The Emperor Alexander, the King of Prussia, and the Naval Officer—Surprise to the Empress of Russia—More FÊtes—A Ball at M. de Stackelberg’s—Paul Kisseleff—Brozin—FÊte offered by M. de Metternich—The Ball-room Catches Fire—FÊtes and Banquet at the Court—Ompteda—Chronicle of the Congress—The Tell-tale Perfume—Recollection of Empress Josephine and Madame de Tallien—A Romantic Court Story.

One morning the Comte de Witt burst into my rooms holding his sides with laughter. He scarcely waited for me to ask him the reason.

‘It’s a story just told to me by Ouwaroff. It’s very funny, but though he got it direct from Emperor Alexander, it is scarcely credible. A protÉgÉ of the Comte de Nesselrode, a young sailor, who, curiously enough, had never been to St. Petersburg and did not know the emperor, had been sent with important despatches to Vienna. Alexander, here as well as in his capital, loves to wander about the streets. This morning his Majesty, dressed in a simple military great-coat, on leaving the palace caught sight of a young naval officer, booted and spurred, apparently trying to find his way, and examining the entrance of the imperial residence, totally at a loss how to set his helm. “You seem to be looking for something,” said the emperor. “That’s true,” answered the sailor. “I have got a despatch to remit personally to the Emperor of Russia. They told me to go to the Burg, and here I am; but as I am a stranger in Vienna, I haven’t got a soul either to guide or to introduce me.” Alexander was delighted with the frank and open face of the young fellow, and just for the fun of the thing thought he would keep up his incognito a little longer. “You’ll not find the emperor now,” he said. “He’s not at the palace, but at two o’clock he is sure to receive you.” The conversation went on in the same amicable and familiar tone for several minutes, the czar interrogating the officer on his family, his career, and his prospects. The young fellow tells him that, having entered the service when he was very young, he has never been to Court and has never seen his sovereign. Finally, after half an hour’s walking about in conversation, Alexander, turning to the young salt, says in an affectionate tone, “You can give me your letter, sir, I am Alexander.” “That’s a clever joke,” replies the other, laughing, “but you don’t expect me to believe it.” “You may believe it or not, but I am the Emperor of Russia.” “I dare say—just as I am the Emperor of China.” “Why shouldn’t you be the Emperor of China?” Alexander, getting thoroughly amused with an adventure which promises to become very comic, makes up his mind to continue it a little longer. In a short time they reach the fortifications, and Alexander espies the King of Prussia coming towards him. “Do you know German?” he asks of his companion. “Not a word,” replies the other. Immediately Alexander takes a few steps in front of him, and says a couple of words in German to Frederick-William, then he comes back to the young sailor, and takes him by the hand. “Here’s an excellent opportunity of presenting you to the King of Prussia,” he remarks. “Sire, an officer of my fleet, whom I have the honour to present to your Majesty.” “We are getting on rapidly,” says the young fellow. “This gentleman is the King of Prussia, you are the Emperor of Russia, and I am the Emperor of China. Three sovereigns. After all, why not, seeing that my captain says that after God he is king on board his ship? Oh, by the by, how are things in Prussia? Everybody all right in Berlin? In truth that was a hero, and no mistake, your predecessor, the great Frederick. Just like your ancestor, Peter the First, of glorious memory,” he said, bowing to Alexander. “But great though they may have been, I doubt whether they would have imitated my grandfather, who at the battle of TchesmÈ blew up his vessel and himself rather than surrender to the Turks.”

‘Although the talk savoured somewhat of insolence, it was delivered by the sailor with that frankness and gaiety which seem almost inseparable from his profession. Not only were the two sovereigns unoffended, but their laughter showed that they were highly amused at it.

