Political gossip formed the main item of our conversation that evening. ‘The intervention of Razumowski,’ remarked one of a group, ‘and his conciliatory efforts throughout have by no means been rewarded too highly. The quarrel was getting envenomed, I have been told. One of the most eminent of European plenipotentiaries expressed himself in the course of the discussion with great firmness upon Alexander’s pretensions to the throne of Poland. The Grand-Duke Constantine got angry, and showed his anger by a somewhat too energetic gesture, after which he left in hot haste. According to well-informed people, the diplomatist is meditating a piece of revenge. Considering that he is a man of wit, we may expect something odd.’
‘No,’ replied another, ‘that’s not the cause of the grand-duke’s abrupt departure. The minister in question wrote to Prince Hardenberg some sentences calculated to displease the Russian monarch. By a strange fatality the document fell into the hands of Alexander, and this led to very lively explanations. Lord Castlereagh sided with Austria. Matters reached such a point that one of the monarchs, forgetting his usual reserve, flung his glove on the table.
‘“Would your majesty wish for war?” asked the English plenipotentiary.
‘“Perhaps, monsieur.”
‘“I was not aware,” Castlereagh replied, “that any war was to be undertaken without English guineas.” And appeasement,’ added the speaker, ‘has not progressed an inch, in spite of the kindly efforts of our new prince.’[81]
‘Will the King of Saxony be reinstated in his kingdom in spite of Prussia, which covets it? King Friedrich-Wilhelm is very angry with M. de Talleyrand,’ said a third interlocutor. ‘The king lately remonstrated with M. de Talleyrand for too warmly espousing the cause of the Saxon monarch, that sole traitor, as he put it, to the cause of Europe.
‘“Traitor!” echoed Talleyrand. “And from what date, sire?” Honestly, Frederick-Augustus ought to be forgiven everything, if there be anything to forgive, if for no other reason than the justice of the repartee.’
‘That excellent prince has done much better than that,’ replied an interlocutor. ‘Lest some untoward event should happen, he has taken care to make a little purse for himself, from which he has detached a few millions for the benefit of two personages disposing of a great deal of influence in Vienna. This golden key will open the doors of his kingdom much more quickly than all the protocols of the Congress.’
All at once, and without the least transition, the talk turned on Lord Stewart and on some mishaps due to his overweening conceit. ‘For the last four days,’ said some one, ‘his lordship has not been seen on foot or in his magnificent carriage. According to rumour, his face has been more or less damaged. He had a quarrel on the Danube bridge with a couple of hackney drivers, and immediately jumping off his seat, his excellency, waving his arms like the sails of a windmill, challenged his adversaries to an English boxing match. The Vienna coachman, however, knows nothing, either theoretically or practically of “fisticuffs,” and consequently our two Automédons’ [the French equivalent for our ‘Jehu,’ and an allusion to Achilles’ charioteer] ‘bravely grasped their whips, and first with the thongs and afterwards with the handles, belaboured his lordship with blows, without the least respect for his “pretty” face. They left him lying on the ground, bruised all over, and disappeared as quickly as their horses would take them.
‘Milord has bad luck, but his conceit seems incorrigible. Lately, on leaving the theatre, he happened to be behind the daughter of the Comtesse Co—— on the grand staircase. There was a great crush, and, taking advantage of it, his lordship was guilty of an act of impudent familiarity, which he might have found to his cost could only be washed out with blood. Without being in the least disconcerted, the young, handsome, and innocent girl quietly turned round and gave him a sound box on the ears, as a warning to leave innocence and beauty alone. Naturally, his lordship has been the laughing-stock of everybody, as he often is, for nothing waits so surely upon conceit and fatuous vanity as derision.’