of the bygone century. After Charles II. left to his people the terrible gambling mania, to be a gamester became, as it were, an avowable profession. You know all that has been said of the youth of the Prince of Wales, of his passion for gambling, which for him had such terrible consequences. The most deplorable effect of this passion was to gather around his royal highness a set of people whose bow it would have taken some courage to acknowledge outside the precincts of Carlton House. It was sufficient to be a gambler, and what they called a magnificent gambler, to have the doors of the royal residence thrown open to you. These gentlemen, after the journeys they made annually through England, much as the magistrates went on circuit each session, as a rule took their flight thence for their European tours. They brought back immense harvests. Mr. Raily and his guest, Mr. O’Bearn, belong to the number.

‘Mr. Raily was born at Bath, that city enjoying the foremost reputation among our celebrities of fashion. Having started life with small means, he modelled himself upon a certain Mr. Nash, his predecessor in that career. That personage, who was called Beau Nash, was for forty years the arbiter of all that was elegant at Bath. His authority in that respect was boundless, and his verdicts without appeal. They finally gave him the sobriquet of ‘the King of Bath.’ In imitation of his master, Mr. Raily posed as the prince of the drawing-rooms and boudoirs. He, however, soon grew weary of more or less romantic love-adventures, and began to cast about for something more profitable. From his native city, he went to the capitals of the United Kingdom and then to those of Europe. He exploited them very cleverly and very luckily. At present, he has just returned from St. Petersburg. He has brought back from it all the gold plate you saw, the profusion of pearls and diamonds which convey the impression of his being a jeweller, and in addition to all this, it is said, a credit of a million of florins at the banker Arnstein’s. All this seems, indeed, most fabulous. Let us trust that there will not be a verification of the old proverb: “He who wants to make a fortune in a month is generally hanged during the first week.”’ Mr. Raily had a somewhat longer shrift than that, because it was fully three years before I met with him again, and then it was in Paris. But all his wealth was gone, and all the brilliant illusions, if ever he fostered any, were replaced by the most sombre reality. When he called upon me, there was no longer the confidence resulting from well-filled pockets, but the saddening humility of an empty stomach. I had scarcely time to question him; he forestalled my queries by telling me that everything was gone.

‘Furniture, plate, diamonds, your infernal “Salon des Étrangers” has swallowed every bit of them,’ he said, and then he gave me a description of the quickly following phases of the life of a gambler. ‘I have exhausted everything,’ he wound up; ‘look at that bracelet, it is made of the hair of my wife; it would have gone the road of the rest, if your pawnbrokers would have condescended to lend me a crown on it.’

‘But, Mr. Raily, why did you not apply to all those celebrities you entertained so right royally at Vienna?’

‘I have written to all; I have not had an answer from any.’

I offered him some pecuniary assistance, and a few years later I learnt that this man whose lavishness had astonished Vienna itself at the period of the Congress, and at whose board royalty had sat, had died of starvation.

Since his gambling adventure I had often seen Z——ki. The disaster and my attempts to minimise the consequences had undoubtedly drawn us closer together. After a dinner at the ‘Empress of Austria,’ he proposed to take me to a ball which had recently been established in a newly-erected, magnificent building, called the Apollo Hall. In a few moments we were on our way thither. Everything projected at that period in Vienna bore the grand stamp worthy of the time and of the guests intended to be honoured. In spite of this, to convey anything like an accurate idea of the beauty of the new establishment would require a writer capable of reproducing some of the chapters of the Arabian Nights, which delighted our youth. The Apollo Hall, the work of M. Moreau, the French architect, is, no doubt one of the most curious constructions of the capital of Austria. The interior, occupying an enormous space, contained sumptuous galleries and halls like those of a palace, and was practically in keeping with the noble and tasteful proportions of the outside. Emerging from these galleries, one came gently upon the rustic arbours of a garden, and from these upon a Turkish kiosk, and further on still upon a Lapland hut. Gravelled walks, bordered by magnificent greensward planted with roses and fragrant plants, lent throughout a most charming variety. In the centre of the huge supper-room, there was an immense rock, whence, from among flowers, there sprang a fall of natural water into basins teeming with various kinds of fish. Every style of architecture had its ordained part in this huge space, and everything calculated to please the eye had been brought to bear upon the enhancing of these styles; such as, for instance, the glint of innumerable candles on thousands of different-coloured crystal sconces. Farther on, the whole became chastened by alabaster lamps shedding their gentle light, and inviting the more reposeful guests. And while without the snow covered the earth, within spring seemed to have come once more, bringing the most delightful scent of its earliest harbingers.