‘Meanwhile, they had arrived at a little drinking-shop. The officer most politely invited his companions to sit down and to continue the conversation glass in hand. Yielding to the fascination of the moment, the two sovereigns accepted. Refreshments were served. They sat down, and clinked glasses familiarly, continuing their conversation without the slightest restraint, and absolutely with the abandon of a royal freak, in such a place. “To your health, brother,” says Wilhelm of Prussia to Alexander of Russia. “‘Pon my word,” is the latter’s answer, “it only wants the usual salute from the batteries of our capitals to complete the ceremony of that toast.” “So be it, then,” says the sailor, taking hold of his pistol, and preparing to load it. He was going to fire, and thus draw a crowd, which would have transformed a comic adventure into a scandal. They had a great deal of trouble to prevent the danger of such a noisy demonstration. Finally, they leave the place, but the sailor obstinately insists on paying the expenses, and they are bound to give in. At last they get outside the tavern.

‘Scarcely have they advanced a few steps on the ramparts, when the crowd begins to surround the two monarchs, with their accustomed marks of deference. M. de Richelieu advances hat in hand, and addresses Alexander as “your Majesty.” The young officer, who had served under the Duke of Odessa, recognises him at once. He goes very pale and confused, for he begins clearly to perceive that he has been the victim of a royal mystification. He is, however, soon reassured by the kindly look of Alexander, and he promptly remits his despatches to him. The emperor takes them with a gracious and significant smile, and with the most kindly gesture dismisses the young sailor, after having given him an invitation to dine for that day. One thing is very certain—this bit of royal pastime will push the other a great deal further than twenty years of service, or the most signal action on board his ship. He will have no need to go and seek his recompense in heaven by the aid of a barrel of gunpowder.

‘But while our kings amuse themselves,’ the general went on, ‘the empresses and queens refuse to remain behind. You know that to-day is the birthday of the Empress of Russia? Now, it has been written that all the birthdays and all the holidays of the calendar should be converted into opportunities for pleasure; and pleasure seems to take good care that none shall be overlooked. Yesterday morning the Empress of Austria, the Grandes-Duchesses d’Oldenbourg and Saxe-Weimar, dressed out in the strangest manner, requested an audience, under assumed names, of the Empress Elizabeth. After a little hesitation, there was a mutual recognition, a great deal of laughter, a great many magnificent presents were offered, and, like the surprise, were accepted with the utmost grace.’

‘The Prince de Ligne, my dear general, in talking of all those sovereigns, who appeared to be so thoroughly intoxicated with pleasure, called them “kings on their holidays.” In truth, seeing them play pranks like children, we might call them “schoolboys on their holidays.”’

The comte was anxious that I should accompany him that evening to a grand ball at M. de Stackelberg’s, the Russian Ambassador, in honour of his sovereign’s birthday. I promised to do so, as it was said that this was to be the last Russian fÊte; for according to rumour the whole of the business of the Congress would be finished before the carnival. Several sovereigns were already thinking of leaving Vienna, and Lord Castlereagh was called to London by the opening of the English Parliament.

Although similar rumours had run almost from the very outset of the Congress, this time they were invested with a kind of probability. Four months had gone by since pleasure had thrown open to the representatives of Europe the doors of the sanctuary in which her fate was going to be decided. Peace, and a durable equilibrium, would most likely be the result of this long gestation. There remains nothing to be said of M. de Stackelberg’s ball which has not been said of any of the others. It really seemed as if the representatives of the great Powers were determined upon a contest in good taste and magnificence.

