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