There was already a considerable crowd when we entered; it was said there were between nine and ten thousand persons. I am bound to admit that at no festive gathering during the Congress had I seen a more brilliant, and at the same time a stranger throng; it was a truly unique spectacle, a world in miniature. Gradually, every one seemed to settle down in his wished-for place, and circulation grew more or less easy. The first person whom I caught sight of was Zibin, promenading with the King of Prussia. Zibin was treated in that familiar fashion by his Majesty in virtue of his height. As he happened to be very short, and his Majesty very tall, Zibin’s head came exactly under the king’s arm. In spite of the discomfort of the position, my young courtier seemed to be so thoroughly delighted with it as to have preferred it to one on the most luxurious Eastern divan. Z——ki had left me for some friends he had met immediately after he came in, and who were evidently expecting him. I was looking out for some one to replace him, when I ran up against General Tettenborn and the Prince Philippe de Hesse-Hombourg. I always felt much at home with them. We went the round of the whole place, and afterwards sat down at the entrance of the big ball-room to watch at our ease the new arrivals, comprising nearly all the sovereigns. The latter relished the liberty attached to their incognito, and immeasurably preferred it to the ceremonious etiquette of the Court entertainments of that description. In fact, in all those public gatherings the monarchs dropped their reserve, and seemed practically grateful to those who within certain limits would follow their example.

The King of Bavaria was one of the last arrivals. He was accompanied by his two sons, and his chamberlain, the Comte Charles de Rechberg, was in attendance. The last caught a glimpse of us, and leaving his Majesty for a moment, came towards us. But as his duties did not allow him to keep away for long, he pressed us to sup with him when the king should have retired. Naturally, he used every argument he could think of, and finally gave us a peroration which was, however, cut short by some one pinching his ear. ‘Come along, gadabout,’ said Maximilian Joseph, and as a matter of course, on perceiving him, we rose. ‘Don’t, gentlemen,’ he said in his kindest voice; ‘but wherever I go I have to look after him, while, unless I am mistaken, it’s his duty to look after me.’

Rechberg pleaded our unexpected meeting, and from the tone in which the plea was allowed, it was not difficult to guess the affection subsisting between these two men. Immediately after he had gone, Comte de Witt appeared on the scene. ‘You can be our guide,’ he exclaimed on seeing me. ‘You know all about the place, for you have been here at least an hour.’ We wandered about, talking of his mother’s place in the Ukraine, and finally landed into a kind of Chinese pagoda, where there was a billiard table occupied by the King of Denmark and a chamberlain. Ypsilanti hailed me as we came in, and the king on hearing my name turned round and recognised me at once, although I had not seen him since his accession to the throne. ‘Have you learned German since your departure from Copenhagen?’ he asked me with a smile.

‘No, sire, but I have not forgotten the brief lesson you were good enough to give me.’ The king then inquired with the greatest interest after my family, questioning me as to their whereabouts, and showing by each of his questions that the cultivation of a good memory is one of the foremost requisites of an amiable ruler.

Frederick VI. was a pattern of amiability and frankness combined. He was hail-fellow-well-met with the humblest without ever losing his dignity, and his learning was manifold and solid. He took greater trouble to please people than the most obtrusive courtier. Advancing age had produced no change outwardly. He was then, as he always had been, very slight, with a pale face, a very long nose, and hair almost bordering on white, though in reality fair, which militated against his appearance. It was, in fact, the same figure which some years previously had aroused both my mirth and my fear. But while his features reminded me of a painful circumstance of my life, they also recalled a memorable episode, and an act of generosity and indulgence on his part, both of which will sketch him better than a volume of praise could do.

