What manner of man was D’Orsay at this period of his life, when he was treading so gaily the primrose way of pleasure as a man about London town? What were his claims to the reputation he gained as a dandy and a wit? How did he appear to his contemporaries?

That he was generally liked and by many looked on with something approaching to affection there is ample evidence to prove. Was ever a social sinner so beloved? Was dandy ever so trusted?

He was strikingly handsome in face and figure, of that his portraits assure us. One enthusiast tells us: “He was incomparably the handsomest man of his time … uniting to a figure scarcely inferior in the perfection of its form to that of Apollo, a head and face that blended the grace and dignity of the Antinous with the beaming intellect of the younger Bacchus, and the almost feminine softness and beauty of the Ganymede.”

He was an adept in the mysteries of the toilet, as careful of his complexion as a professional belle; revelling in perfumed baths; equipped with an enormous dressing-case fitted in gold, as became the prince of dandies, which he carried everywhere, though it took two men to lift it.

As to clothes, he led the fashion by the nose, and led it whithersoever he wished. He indulged in extravagances, which he knew his reputation and his figure could carry off, and then laughed to see his satellites and toadies making themselves ridiculous by adopting them. His tailor, Herr Stultz, is reported to have proudly described himself as “Tailor to M. le Comte d’Orsay,” full well knowing that the recommendation of mere royalty could carry no such weight. Where D’Orsay led the way all men of fashion must follow. Indeed, it was said that D’Orsay was fully aware of the value of his patronage, and that he expected his tailors to express substantial gratitude for it. When clothes arrived at Seamore Place, in the most mysterious manner banknotes had found their way into their pockets. Once when this accident had not happened, D’Orsay bade his valet return the garment with the message that “the lining of the pockets had been forgotten.”

The ordinary man, as regards his costume, takes care about the main points and permits the details to take care of themselves. Not so your true dandy. Thus we find D’Orsay writing to Banker Moritz Feist at Frankfort: “Will you send me a dozen pair of gloves colour ‘feuille-morte,’ such as they have on sale at the Tyrolean glove shops? They ought to fit your hand (that’s a compliment!), and (this is a fib!) I’ll send along the cash.”

D’Orsay was sometimes quite unkind when friends spoke to him on the subject of some new garment he was sporting.

Gronow meeting D’Orsay one day arrayed in a vest of supreme originality, exclaimed: “My dear Count, you really must give me that waistcoat.”

“Wiz pleasure, Nogrow,”—the Count’s comical misrendering of Gronow’s name—“but what shall you do wiz him? Aha! he shall make you an dressing-gown.”

What the Count could carry off would have extinguished the less-distinguished Gronow.

In Hyde Park, at the happy hour when all “the world” assembled there, some driving, some riding, some strolling, some leaning on the railings and quizzing the passers-by, D’Orsay was to be seen in all his glory. An afternoon lounge in the Park was as delightful then as it is nowadays.

To quote Patmore:—

“See! what is this vision of the age of chivalry, that comes careering towards us on horseback, in the form of a stately cavalier, than whom nothing has been witnessed in modern times more noble in air and bearing, more splendid in person, more distinguÉ in dress, more consummate in equestrian skill, more radiant in intellectual expression, and altogether more worthy and fitting to represent one of those knights of the olden time, who warred for truth and beauty, beneath the banner of Coeur de Lion. It is Count D’Orsay.”

This language is as dazzling as the vision itself must have been!

Writing of various fashions in horsemanship, Sidney says:—

“As late as 1835 it was the fashion for the swells or dandies of the period—Count d’Orsay, the Earl of Chesterfield, and their imitators—to tittup along the streets and in the Park with their toes just touching the stirrups, which hung three inches lower than in the hunting-field.”

Abraham Hayward rode in the Park with D’Orsay in March 1838, “to the admiration of all beholders, for every eye is sure to be fixed upon him, and the whole world was out, so that I began to tremble for my character.”