One of the first persons I noticed in this dazzling crowd was General Ouwaroff, standing stock-still and rigid according to his habit. He wore on his finger that mysterious ring, which never quitted him, and on which a death’s head was engraved. Was it a reminder of the death of the Princesse S——, who had poisoned herself for love of him? I have never been able to discover. Close to him were Colonel Brozin and the Comte Paul Kisseleff, both aides-de-camp of Emperor Alexander. The first, a handsome and brave soldier, had later on the dangerous honour of succeeding his master in the heart of La Belle Narischkine, for it was only given to Louis XIV. to be beloved by a La ValliÈre, by a woman who gave herself to God when she ceased to belong to her king. The second, a soldier of the highest distinction, has since then won for himself a well-deserved reputation as an administrator of Wallachia and Moldavia. He at once evoked one’s sympathy for his intrepid and brilliant character. Enthusiastic for everything which was grand and noble, he had really a god-like reverence for Alexander, whom he loved as a benefactor, and whom he cherished in consequence of the natural attraction which attaches two souls apt to understand each other. General Paul Kisseleff has married since the eldest daughter of the celebrated Sophie Potocka. He is entrusted to-day with one of the most important portfolios of the Russian empire.

Here was the Prince Dolgorouki, the son of that handsome Princesse Dolgorouki, to please whom Potemkin had the fortress of Oczakoff shelled for a whole night. He was surrounded by a numerous circle, among whom one might easily distinguish the Princes Gagarin and TroubastkÖy; the aide-de-camp Pankratieff, etc.

A little further on, Talleyrand is calmly conversing with MM. de Wintzingerode and d’Hardemberg. Amidst the noise and the animation of all this pleasure his impassive features preserve the same calm visible thereon in the Congress-room.

Many waltzes and polonaises had been danced when they asked the Princesse B—— to dance the tarantella, that pretty Neapolitan dance which, in her infancy, her young companions of the Parthenope danced with her under the beauteous sky where she was born. Acquiescing in a general wish, she placed herself in the middle of the ball-room, made one or two graceful bows, then seizing a tambourine, gave the signal for the music to begin; and then performed those voluptuous, light, and animated movements so thoroughly in harmony with the air of Naples.

Very often, when my recollections brought me back to those fÊtes in which I have seen the Russian nobility at St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Vienna display so much wealth and elegance, I have been reminded of what my friend Count Tolstoy told me about the difficulties of Peter the First to make his Boyards amuse themselves in a European fashion. The opposition was so violent that he could only get the better of it by publishing a long regulation, and whosoever deviated from it exposed himself to the most severe punishments. Although his inflexible will had decided that those fÊtes should have a European character, they were too near to barbaric times not to be tainted with their spirit. It was to the sound of the drum that the Court balls were announced in the city. The ladies repaired to them at five o’clock in the evening. They had to be dressed in the fashion prevailing in the Courts of Europe. Only the empress, who was a Narischkine, was exempt from the general law, and permitted to keep to the dress of the Russian ladies. Peter, who never tried to avoid the orders he imposed on others, stood sentry at the door of the palace, a partisan in his hand. Thus did Louis XIV. stand guard at the door of the St. Cyr Theatre on the occasion of the performances of Esther. The grandes-duchesses offered refreshments to the guests: French wines, hydromel, and strong beer. At the entrance door, facing the emperor, stood a chamberlain, holding two urns containing a great many numbered tickets. Each cavalier and each lady, on entering the ball-room, drew one, and willy-nilly found him- or herself associated with the corresponding number, as in days gone by the athletes of the pugilistic exercises in the Olympic Games. The masked balls were still more extraordinary. Disguise was resorted to by way of the most curious costumes, and the rejoicing and the dances were in harmony with the costumes.

Only a very few years went by, and the tactics of the illustrious reformer began to bear ample fruit. Under Catherine I. and under Elizabeth, pleasure followed the same direction as Russian influence and power. The latter princess was especially fond of masked balls. She gave a magnificent one on each New Year’s Day. The ladies were bound to appear as men, and the men as women. The Empress, who looked very well in male attire, was particularly fond of that disguise. Then came the reign of Catherine II. which seemed fated to exhaust all kind of glories and pleasures. Apart from her magnificent carousals, one is reminded of her receptions and balls at TzarskoË-Selo, and of the fÊtes of Potemkin in the Palace of the Taurus. Beyond these, imagination cannot go. Finally, during the first years of this century, and at the period of the Congress of Vienna, there was no nation which understood pleasure better than the Russians, and stamped that pleasure with such extreme politeness and grandeur.