‘What did you mean by talking to the king about your first German lesson?’ asked the Comte de Witt, when his Majesty had gone. ‘I am not surprised at his recognising you as if he had left you a week ago; as a rule, sovereigns have excellent memories, but what about that German lesson?’

‘The king has just reminded me of a circumstance the story of which would be somewhat long. Allow me to postpone the telling of it until to-morrow.’

After this we went into the great ball-room, where, mingling with the crowd, there were kings, generals, ordinary individuals of the middle class, and statesmen, rubbing shoulders with working men, flirting with little shop-girls, but all seemingly very happy, notably the illustrious personages playing at Almavivas, and evidently more flattered by the preference of some ingenuous Rosinas than by the studied glances of admiration from the most expert Court beauties.

Zibin, who had succeeded in getting his head out of the royal hug of his Majesty of Prussia, soon joined us, and I complimented him upon the particular attention of which he had been the object. In order to swell his pride, and give him the opportunity of having the delicate juxtaposition renewed, I cited some of the recommendations of the Prince de Ligne, our common master. ‘Be moderate in your praise. Kings are no longer caught with words. The only thing to which they are not absolutely proof is a peculiar kind of look of admiration. But that’s all. The sort of praise so lavishly used by Lauzun would not seduce our modern Louis XIV.’ In company with several ‘majesties’ we stood watching some of the worthy knights of Vienna going through the traditional minuet. ‘Who would believe,’ said Zibin, ‘that this dance saw the light in a village? To watch its ponderous monotony no one would imagine that in principle it was exceedingly bright and gay. Introduced to the Court, its sprightliness has been changed into gravity, and now it is sufficiently doleful to make people ill with melancholy.’

‘If that incomparable Prince de Ligne had not been taken away from us, he would recall for us the minuets he danced at the Grand Trianon with the charming Marquise de Coigny,’ said the Comte de Witt.

‘The Prince de Ligne himself voted the minuet a bit of stupid gracefulness,’ replied Zibin.

‘His qualification dated from the period previous to his having danced it himself,’ I remarked. ‘I am inclined to think, with you, that they acquitted themselves somewhat better at it at the Court of France than they do to-day in Vienna. But be assured that the old traditions of stately dances are not lost beyond redemption.’

‘But where is one to look for the traditions?’ was the general cry around me.

‘Well, if it will afford you any pleasure, I shall enable you to judge’; saying which, I took a few steps to the young Princesse de Hesse-Philippstadt, of whom I had just caught sight, accompanied by her mother. ‘Princess,’ I said, walking up to her and holding out my hand, ‘will you do me the honour to convince these gentlemen that the Court minuet is not altogether a lost art?’

The princess accepting, Zibin lent me his hat, and, mindful of the lessons of Abraham, who had been her teacher as well as mine, we went through the figures of that character-dance with a good deal of precision. As for my charming partner, the suppleness and grace of her steps might have tempted another Juan of Austria to come incognito all the way from Brussels to see her perform them, as the original one came all the way to the Louvre for Marguerite de Bourgogne. Our critics were not sparing in their praise, and were obliged to acknowledge that the much-abused minuet was not as yet dethroned.

Meanwhile, the Comte de Rechberg, who was trying to find his supper-guests, had no idea of my upholding in the centre of the principal ball-room the prestige of classic dancing. When I had taken the young princess back to her mother, he, so to speak, dragged us to the supper-room. At the table next to us were the Prince Koslowski, Alfred and Stanislas Potocki, some Russians from Emperor Alexander’s suite, and a little further on, Nostiltz, Borel, Palfi, and the Prince Esterhazy. There were many toasts and many clever sallies, wit sparkled on the lips as champagne sparkled in the glasses.

The two princes of Bavaria supped with us. Chance had placed me near the younger, Prince Charles, who, as a youth, had the most charming face imaginable, although he evidently set little store on this physiognomical advantage, and seemed rather inclined to place his trust in the mental powers with which he was liberally endowed. Thanks to my former stay at Munich, I was enabled to converse with him about men and things interesting to both of us. I reminded him of that terrible disaster of the Isar bridge being carried away by the stream, and in which he himself under my very eyes had played so glorious a part. Then we began talking about Vienna, its pleasures, and the charming women gracing it at that moment, although I knew that there was a girl of sixteen at Munich whose image could not be ousted from the young prince’s heart.