Here is another contemporary account, which deals rather with the outer habit than with knight-like man:—

“From the colour and tie of the kerchief which adorned his neck, to the spurs ornamenting the heels of his patent boots, he was the original for countless copyists, particularly and collectively. The hue and cut of his many faultless coats, the turn of his closely-fitting inexpressibles, the shade of his gloves, the knot of his scarf, were studied by the motley multitude with greater interest and avidity than objects more profitable and worthy of their regard, perchance, could possibly hope to obtain. Nor did the beard that flourished luxuriantly upon the delicate and nicely-chiselled features of the Marquis (Count) escape the universal imitation. Those who could not cultivate their scanty crops into the desirable arrangement, had recourse to art and stratagem to supply the natural deficiency.”

D’Orsay was indeed the Prince of the Dandies, it might be more truthfully said, the Tyrant. What he did and wore, they must do and wear; the cut of his coat and the cut of his hair, the arrangement of his tie—the Prince could do no wrong. Of this sincere form of flattery a comical tale is told. Riding back to town one day, as usual capitally mounted, D’Orsay was overtaken by a downpour of rain. The groom, who usually carried an overcoat for his master, had this day forgotten to bring it. D’Orsay was equal to this as to most occasions. He spied a sailor who wore a long, heavy waistcoat which kept him snug.

“Hullo, friend,” called out D’Orsay, pulling up, “would you like to go into that inn and drink to my health until the rain’s over?”

The sailor was naturally enough somewhat surprised, and asked D’Orsay why he was chaffing him.

“I’m not,” said D’Orsay, dismounting and going into the inn, followed by the sailor, “but I want your vest, sell it me.”

He took out and offered the poor devil ten guineas, assuring him at the same time that he “could buy another after the rain was over.”

D’Orsay put on the vest over his coat, buttoned it from top to bottom, remounted and rode on to town.

The rain passed over, the sun came out again, and as it was the proper hour to show himself in Hyde Park, D’Orsay showed himself.

“How original! How charming! How delicious!” cried the elegant dandies, astonished by D’Orsay’s new garment, “only a D’Orsay could have thought of such a creation!”

The next day dandies similarly enveloped were “the thing,” and thus the paletot was invented.

An anecdote is told, with what authority or want of it we do not know, by the Comtesse de Basanville, bearing upon D’Orsay’s good nature. One day out riding he stopped at an inn, took out a cigar, and was going to call out for a light, when a lad who came out of the tavern, offered him the match with which he had been going to light his own pipe. D’Orsay, who was struck by the boy’s politeness and good looks, began to chat with him.

“From what country do you come?”

“From Wales, my lord.”

“And you don’t mind leaving your mountains for the smoky streets of London?”

“I’d go back without minding at all,” answered the boy, “but poor folk can’t do what they want, and God knows when I’ll be going back to my old mother who’s crying and waiting for me.”

“You’re ambitious then?”

“I want to get bread. I’m young and strong, and work’s better paid in London than at home. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Well,” said D’Orsay, “I’d like to help you make your fortune. Here’s a guinea for your match. To-morrow, come to Hyde Park when the promenade is full; bring with you a box of matches, and when you see me with a lot of people round me, come up and offer me your ware.”

Naturally enough the boy turned up at the right hour and the right place.

“Who’ll buy my matches,” he called out.

“Aha! It’s you,” said D’Orsay. “Give me one quick to light my cigar.”

Another guinea—and the Count said carelessly to those grouped around him—

“Just imagine, that I couldn’t smoke a cigar which is not lit with one of this boy’s matches—others seem to me horrible.”

No sooner hinted than done; off went the matches and down came the guineas, and addresses even were given for delivery of a further supply.

Even if this story be not true, it is characteristic.

One other story of his power.

A certain peer quarrelled violently with him; result, a duel. It was pointed out to the unfortunate gentleman that if D’Orsay fought with him it would become the fashion to do so! When D’Orsay heard of his adversary’s urgent reason for wishing not to meet him, he agreed readily that it was reasonable, and the affair was arranged. D’Orsay laughingly added: “It’s lucky I’m a Frenchman and don’t suffer from the dumps. If I cut my throat, to-morrow there’d be three hundred suicides in London, and for a time at any rate the race of dandies would disappear.”