Consequently, each day saw a new fÊte succeed to that of yesterday, without this continuation appearing to bring satiety. While M. de Stackelberg celebrated the birthday of his sovereign, Emperor Francis invited for the same purpose the crowned heads, the princes, and the other political or military notabilities in one of the great halls of the imperial residence. A splendid dinner had preceded the concert. Two days before, the Prince de Metternich had also given a great ball at which the majority of the guests of the Austrian Court had been present. It has just struck me that I am nearing the end of my course, and that as yet I have not spoken of one of the most conspicuous personages of our epoch. Almost everybody has tried to portray M. de Metternich. Like M. de Talleyrand, he has had all the honours of history bestowed upon him during his lifetime, but although his portrait has been traced more than once by more skilful hands than mine, I cannot resist the desire to show him as I was enabled to judge him—behind the glamour of power and political reserve in which he has lived since his youth. At that period M. de Metternich might still pass muster as a young man. His features were perfectly regular and handsome, his smile was full of graciousness, his face expressed both benevolence and the most delicate intelligence. He was of average height, and of elegant proportions. Both his gait and demeanour were marked by much nobleness. It is, above all, from the handsome design of Isabey, representing the plenipotentiaries at the Congress, that one may gain a more or less exact idea of all those outward advantages of which he himself was by no means insensible. At the first glance, one felt delighted at seeing one of those men to whom nature had vouchsafed her most seductive gifts, and whom nature, as a rule, seems to take a delight in calling only to the frivolous successes of a society life. It was when attentively scanning his physiognomy, at once supple and firm, and carefully scrutinising Metternich’s looks, that the superiority of his political genius at once became manifest to even the superficial observer. ‘The society man’ disappeared, and there remained nothing but the statesman, accustomed to rule men and to decide important affairs. Mixed up for twenty-five years with the gigantic commotions that disturbed Europe, M. de Metternich showed the lofty aptitude of his mind, and that rare penetration and sagacity which can foresee and direct events. His decision, the result of long meditation, was immovable. His words were incisive, as they ought to be from the lips of a statesman sure of the drift of everything he says. I may add to this that M. de Metternich is one of the most charming story-tellers of our epoch. In politics he has been reproached with his subserviency to the Law of Immobility; certainly a lofty mind like his understood well enough that it is impossible for man to remain stationary, and that, in our age, to remain stationary would be tantamount to retrogression. But he also knew that sudden shocks do not constitute progress, and that, in the government of man one ought to take count of their habits and of their real wants. If it be true that the moment has not yet come to judge M. de Metternich definitely, contemporary history will be bound to admit the calm and cloudless happiness which his immobile and silent government has succeeded in imparting to the hereditary states of Austria. That happiness, which seems to suffice them, is already a title of glory one cannot easily deny.

The fÊtes of M. de Metternich during the Congress bore a peculiar stamp, altogether in harmony with his personality, if one may express it in that way. To the most thoroughly experienced lavishness, to an extreme minuteness of detail, there was added a grandeur absolutely without embarrassment. It was towards the end of January that this fÊte took place. The locale chosen was M. de Metternich’s country estate, a short distance from Vienna. Though the cold was excessive, the number of guests was immense, and, as usual, comprised all the illustrious personages of Europe and the handsomest women of the moment. The prince and princess discharged their social duties with a certain coquettish grace—a grace which tends to disappear now that people believe they have done everything by throwing open their drawing-rooms. Truly, watching this illustrious host, and the pains he took to please his guests, one could but remember how, at the beginning of his career in Paris, he had shone by the brilliancy of his manners. And, though his position had become immeasurably greater since then, it had made no difference to a courtesy which must always be a powerful auxiliary in the hands of such a man. A magnificent ball-room had been constructed for that fÊte in the garden itself, and had been decorated with all the pomp and lavishness that had really become a matter of course. The stands were tenanted by women dazzling in youth and elegance, who vied with the masses of colour supplied by the uniforms, decorations, and embroideries occupying the middle of the floor.