The Prince Royal of Bavaria, the present king, was seated next to his father’s chamberlain. Though he was less handsome and less brilliant than his brother, his knowledge was very profound and varied, and he also cultivated the Muses.99

With such auxiliaries, Rechberg found no difficulty in making his supper-party very lively. Before breaking up, our company was reinforced by the two tables next to us, and the fresh supply of liquor being decidedly in proportion to the number of the recruits, the retreat was not sounded until three in the morning.

Z——ki and I got separated from each other in the crowd. As I was crossing the by no means deserted ball-room, I caught a glimpse of him and of a companion, a tall, slight, and elegant woman. Their conversation seemed most animated. I waved my hand to him from the distance, wishing him all the compensations love is supposed to reserve for unlucky gamblers.

In the morning, the Comte de Witt was true to his appointment. ‘You promised to explain to me,’ he said, ‘the meaning of his Majesty of Denmark’s words about your progress in the German language.’ ‘You know,’ I replied, ‘that often a word, a movement, or a simple inflection of a voice suddenly recalls scenes of our life which had practically vanished from our memory. The past starts up vividly with all its colours; the impressions that had gone to sleep awaken there and then, and their power is such as to give a kind of voluptuous or sensuous delight in retracing the most painful episodes and the most cruel losses. Nay, the very tears caused by these seem sweet. That’s what I felt yesterday.

‘During the course of the French Revolution, my father, or the one who stood me in stead, had constantly refused to emigrate. Proscribed for being guilty of (the wrong) patriotism and devotion, he only managed to save his head from the guillotine by hiding in a friend’s house. When the delirium of blood was over, he considered himself justified in claiming his nationality, which he had never forsaken by abandoning his country. But placed once more on the fatal lists of ÉmigrÉs, pursued by blind and relentless hatred, once more proscribed after 18th Fructidor, he was obliged to fly in order to escape an equally horrible death. We managed to get as far as Hamburg, where we experienced all the privations attached to that kind of voluntary and hurriedly projected exile. Invited by the Comte de Fersen to come to Sweden, we left the Hanseatic city, and made our way on foot across the flats of Holstein to Copenhagen. Our exceedingly restricted resources did not admit of any other mode of travelling.

‘My “father,” at the period of his tenure of the portfolio of Foreign Affairs, had been most intimate with the Comte de Lowendahl in Paris, and he welcomed us with every mark of goodwill. In his former diplomatic relations with Denmark my “father” had been enabled to make himself particularly agreeable to that Court, and on the strength of this he ventured to request from the prince royal some pecuniary assistance, urgently needed in consequence of our precarious position. The comte offered to present me to his royal highness and to second our petition as far as lay in his power. On the day previous to the promised audience, I was strolling by myself in the park of the royal residence, Fredericksborg. At the bend of a path, I suddenly caught sight of a young man dressed in light grey, skipping about rather than walking, carrying an umbrella under one arm, the other being held by a very pretty young woman. The face of the young man seemed so peculiar to me that, my French levity and my schoolboy gaiety getting the better of me, I stopped to contemplate him at my case, and immediately a fit of uncontrollable laughter ringing out loud informed him of the result of my examination. His angry look ought to have told me of his resentment of this impertinent scrutiny on my part, but the angrier he got the more ridiculous his face became to me, and my insolent laughter did not cease until the couple were fairly out of sight.

