“An instance of the count’s readiness at repartee,” continued my friend, “occurred this very day at dinner. The prosy old dowager-duchess down yonder, with the lavender satin and the marabout head-gear, had been descanting most lengthily upon her genealogy, during the greater part of the repast. Everybody was yawning most mournfully, and there were certain symptoms in the brilliant hawk’s-eye of M., which told to all who knew him that he was waiting with impatience for a pounce. The opportunity was not long in presenting itself. The poor old duchess, by dint of twaddling on undisturbed, had arrived at the period preceding the revolutionary war—‘At which time,’ said she, ‘some of our family emigrated to Canada, where a branch remains to this very day. I have a cousin there who writes to me sometimes. Her name is Mousseline—a curious name, is it not, count?” appealing to M., whose eyes were fixed upon her with foul intent.
“‘Not at all,’ returned he, quickly, ‘I have a cousin called Batiste, you have one called Mousseline;—rien de plus simple!’
“Of course, the whole table was convulsed with laughter. The one object was gained; the prosy old duchess was silenced for the rest of the dinner, and M., elated by his triumph, was more brilliant and witty than ever. He has made a bitter enemy; but what cares he so long as the old proser does not inflict her ennuyeux bavardage upon him while she remains. Of this there is no fear, for I overheard her servant mention that her carriage must be ready to depart to-morrow. Life is too short, according to M.’s declaration, to waste it in listening to other people’s mauvaise prose.’
“The career of the Count M—— has been, like that of most of the men of note of his own time, checkered with startling gleams of light, with fearful intervals of darkness; but his ready wit and great tact have made him float to this very hour upon the surface of politics, while many of his contemporaries, with infinitely more talent, and certainly more principle, have sunk to rise no more. The man’s very life has been, for years past, even to his most intimate friends, a complete mystery. They only know that he is ruined. He has been beggared more than once even during the time that I have known him, but has always risen again, more brilliant and more sparkling than ever. His fire seems, verily, unquenchable, for it bursts forth from amid the ashes with which poverty and humiliation would fain seek to smother it, and burns with a brighter glow after each fruitless endeavour that his enemies have made to extinguish it altogether.
“‘Mon pauvre ami!’ said one of his roué friends to him, after one of the many tornadoes to which, during his life he had been exposed—an execution in his house, and his horses all sold—‘mon pauvre ami—que te reste-t-il?’
“‘Moi!’ exclaimed the count, as he turned away, with light, buoyant step and smiling countenance. In less than a year he was again remonté, in full credit and full success; his house, as before, the resort of all that was gay and brilliant in the metropolis—himself again the oracle of a wide and fashionable circle. The answer and the result, display the character of the man better than whole pages of written biography could do. His faith lies in his own capacity for turning to account the weakness of others, and never has it been deceived.”
“Who is the tall, thin adversary of the count?” said I, struck with the appearance of the person, as he turned and spoke in a low confidential tone to the prince.
“Oh, that is the Count de F.,” said my friend, “the antiquated beau of Parisian high life. He is the same gay philanderer, the same favoured swain, the object of as many fluttering sighs and tender regrets, as he was thirty years ago, when he was in his prime, or forty years ago, when he was young. Some people have affixed a nearer relationship between him and the prince than the latter has ever chosen to avow. Be this as it may, the count, whether from this cause, or from the number of years which he has spent in the friendship and society of the Prince de Talleyrand, has imbibed much of his ready wit and cold, sarcastic philosophy, and displays them sometimes at the expense of others, with the same reckless disregard of feelings or amour propre. His victims are numerous, but they too are sometimes fully revenged by the prince, with whom he cannot vie, in spite of the florid wit and forked satire in which he will indulge.
“The poor count had well nigh been overwhelmed, sunk for ever, on one occasion, by a witticism of Talleyrand’s, which spread over Paris in an incredibly short space, and filled the heart of the poor old dandy with gall and bitterness. The prince had always rallied the count most unmercifully upon his absurd pretensions to youth and gallantry, and yet, in spite of this, so great is the infatuating effect of love, that the latter was foolish and unguarded enough to mention, with great mystery, a new conquest which he had made, and upon which he piqued himself not a little. This time it was a lady of talent, rank, and fashion, and he wished most particularly to keep his conquest, now that he had so fairly won it. It was just at the period of the new year, and étrennes were flying in every direction.
“‘I should like to give the lady of my heart something that would please her,’ said the count; ‘do assist me, prince; what can I procure that would be most rare—something unique of its kind—something that is but seldom seen, and of which the like could not be brought to her from anybody else.’