Next morning an alarming rumour spread that this elegant ball-room had been partially ruined during the night by a fire. Vienna is quite as prolific in superstitious people as other places, and the untoward event served as a text for several prophecies. They recalled the accidents that had marked the marriage of Louis XVI.; they recalled the fire at the mansion of the Prince de Schwartzenberg at Paris at the moment of the union of Napoleon with the daughter of the CÆsars—a sad analogy with the fates occasioned by his fall in the capital of his father-in-law, and not far distant from the place of exile of his wife and his son. The high position of M. de Metternich in the debates of Europe; the presidency which his colleagues had spontaneously and simultaneously conferred upon him—all this was calculated to give still greater consistency to all those lugubrious conjectures.

A few days later, without taking the slightest notice of any of the predictions of the Viennese Nostradamuses, the Austrian Court joyfully celebrated the birthday of the King of Denmark, of the Queen of Bavaria, of the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and of the Grand-Duke of Baden, all happening on the same day. A grand state-fÊte, to which the public were admitted as spectators, united all the crowned heads. I followed the crowd, anxious to witness a sight which was not likely to renew itself within my days. It was in reality something very important, that banquet, both by the number and rank of its guests.

‘Sire,’ ‘your majesty,’ might be heard at each corner of every table; royal highnesses, imperial highnesses, grand dukes, dukes, etc., were practically speaking, so many small-fry. If one added to all this the rank of the officers in attendance, equerries, cup-bearers, pantlers, most of these holding high rank; if one still further adds thousands of wax candles, causing the crystals to glint and to sparkle, and reflecting their light in the massive gold plate; if we still add the perfume of flowers mingling with the harmony of the instruments, the sweet familiarity, the intimacy of those masters of the world tempering the majesty of their gathering—if we consider all this, it will be admitted that the spectacle was likely to remain a unique one.

It was during these gala-fÊtes that they served those famous Tokay wines, the exorbitant price of which is estimated at between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and fifty florins a bottle. The emperor had some in his cellars which was more than a century old; the precious nectar was only brought forth on solemn occasions, when it was necessary to drink the health of this or that sovereign, or to celebrate this or that grand anniversary. Chance had placed me not far away from the Baron Ompteda. We left together to go to the theatre of the Carinthian Gate. The main attraction was Flore et ZÉphire, a ballet performed by the dancers of the Paris OpÉra. The house was full, as usual. Indifferent to the entrechats and the pirouettes, I strolled about with Ompteda, pretty well certain that, if he were in the mood, I should soon be posted in all the particulars of the Congress, no one being more capable than he of attractively dishing up both the news of the Graben and of the drawing-rooms.

‘What is the news?’ I asked of my sprightly companion.

‘Everything is over or nearly over. All the clouds are dispersed. Europe owes the happy issue of the negotiations to the departure of Lord Castlereagh.’

‘Was Milord, then, the only obstacle to peace?’

‘No, you are wrong. It is not that. For the last four months they have been debating without coming to an agreement. All at once Lord Castlereagh is called to England for the opening of Parliament. You may easily conceive that he couldn’t return empty-handed; consequently he put some life into the deliberations, and hurried the conclusion of affairs, in order to show some results. What a pity it is the other nations haven’t some parliaments to be opened!

‘The Austrian Court is right enough,’ the Baron went on. ‘The European Areopagus has decided upon the fate of Naples and its imprisoned King Joachim. Its throne is going to be restored to the Bourbon branch. You are aware that the Imperial Chancellery decided not to notify officially the death of Queen Caroline, not knowing what title to give her. That bit of awkwardness has disappeared too.’