By Greville we are informed that D’Orsay was “tolerably well-informed,” which surely must be the judgment of jealousy.

In manner and habits D’Orsay grew to be thoroughly English, no small feat, while retaining all the vivacity, joie de vivre, and “little arts” of the Frenchman. But he does not seem ever to have acquired a perfect English accent; Willis in 1835 says of him, he “still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind.” The language and the waistcoats of those dandy days were alike flowery.

It is difficult to decide, the evidence being scanty, whether or not D’Orsay was a wit of eminence, or a mere humorist. Chorley the musical critic, or rather the critic of music, said that his wit “was more quaint than anything I have heard from Frenchmen (there are touches of like quality in Rabelais), more airy than the brightest London wit of my time, those of Sydney Smith and Mr Fonblanque not excepted.” It was a kindly wit, too, which counts for grace. It is not unlikely that the broken English which he knew well how to use to the best advantage helped to add a sense of comicality to remarks otherwise not particularly amusing; just as Lamb found his stammer of assistance.

A little wit carried off with a radiant manner goes a long way, and we are inclined to believe that D’Orsay on account of his good-humoured chaff and laughing impertinences gained a reputation for a higher wit than he really possessed. True wit raises only a smile, sometimes a rather wry one; humour forces us to break out into laughter such as apparently usually accompanied D’Orsay’s sallies. The following is preserved for us by Gronow, who held that D’Orsay’s conversation was original and amusing, but “more humour and À propos than actual wit.” Tom Raikes, whose face was badly marked by small-pox, for some reason or other, wrote D’Orsay an anonymous letter, and sealed it, using something like the top of a thimble for the purpose. D’Orsay found out who was the writer of the epistle, and accosted him with—“Ha! ha! my good Raikes, the next time you write an anonymous letter, you must not seal it with your nose!”—looking at that pock-pitted organ. Which is more facetious than witty.

Here is another story of a somewhat similar character, kindly provided me by Mr Charles Brookfield:—“My father once met D’Orsay at breakfast. After the meal was over and the company were lounging about the fireplace, a singularly tactless gentleman of the name of Powell crept up behind the Count, and twitching suddenly a hair out of the back of his head exclaimed: ‘Excuse me, Count, one solitary white hair!’ D’Orsay contrived to conceal his annoyance, but bided his time. Very soon he found his chance and approaching Mr Powell he deliberately plucked a hair from his head, exclaiming, ‘Parrdon, Pow-ail, one solitary black ’air.’”

Gronow also tells this. “Lord Allen, none the better for drink, was indulging in some rough rather than ready chaff at D’Orsay’s expense. When John Bush came in, d’Orsay greeted him cordially, exclaiming: ‘VoilÀ la diffÉrence entre une bonne bouche et une mauvaise haleine.’”

D’Orsay, Lord William Pitt Lennox and “King” Allen were invited to dinner at the house of a Jewish millionaire, and the first-named promised to call for the other two.

“We shall be late,” grumbled Allen. “You’re never in time, D’Orsay.”

“You shall see,” answered D’Orsay, unruffled, and drove off at a fine pace.

Even though they arrived in time Allen was not appeased, and grumbled at everything and everybody, and the cup of his wrath hopelessly overflowed when he overheard one of the servants saying to another:

“The gents are come.”

“Gents,” snorted Allen. “Gents! What a wretched low fellow! It’s worthy of a public-house!”

“I beg your pardon, Allen, it is quite correct. The man is a Jew. He means to say the Gentiles have arrived. Gent is the short for Gentile!”

Landor writes in June 1840: “I sat at dinner (at Gore House) by Charles Forester, Lady Chesterfield’s brother. In the last hunting season Lord Chesterfield, wanting to address a letter to him, and not knowing exactly where to find him, gave it to D’Orsay to direct it. He directed it—Charles Forester, one field before the hounds, Melton Mowbray. Lord Alvanley took it, and (he himself told me) gave it to him on the very spot.” Landor goes on to speak of meeting a lady who accosted him with: “Sure, Landor, it is a beautiful book, your Periwinkle and Asparagus!”