‘Next morning, on the recommendation of the Comte de Lowendahl, I was to have my audience at the palace. The guards let me pass, and in a little while, crossing a series of resplendent galleries, I reached a velvet curtain giving access to a drawing-room. A page-in-waiting led me into the throne-room, adjoining the private audience-chamber of the prince, and then, my petition in my hand, I waited to be admitted to his royal highness’s presence. In a few moments the doors were thrown open, and a chamberlain called out my name and beckoned me across the threshold. All at once, at the end of the apartment, I beheld, standing upright, the young man I had so grossly insulted the previous day. There could be no mistake about it. It was the same face, the same grey Court dress, but the embroidered star on his breast and his wide blue sash left no doubt about his being the Prince Royal of Denmark. I need not try to depict my feelings to you. Struck with terror, as if I had stepped on a serpent, I recalled both my unseemly laughter and the anger it had aroused. Standing stock-still, and undecided whether I ought to advance or retreat, I was almost expecting immediate punishment for my ill-timed levity of the previous day. I cannot say how long I should have remained in this position, notwithstanding the repeated signals of the chamberlain to draw closer to his highness. Luckily, the young girl to whom the prince had given his arm the previous day, and who was none other than his charming sister, the Princesse d’Augustembourg, just then crossed the room on her way to the inner apartments of her brother. More or less reassured by her angelic face. I practically followed in her footsteps, trusting to make her, as it were, a shield against a stern reprisal, which, in our condition, would have absolutely filled the cup of our misfortunes.

‘Crimson with confusion and with drooping eyes, I tremblingly held out the petition given to me by my “father.” The prince looked fixedly at me and undoubtedly recognised me, but not a muscle of his face testified as much. On the contrary, he attentively read the document, then handing it to his sister he said, “One more victim of that French Revolution.”

‘After that he asked for some particulars about our situation, and equally kindly inquired about our resources and plans. Emboldened by his kind tone, I told him all we had suffered since our departure from France, our painful pilgrimage across Germany, our intention to get to Sweden, and our hope of securing the goodwill of the Comte de Fersen in my “father’s” behalf.

‘The princess had listened with the utmost attention to the recital of our misfortunes. When I came to the description of the journey on foot and to the enumeration of all our privations, the prince asked me, “But, no doubt, you know German?” “Alas, no,” I was obliged to answer, “and that’s what made our travels so terrible.” “Poor child,” said the princess, “you are somewhat too young to have suffered so much, and those dreary roads across our sandy plains must have seemed wellnigh endless to you.”

‘There were tears in her voice as she asked me other questions about my family, my education, and recollections of my country. The prince himself had meanwhile written some words on my petition. “I’ll reply to-morrow to your father,” he said, returning the document to me. “If you will go from here to my ‘privy purse office,’ they’ll give you a hundred golden Fredericks, which will enable you to proceed a little more comfortably.” “And I, monsieur,” added the princess, “I wish you every happiness; but should you fail to find some of it in Sweden, return to Denmark for an asylum, and you will, at any rate, find rest.”

‘The prince called his chamberlain to intimate that the interview was at an end, and told him to take me to his treasury. You may imagine that this lesson of a prince thus avenging himself for the impertinence of a stranger was not lost upon me. Young though I was, I promised myself never to give way again to such exhibitions of offensive hilarity, and I have kept my word.’

‘I can see the lesson in politeness,’ said the Comte de Witt, ‘but I fail to see the lesson in German.’

‘I am coming to it. A few days later, my “father” booked our passage for Stockholm, but contrary winds delayed our departure. In the night of the 2nd April 1802, we were suddenly awakened by the noise of a well-sustained bombardment. Naturally, we all got out of bed and went on deck to make inquiries. The slowly-coming dawn confirmed our uncertainty. The whole of the English fleet, under the command of Admirals Parker and Nelson, and favoured by the wind and tide, had defied the batteries of Kronenburg and forced the passage of the Sound, an enterprise hitherto deemed impossible. The formidable squadron, perfectly visible from the city which it could shatter to pieces, came to summon Denmark to give up her fleet or to dissolve there and then her treaty with Sweden and Russia.

‘Consternation became general among us; it only wanted a sign from the English admiral to capture or to sink us. Nelson scorned such a cheap victory, and during the pourparlers sloops were sent to tug in the merchant craft. A few moments later we were in port, and immediately afterwards the naval engagement began. If the attack was headlong and well-directed, the defence was not less heroic. Every inhabitant rushed to arms to repulse the odious aggression; all ranks commingled; there seemed no difference between noble and artisan, merchant and ordinary burgher. They were full of zeal; their hats displayed the motto: “All for one; one for all.” The royal prince showed the greatest courage during this bloody struggle, a struggle so little expected by him. A descendant in a direct line from the English sovereign, his capital and fleet were suddenly threatened by the orders of his uncle without there having been anything hostile to lead up to this catastrophe. As far as the peace of states is concerned, there does not seem much to be gained by family alliances and ties of blood.