‘Yes, I remember that they took hold of a very honest pretext. The Court, it was said, would not cast a damper on the fÊtes of the Congress by shedding official tears for the daughter of Maria-Theresa. In reality, the Court did not dare, or did not want, to decide the question of etiquette reserved for diplomacy, and now they are going to assume mourning for the poor queen at the moment when it would be more sensible to sing a Te Deum for the return of her husband to the throne of his fathers.’

‘One of your influential diplomatists here has a sweet trick of his own to get news from Paris to Vienna for the purpose of dishing it up in a peculiar fashion. He sends to his wife, Madame la Duchesse, the draught of a despatch. The docile secretary transcribes it, and a week after the carrier brings it back. Then they show, under the seal of the greatest confidence, notes from the Court of the Tuileries which have neither been dictated nor put in cypher there. In reality, they might save them the jolting of the journey.

‘Oh, by the by, have you heard of the duel which has just been fought between the Prince de ——, and the Comte ——?’

‘Yes, I have heard that the two champions were both wounded, but were so little hurt that their friends are not in the least uneasy.’

‘The Vienna public,’ remarked Ompteda, ‘would indeed be surprised if it knew the cause of the quarrel. The wife of one of these gentlemen has an unfortunate mania for scents, or rather for one scent of which she claims to be the inventor. It’s a mixture of rose-water and musk, sufficiently strong to set all the Italian women troubled with vapours running. Inasmuch as the lady, who is still very good-looking, though by no means in the first flush of youth, goes out a great deal, that undesirable perfume is so well known that she couldn’t enter a room without her presence being betrayed by it. It so happened that one fine morning her husband, the Prince —— walks into the rooms of his friend the Comte ——. In less than a second his nostrils are assailed by a scent which he knows but too well, and he exclaims, “My wife has been here.” “Your wife,” replies the comte. “Not at all.” “You deny it! Well, then, she is still here, and if I begin to look for her, the scent will do the rest for me very shortly.” In consequence of this violent explanation, in which the one denies and the other affirms, the two friends draw their swords in the room itself, and while each wounds the other, the lady escapes by a back staircase. The mishap ought to have cured her. She continues, nevertheless, to drench herself with that damnable perfume, which might well be called the Tell-tale Scent.’

‘People are very sorry about the accident which cost the young Duc Louis d’Aremberg his life. You know that he was thrown from his horse on the flagstones of the Josef Platz, and when they lifted him up he was dead. It appears that birth is no guarantee against the thunders of the gods. The father of the young duke lost his life out hunting. His mother was guillotined in France. His brother was exiled in consequence of a duel in which he killed his adversary; his sister perished in the historic ball given by Prince Schwartzenberg in Paris. Was it worth while to call oneself d’Aremberg to be a prey to all these misfortunes?’ ‘You were not at the last ball of Gey-MÜller, the banker?’

‘No, but I was at the similar fÊte at Arnstein’s, and it was really a curious sight to me to see the financial world rivalling the Austrian Court in display, and perhaps surpassing it.’

‘The most particular feature of the Gey-MÜller ball was not so much its profusion, its elegance, its exquisite supper, as a fall—not the fall of an empire, to which people are pretty well used by now—but the fall of the handsome Madame Pereyra, the daughter of Baron Arnstein. She was waltzing with Prince Dietrichstein. Carried away by the rapidity of that Russian waltz, which is like a whirlwind, and getting caught in the folds of her dress, she fell with her partner, and both rolled amidst the crowd. You may imagine their confusion. Truly, princes with the name of Maurice seem to be pursued by a kind of fatality. At the imperial carrousel you saw Maurice Lichtenstein flung into the middle of the arena with his horse, and now there is this other Maurice who gyrates on his back instead of turning round on his legs. However, there is no accounting for taste.’

