Odd to relate, in a town at that moment sheltering all the illustrious men of Europe, the arrival of Wellington had set both the Court and the diplomatic centres agog—the Court, because it supplied something new, for which they were really at a loss; diplomacy, because it was assured that he came to replace Castlereagh, whose policy was generally blamed, and because it was no small thing to have to treat with a new colleague. Mr. Wellesley-Pole, a member of the House of Commons and a relative of the duke, arrived at the same time. He was one of the most brilliant Englishmen in Vienna, the owner of an immense rent-roll, and endowed with a varied and deep knowledge. He was an honour to the nation he represented. Curiosity, therefore, was excited to the highest degree. Everybody wished to know a man to whom the fortunes of war had been so constantly favourable, who, by his doggedness and perseverance, had been able to hold in check the genius of Napoleon. The sovereigns called upon him, and he was literally loaded with honours. In the evening, when the rumour ran that he was going to the rout, between seven and eight thousand spectators rushed into the place. When he made his appearance, accompanied by Lord Castlereagh, a masked lady, supposed to be Lady Castlereagh, hanging on his arm, the whole of the crowd rushed towards them. They were probably accustomed to that kind of reception, and must have felt flattered at such a proof of popularity. Finally, not the least curious result of his arrival was the fluctuation in the public securities, which caused a loss and gain of several millions in a few days; for in Vienna as elsewhere, stock gambling seized the slightest occasion to bring about those rapid fluctuations.
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The birthday fête of the Emperor of Austria, which happened to come amidst all these rejoicings, was spent in the privacy of his family. His health did not permit it to be celebrated with all the pomp generally displayed. The reception, in spite of its being less numerous, nevertheless presented a most rare spectacle. Nearly all its members called each other ‘brother’ or ‘cousin,’ and those brothers were the most powerful sovereigns of Europe. In the morning, Emperor Alexander had preceded them all, wearing the uniform of an Austrian general, and giving his arm to his charming wife. He tendered his wishes and offered his bouquet with that cordial simplicity that adds so delightfully to the expressions of friendship. For some time those monarchs had each adopted a particular society in which they lived on a most familiar footing. Nevertheless, when they assembled together their affectionate familiarity was very genuine.
The masked routs were more numerously attended than ever. Griffiths and I went one evening to one of those gatherings, which might fitly be termed the magic-lanterns of the Congress, in virtue of the number and variety of the personages present. The crowd was so considerable that, after having opened all the rooms, they were obliged to shut the outer doors and to refuse admission to a great number. Nothing could convey an idea of the happy-go-lucky animation presiding at this gathering of so many diverse elements. In the crowd I ran up against Prince Koslowski.
‘To watch on all sides this exchange of sweet smiles and sweet looks, and hand-pressures sweeter still, one might call the Vienna rout an exchange for the traffic of amorous assets.’
‘Beaumarchais said that before you about the Opéra of Paris, but you could add, as an appendix, that all such kinds of assets are marketable on all the dancing exchanges of Europe.
‘Just watch that young woman, so simply disguised as a Calabrian peasant,’ the prince went on. ‘She seems to remember how dearly her mother once paid for an impulse of vanity. That mother, who was distantly related to my family, found out that an imperial diadem may often cruelly hurt the head, even if politics are altogether foreign to the attempt to wear it.’
The lady was pretty, the anecdote promised to be interesting. I asked my bright interlocutor to tell it to me. He complied with my wish.
‘One day Empress Catherine made up her mind to clean the enormous mass of jewels of all kinds buried in the coffers that, since the reign of Peter the Great, had swallowed up enormous treasures of which there seem to be scarcely any knowledge in the palace. Dreading some theft during that general overhaul, the emperor appointed two captains of the guards to superintend the work. The father of our pretty mask was one of them. The view of all this wealth produced such a fascination in the eyes and the minds of the two inspectors that they also conceived the fatal idea of robbery. They agreed to abstract part of those treasures, hoping that the theft would pass unperceived. The spoil was divided between them. The one to whom came a lot of pearls lost no time in sending them to Amsterdam by a man in his trust. There, sold secretly, the money he received was employed by him in the repurchase of some family estates, which, however, he had the prudence to settle on his son. The other, whose share consisted of diamonds, waited for spring to proceed to England, promising himself to dispose of them to greater advantage than through the intermediary of an agent.
‘Among the number of stolen objects there was a diadem whose value exceeded a hundred thousand roubles. All these objects had been carefully hidden in the remotest corner of his apartments. Fatality, however, always dogs crime, and his wife discovered the hiding-place. In vain did her husband swear to her that the diadem did not belong to him, and that it was entrusted to his honour to keep for awhile. She begged of him, not to give it to her, but to let her wear it, if only for a moment, at one of the Court balls. He resisted, but she worried, begged, and wept to that extent that the captain, madly in love with his wife, unhappily gave in, trusting that the jewel, which had not seen daylight for perhaps a hundred years, would escape recognition by a person of the new generation. The young woman, who did not perceive that this diadem was metaphorically searing her forehead, got as far as the ball-room of the Hermitage. I need scarcely tell you of the looks of admiration and envy that marked her appearance. Up till then everything had gone well, but just amidst her greatest triumph old Mme. Pratazoff, standing behind the chair of the empress, hears Catherine go into raptures about the brilliancy of those stones.