But surely the most delightful thing D’Orsay ever said was on the occasion of a visit of him to Lady Blessington’s publishers, whom he rated in high language.

“Count d’Orsay,” said a solemn personage in a high, white neckcloth, “I would sooner lose Lady Blessington’s patronage than submit to such personal abuse.”

“There is nothing personal,” retorted D’Orsay, suavely. “If you are Otley, then damn Saunders; if you are Saunders, then damn Otley.”

Edward Barrington de Fonblanque, nephew of Albany, records that D’Orsay was a capital raconteur, with an inexhaustible stock of stories, which he retailed “in a manner irresistibly droll.” One of these anecdotes ran thus:—

MÉhÉmet Ali asked of a Frenchman what was a republic.

The reply was—

“Si l’Egypte Était une rÉpublique, vous seriez le peuple et le peuple serait le Pacha.”

MÉhÉmet responded that he could not summon up “aucun goÛt, aucune sympathie, pour une rÉpublique.”

Madden says: “A mere report would be in vain, of the bons mots he uttered, without a faithful representation of his quiet, imperturbable manner—his arch look, the command of varied emphasis in his utterance, the anticipatory indications of coming drollery in the expression of his countenance—the power of making his entourage enter into his thoughts, and his success in prefacing his jeux d’esprit by significant glances and gestures, suggestive of ridiculous ideas.”

To turn to another essential of the equipment of a complete dandy, D’Orsay was an accomplished gourmet. This gift must have added greatly to his usefulness in Lady Blessington’s establishment, where doubtless he was master of the menus. Other folk also availed themselves of his skill in this direction.

We quote from that staid depository of learning, The Quarterly Review, from an article published in 1835 and written by Abraham Hayward:—

“It seems allowed on all hands that a first-rate dinner in England is out of all comparison better than a dinner of the same class in any other country; for we get the best cooks, as we get the best singers and dancers, by bidding highest for them, and we have cultivated certain national dishes to a point which makes them the envy of the world. In proof of this bold assertion, which is backed, moreover, by the unqualified admission of Ude, we request attention to the menu of the dinner given in May last to Lord Chesterfield, on his quitting the office of Master of the Buckhounds, at the Clarendon. The party consisted of thirty; the price was six guineas a head; and the dinner was ordered by Comte d’Orsay, who stands without a rival amongst connoisseurs in this department of art:—

“‘PREMIER SERVICE.

“‘Potages.—Printanier: À la reine: turtle (two tureens).

“‘Poissons.—Turbot (lobster and Dutch sauces): saumon À la Tartare: rougets À la cardinal: friture de morue: white-bait.

“‘RelÉvÉs.—Filet de boeuf À la Napolitaine: dindon À la chipolate: timballe de macaroni: haunch of venison.

“‘EntrÉes.—Croquettes de volaille: petits pÂtÉs aux huÎtres: cÔtelettes d’agneau: purÉe de champignons: cÔtelettes d’agneau aux pointes d’asperges: fricandeau de veau À l’oseille: ris de veau piquÉ aux tomates: cÔtelettes de pigeons À la Dusselle: chartreuse de lÉgumes aux faisans: filets de cannetons À la Bigarrade: boudins À la Richelieu: sautÉ de volaille aux truffes: pÂtÉ de mouton montÉ.

“‘CotÉ.—Boeuf rÔti: jambon: salade.

“‘SECOND SERVICE.

“‘Rots.—Chapons, and quails, turkey poults, green goose.

“‘Entremets.—Asperges: haricots À la FranÇaise: mayonnaise d’homard: gelÉe MacÉdoine: aspic d’oeufs de pluvier: Charlotte Russe: gelÉe au Marasquin: crÊme marbre: corbeille de pÂtisserie: vol-au-vent de rhubarb: tourte d’abricots: corbeille de meringues: dressed crab: salade À la gÉlantine.—Champignons aux fines herbes.

“‘RelÉvÉs.—SoufflÉe À la vanille: Nesselrode pudding: Adelaide sandwiches: fondus. PiÈces montÉes, etc., etc.’