The rumour of this curious obstinacy spread with the rapidity of bad tidings; there is great agitation and anxiety, people are inquiring of each other the latest particulars of the affair, every other pleasure is forgotten; the Congress, too, would have been forgotten if any one had thought it worth while to remember that there was a Congress. Those moustachios have become the subject of every conversation and of universal concern.
Finally, in view of the gravity of the circumstances, recourse is being had to a supreme appeal: the empress is informed of the affair. Entering frankly into the plot, the charming princess, on the very evening, so effectively cajoled the young recalcitrant Comte that, vanquished, or rather won over, he absented himself for a moment, to reappear with a clean and smooth upper lip like that of a young girl. Thus fell, at a single word from Louis XIV., the woods interrupting the view from the seat of Petit-Bourg. Truly, sovereigns, and especially female sovereigns, have for the purpose of upraising or cutting down magic and powerful words, denied to other mortals.
The sacrifice was consummated, and we knew that, thanks to the happy conclusion of that negotiation, Omer had been enabled to carry out to the best of purposes his Olympian production. At last the curtain rose, and the assembly of the gods met the eager gaze of the spectators. The queen of the gods was represented by the daughter of Admiral Sir Sidney Smith, Venus by Mme. de Wilhem, a lady of honour to the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis, and Minerva by the lovely Comtesse Rosalie Rzewuska. The eyes of the spectators, delighted at first by the matchless beauty of the picture, finally contemplate nobody but Apollo, standing forth in all his glory, and well rewarded for his obedience by sweet and august smiles.
During the representation of that tableau, a young Frenchman, the Baron Thierry, attached to the Portuguese Legation, played a solo on the harp. The young fellow, who was brought up in England, whither he had accompanied his parents at the time of the emigration, had assiduously practised that instrument, and attained a degree of perfection on it which at that period was very rare. He was well built, with an interesting face, and one of the most admired of strangers in Viennese society. His solo, played with all the perfection his instrument would permit, produced the greatest effect, and was cordially applauded, the signal for the applause coming from the royalties themselves. Even Olympus itself appeared to be moved by it. Finally the curtain fell amidst unanimous signs of approval; the sovereigns rose, and we passed into an adjoining hall sumptuously arranged for the ball.
‘You probably do not know the story of the beautiful Comtesse Rzewuska, whom you have just admired in the character of Minerva. She is the daughter of the Princesse Rosalie Lubomirska, who was guillotined during the Terror. The child, after the death of her mother, on the 12th Messidor of the Year II. (30th June 1794), was taken home and brought up by a laundress, and by the merest accident discovered by her uncle, the Comte Chodkïewicz, who had been in search of her for many years, and finally taken back to Poland. It is the most startling drama in real life.’[65]
Meanwhile dancing had commenced, and I went to offer my arm to the Princesse Esterhazy, whom I had the honour to escort during part of the evening. She conversed about art with the greatest facility, her remarks being emphasised by eminently just quotations altogether exempt from the slightest pedantry. Her comments on society were marked by a similar justness of observation, none the less just for being tempered by great forbearance. Her beautiful features bore the unmistakable signs of her being an irreproachable wife, a most affectionate mother, and a most devoted and sincere friend. As a consequence, her conversation seemed to me infinitely preferable to the somewhat boisterous amusements of that evening.
All those who had taken part in the tableaux and in the illustrations of the songs had retained their costumes. There was a considerable number of them. They organised quadrilles which lent a new attraction to that fête, namely, that of variety. It seemed as if grace, that divine part of beauty, had been equally divided, though under different forms, among the dwellers in every climate. Never was this fact more pertinently felt than at those fêtes of the Congress, at which the most remarkable women of the various countries of Europe shone with equal, though distinct, splendour.
We, the Prince de Ligne and I, wandered through those drawing-rooms, ablaze with light, passing in review those delicious faces, representing all kinds of beauty as they successively went by. The Princesse Marie de Metternich and the Comtesse Batthyani, with wistful and somewhat melancholy features, tall, slight, and flexible like reeds; the two charming sisters Eléonore and Pauline de Schwartzenberg, beaming with youth and freshness; the Princesse Yblonowska, the Comtesses Sophie de Woyna and Louise de Durkeim, both distinguished by their slightly dreamy looks; the Comtesse Julie Zichy, captivatingly graceful; the Comtesses de Marassi, d’Urgate, de Schönborn, and the Princesse Hélène Souvaroff, whose portrait I have already sketched; and the Comtesse de Paar. In short, we feasted our eyes on delightful faces, lighted up every now and again by rapid smiles, or positively basking in the full light of careless joy and happiness—faces that soothed the mind and captivated all glances.
Emperor Alexander had opened the ball with the Empress of Austria with a ‘polonaise,’ a kind of dancing march, the regular preamble to every Court ball. In an adjoining room some members of the corps diplomatique were gravely engaged at whist, a recreation which also seemed an indispensable part of the European transactions in progress. The ‘polonaise,’ though, soon interfered with the silence necessary to the game. The band had given the signal and, too cramped in the principal room, the long file of dancers marched along under the guidance of the czar, invaded the whole of the palace, and twined round and round the serious quartets of the players, and by an enormously round-about way returned to its starting-point in perfect order, never ceasing the course of its graceful evolutions. Towards the end of the evening, the guests formed themselves here and there into groups. Some young men arranged pleasure parties for the next morning, while the representatives of Europe gravely discussed the burning questions of the moment.
In one part of the room, M. de Talleyrand, ensconced in an armchair, is talking to the Prince Leopold of Naples, while M. de Labrador, the Chevalier de Los Rios and the Cardinal Gonzalvi, the Marquis de Marialva, the young Comte de Luchesini and Charles de Rechberg, in a circle, are standing around. The conversation runs on King Murat. With his habitual phlegm, M. de Talleyrand drops some of those grave and prophetic sentences which, rightly interpreted, might be considered the forerunner of that improvised sovereign’s fall.[66]