“The Princess de Verneuil will be happy to give you some tea, Count,” said the King, motioning me to sit down; and I obeyed, while my heart, beating violently at my side, almost overpowered me with emotion. Only to think of it!—the son of an Irish peasant seated at the family tea-table of a great sovereign, and the princess herself, the daughter of a king, pouring out his tea!
If nothing short of the most consummate effrontery can maintain a cool, unaffected indifference in presence of royalty, there is another frame of mind, indicative of ease and self-possession, perfectly compatible with a kingly presence; and this is altogether dependent on the manner and tone of the sovereign himself. The King—I have heard it was his usual manner—was as free from any assumption of superiority as would be any private gentleman under his own roof; his conversation was maintained in a tone of perfect familiarity with all around him, and even when differing in opinion with any one, there was a degree of almost deference in the way he insinuated his own views.
On this occasion he directed nearly all his attention to myself, and made Ireland the subject, asking a vast variety of questions, chiefly regarding the condition of the peasantry, their modes of life, habits of thinking, education, and future prospects. I saw that my statements were all new to him, that he was not prepared for much that I told him, and he very soon avowed it by saying, “These, I must own, are not the opinions I have usually heard from your countrymen, Count; but I conclude that the opportunities of travel, and the liberalism of thought which intercourse with foreign countries begets, may lead you to take views not quite in accordance with mere stay-at-home politicians.” I could have given him another and more accurate explanation of the difference. It was the first and only time that his Majesty had conversed with the son of a peasant,—one, himself born and bred beneath the thatch of a cabin, and who had felt the very emotions which others merely draw from their imaginations. As it grew late, his Majesty arose, and the Ministers one by one retired, leaving me the only stranger present. “Now, Count, I must not detain you longer; you leave Paris early to-morrow morning, and I should have remembered how large a portion of your night I have monopolized. This paper,—where is it?”
I at once took up the envelope, and drew forth a document; but conceive my horror when I discerned that it was a piece of verse,—a droll song upon my new dignity that one of my villanous companions had stuffed into the envelope in place of my official letter of appointment. Crushing it in my hand, I pulled out another. Worse again! It was the bill-of-fare of our dinner at Very's, where “entrées” and “hors-d'ouvres, salmis and macédoines,” figured in imposing array. One document still remained, and I drew it out; but as his Majesty's eyes were this time bent upon me, I had not a moment to see what might be its contents,—indeed, I half suspected the King saw my indecision; and, determining to put a bold face on the matter, I doubled down a blank piece of the paper, and placed it for his Majesty. Apparently his thoughts were wandering in some other direction, for he took up the pen abstractedly, and wrote the words, “Approved by us,” with his name in a routine sort of way that showed he gave no attention to the act whatever.
It was all I could do! To avoid any indecent show of haste in enclosing the paper within the envelope, my hand trembled so that I could scarcely accomplish it. When I had replaced it in my pocket, I felt like a drowning man at the moment he touches land.
The King dismissed me with many flattering speeches, and I returned to Very's, where my friends were still at table. Resolved not to gratify the triumph of their malice, I affected to have discovered the trick in time to remedy it, and to replace my appointment in its enclosure. Of course the possibility of what might have occurred gave rise to many a droll fancy and absurd conceit, and I plainly saw how very little compunction there would have been for my disaster if a ludicrous scene had ensued between the king and myself.
We separated now, with all the testimonies of sincere affection,—some of my fair friends even wept; and our parting had all the parade and about the same amount of sincerity as a scene in a drama. Paul alone showed any real feeling: he liked me probably because he had served me,—a stronger bond of affection than many people are aware of. “Tell me one thing, Creganne,” cried he, as he shook my hand for the last time,—“we are perhaps never to meet again, life has so many vicissitudes,—tell me frankly, then, if your Mexican history, your riches and gems and gold, your diamonds, your rubies, your doubloons, and your moidores, are not all a humbug, together with your imprisonment in Malaga, and all its consequences?”
“True, every word of it,” said I, impressively.
“Come, come, now, your secret is safe with me. Be open and above-board; say honestly that the whole was a 'get up.' I promise you fairly that, if you do, I 'll have a higher value for your talents at an episode than I now place upon your lost wealth and your countship to boot.”
“I'm sorry for it,” replied I; “there are few men whose esteem I set more store by. If I could oblige you by becoming a cheat, my regard for you might possibly overmaster my better judgment; but, unhappily, I am what I represent myself, and what I trust one day yet to convince you.” With this we parted. As the diligence drove away, I could see Paul still standing in the same place, evidently unable to resolve the difficult problem of my veraciousness.