‘It would have been dangerous not to take part in this enthusiastic resistance, and the moment we had regained our inn I asked my “father” to let me have my share of the fighting, to which proposal he offered not the slightest objection. Armed with a sword which might well have dated from the period of King Knut, which had been lent to me by our hostess, I repaired to the jetty. It was from that point I beheld a naval battle in port, the most horrible spectacle, I should say, the imagination could conceive.

‘Never had Denmark been engaged in such a murderous struggle; never, perhaps, had the Danes an occasion to display their national courage more nobly. Ardent and indefatigable, to judge by the enthusiasm that animated them, they might easily have been mistaken for a population of heroes. As for me, standing stock-still at the far end of the jetty, my long sword, which might well have served as a lance, balanced on my shoulder, I felt that I was doing outpost duty. No one seemed surprised. Younger lads than I contended for the honour of being entrusted with such perilous positions.

‘The city was in flames; it rained shells everywhere. The Danish war-sloops answered bravely to the fire of the English vessels. Suddenly a shell struck the Danish craft Indfoedstretten, and blew it up. A horrid, lurid light illuminated the sky, and immediately both the sea and the shore were covered with human and different wreckage, the blood of the former tinging the green waves. Had the explosion occurred a few moments earlier we also should have been victims of it, for while they were towing our Dutch vessel into port, we had been compelled to go on board the Indfoedstretten to have our passports examined.

‘Meanwhile, the fighting became more terrible and relentless, and I, scarcely more than a lad, stood looking on, rooted to the spot and spell-bound, when suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder, addressing me in German at the same time. I looked round and beheld the prince royal, who, in the confusion of the moment, had got separated from his suite. He still had his grey dress on. When he recognised me, he addressed me in French. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I am trying to acquit part of my debt, monseigneur,” I answered. “Very well,” he retorted; “try to get this paper to Captain Albert Turach. Look, follow my finger. He is standing there on the shore, ready to take the command of a floating battery. Run as fast as you can, and remember the word Augenblicklich.”

‘“How did you say it, prince?”’

‘“Augenblicklich. It signifies instanter. You’ll simply tell him the word, and hand him my order.”’

‘I was already on the run. Turach received the order, and flung himself into a skiff whose men were only waiting for a leader to push off. When I came back to my former vantage-point, the prince royal was gone. I noticed him on a floating battery, whence he contemplated the action and animated by his presence and example the proud and generous populace ready to give their lives under his eyes. To me personally, the sight of this young and valiant prince was practically a second expiation of my mocking laughter in the park of Fredericksborg.

‘I need not remind you of the results of that action; the Danes covered themselves with glory, but the slaughter was terrible. More than six thousand men perished in it. The city was burning in ever so many places. Burghers, soldiers, students harnessed themselves to the pumps, carried barrels of water, and unsuccessfully tried to extinguish the flames. Finally, Nelson, to stop the bloodshed, and to prevent the wholesale destruction of Copenhagen, sent a parlementaire to the prince royal.

‘The prince promptly sent his reply, and at once the sanguinary drama, which had the port and the city as its locale, ceased. Nelson came on shore, and repaired to the palace between two lines of an exasperated populace. Calm and proud, he walked along as if he were still on his own battleship. Following in his footsteps, I managed to elbow my way through the crowd, and succeeded in getting inside the private apartments. The prince royal took Nelson to his father, whose mental state, however, prevented him from knowing and from appreciating the disasters of the capital.

‘There was no alternative but to accept the conditions imposed by England. The offensive and defensive treaty between Denmark, Sweden, and Russia was rescinded. The prince royal showed himself as noble and dignified during the conferences as he had shown himself courageous and resourceful during the battle.

‘Since then Frederick has ascended the throne, and though, by the side of the vast kingdoms that have sprung up, Denmark can scarcely claim to be more than a magnificent, lordly domain, enhanced by a royal crown, all these various events have not impaired the excellent prince’s memory. You noticed for yourself how he remembered an apparently frivolous circumstance, but one which remains indelible in my mind.’