‘Don’t joke about it, dear baron, for you are unwittingly stoning me. A similar adventure happened to me in the Salon des Étrangers at Paris. Fortunately, my pretty partner was masked, which saved her the trouble of blushing. I, moreover, owed to this fall the overhearing of a conversation which, at that period, had all the interest of a scene from a drama.

‘It was during the first years of the Consulate. The best society of Europe flocked to Paris. France, probably anxious to get as much joy out of life as she could after the bloody scenes of the Revolution, seemed to do everything to forget. The rooms at Frascati were the resort, or rather the temple, of pleasure. In one part of the building people of every rank and of both sexes came to risk, under the disguise of a domino, the fruits of twenty years’ work, or the product of more ingenious speculations. In another spot, screened by a slight surface of cardboard and a silk wrap, the most piquant, political, or amorous intrigues went on. Further on, quadrilles, in which figured Vestris, Bigottini, and MilliÈre, displayed all their grace and suppleness. I was waltzing with Madame R——. The crowd surrounding us was immense. Getting caught in the folds of her domino, my partner stumbles, falls, and bears me down with her. We were immediately on our legs again, but, somewhat excited by the accident, Madame R—— asked me to take her outside the room. Fortunately for us, we ran against the Marquis de l’Ivry, who had us taken to his own apartments higher up. The purer air and some stimulant soon got the better of the discomfort of Madame R——. We were just getting ready to go down to the ball-room again when we heard a lively conversation in the adjacent apartment. Beaumarchais has said that in order to hear, you must make up your mind to listen. Persuaded that it was nothing but a ball intrigue, we got nearer to the partition, and through its very thin substance we distinguished two female voices. We were about to draw back disappointed, when the name of Bonaparte struck our ear. That name, the talisman of the period, having attracted our attention once more, we heard one of the ladies say—“I give you my word, my dear Teresina, that I have done everything friendship could expect of me, but that it’s all in vain. This morning I made a new attempt, but he will not listen to anything. In fact, I have been asking myself what could have prejudiced him so strongly against you. You are the only woman whose name he has struck off the list of those admitted to my familiar intercourse. Being afraid of his affronting you personally—a thing for which I would never console myself—I ventured to come here alone with my son. At the ChÂteau they think I am in bed, but I wanted to see you to quiet your own mind, and to justify myself.”

‘“I have never doubted either your heart or your affection, Josephine,” replied the other lady. “Their loss would be a thousand times more painful to me than Bonaparte’s prejudices. My conduct has been sufficiently dignified to make my visits appreciated, and certainly I shall pay you none without his knowledge. But does he not remember that the first step of Tallien after the 10th Thermidor was to open for us the cell where we were both awaiting our death sentence? Can he forget that the man whose name I bear provided for your children throughout your captivity? Those children—his own now—were, without doubt, not consulted before he forbade you my company. He was not Consul when I shared with you—but pardon me, Josephine, O, forgive me!”

‘Here there was a burst of sobs, preventing me hearing every word.

‘“Calm yourself, my dear Teresina. Let us allow the first storm to go by, and everything will turn out for the best. But above all, don’t let us irritate him still further. He is very incensed with Ouvrard, and people say he is at your house, or expected.”

‘“Oh!” replied Teresina, indignant, “is that it? Does he pretend to tyrannise over our hearths because he happens to govern France? Must one sacrifice even one’s dearest and closest affections?”

‘As she spoke these words there was a knock at the door. It was EugÈne de Beauharnais, who came to fetch one of these ladies.

‘“Let us go,” he said. “You have been here more than an hour. The Council is perhaps finished, and what would the First Consul say if he failed to find you at home?”

‘We stole away on tiptoe, Madame R—— and I.

‘“Let’s leave the ball,” I said, going down. “Whatever we may see there is not worth what we have just heard.”

‘One of these ladies was Josephine, she who in a short time was to be Empress. The other was Madame Tallien, as famous for her striking beauty as for her energetic character; to whom France owed the overthrow of Robespierre.’