The first song was the ‘Partant pour la Syrie,’ the charming music of which, by Queen Hortense, has become popular throughout Europe. Mlle. Goubault, a young Belgian, who to an agreeable face added a charming and expressive voice, sang the words, while the Princesse de Hesse-Philipstadt and the young Comte de Schönfeldt represented the characters. At the verse of the marriage, a chorus of the most beautiful personages of the Court grouped themselves around the principal actors. This profusion of delicious faces, the perfect unison of the voices, and the expressive pantomimic action of the two lovers—in short, the whole tableau, was enthusiastically applauded.
I was too far away from Emperor Alexander to hear what he said to Prince Eugène, who was seated close to him by the side of his father-in-law, the King of Bavaria. I could, however, easily perceive by the face of Eugène, beaming with pleasure and gratitude, that the praise bestowed by the emperor on the musical composition was accompanied by flattering and kindly expressions concerning his sister.
The second song was that of Coupigny, a ‘Young Troubadour singing and making war.’ It was represented by the Comte de Schönborn and the Comtesse Marassi. The third song was again one of Queen Hortense’s, ‘Do what you ought, let come what may.’ It was as well sung as ably mimed by the handsome Comtesse Zamoyska, a daughter of Marshal Czartoryski, and by the young Prince Radziwill. Like the first, it was enthusiastically listened to and greatly praised. The author’s name was on the lips of every one, and vociferous applause frequently broke forth.
‘This is a sceptre which will not be broken in the hands of Mlle. de Beauharnais,’ said the Prince de Ligne. ‘She is still a queen in virtue of her talent and her charm when she has ceased to be one by the grace of God. I confess to a liking for women who are fond of music, and above all for those who compose music, as she does. Music is a universal language, harmoniously recounting to all of us the sensations of our lives. Only the malicious and spiteful could have said evil of the sometime Queen of Holland, and only imbeciles could have attached any belief to what they said. As for me, I am always glad to applaud and to give homage to fallen greatness, especially if the fallen ones have done honour to the rank in which fate placed them.’
‘I cordially agree with you, prince,’ I said. ‘I often had the opportunity of seeing Queen Hortense at the beginning of her grandeur. During the rapid advances of her fortunes she did not change, and amidst all the imperial pomp and splendour she remained natural and unaffected. She seems to have been born with an instinctive feeling for art and with the germs of talent; she sings and plays on several instruments the charming music of her own composition. She draws with rare perfection. More precious than all this, though, is her sprightly kindness, which her mother appears to have transmitted to her. Both, while attaining the highest positions it is given to mortals to reach, lost none of the qualities which compel affection in the most obscure conditions.’
‘I am pleased to hear you speak like that. I am of opinion that the most admirable quality of mankind is the faculty for admiring. I detest people who are always looking for the interest underlying a good action. Bear this in mind: only grovelling natures seek to disparage talent; and fools only applaud the envious.’
The curtain had been lowered to set the final picture which was to conclude the whole of the spectacle in a most brilliant manner. It was to represent Olympus with all the mythological divinities. Nothing had been neglected to make the execution worthy of the grandeur of the subject. There had, nevertheless, been a temporary apprehension with regard to the smooth progress of its course. There had been for two whole days negotiations far more difficult and delicate in their nature than those usually pending between diplomatic celebrities; and it wanted nothing less than an intervention from high quarters to settle a question which the sapient assembly would probably have failed to bring to a satisfactory conclusion.
The facts were as follows: All the rôles of the tenants on Olympus had been distributed. Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg, in consequence of his remarkably handsome presence, had been cast for the part of Jupiter. Comte Zichy was to represent Mars.
The company was, however, short of Apollo; and among the troubadours the young Comte de Wurbna was the only one who could efficiently fill the part. It had been offered to him and accepted. But the Comte, who combined in every respect the requisite qualities for the brilliant impersonation allotted to him, had unfortunately something not contemplated in the programme. His upper lip was ornamented by a delightful pair of moustachios, and he valued them as one values things that do not detract from one’s appearance. It was very certain, though, that whether taken in connection with his luminous chariot or in the simple guise of a shepherd, no one could conceive the god of day with this hirsute ornament of a captain of hussars.
The stage manager entrusted with the carrying out of the tableau bore the name of Omer, which lent itself marvellously to all kind of witticisms. Omer, then, was deputed to enter into negotiations with the young Comte and to induce him to part with the inconvenient ornament. In spite of his poetical name (irrespective of its orthography), Omer found but an indifferent listener in the young man. In vain did he cajole, argue, and supplicate. In vain did he point out to the young man the impossibility of representing the tableau. His words did not produce the slightest effect. Inexorable, like Achilles sulking in his tent, young Wurbna seemed to have taken an oath not to part with his moustachios while alive.