“Who is her mother?” asked Lady Castlereagh.
“Madame Krudener, the mistress of Alexander, the pious Czar. The Czarina has just kissed her rival’s child, and her heart is breaking that she is not the mother of it.”
The night that succeeded was a brilliant one at the imperial palace of Austria. In a small room adjoining the great gallery was assembled a strange group. A very handsome young man, in the costume and with the attributes of Jupiter, was walking to and fro, eating a slice of pine-apple, and declaring that the Count de Wurbna was mad. A somewhat older but a fine-looking personage, easily recognizable as Mars, was lying recumbent on a sofa, repeating the declaration that De Wurbna was mad. These two theatrical deities were, in their mortal positions, no other than Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg and the Count de Zichy. De Wurbna was seated on a stool, bending forward to fasten his sandal. His dress, his lyre, and his insignia told at once that he was Phœbus Apollo. There was nothing like insanity about him; but when he raised his head, the beholder was constrained to confess that there was something about him very unlike the lover of Daphne and Coronis. In fact, he wore a very formidable pair of mustachios. However appropriate this adornment might be to the Apollo Corybassides, who disputed the dominion of Crete with Jupiter himself, it little suited the fair son of Latona, the only one of all the gods whose oracles were in general repute throughout the world. Be this as it may, the Viennese Apollo, whose transcendent beauty had designated him as the only man who could fittingly represent the graceful god, strictly refused to sacrifice his cherished moustache. Madame de Wilhelm, the destined Venus of the tableaux vivans about to be represented, had suggested that his head should be turned from the spectators; but the proud Minerva of the night, the Countess Rosalie Rzewouska (the original of M. Sue’s Fleur de Marie), declared that the suggestion lacked wisdom, and that, if adopted, Miss Smith, the daughter of the Admiral Sir Sidney, would spoil her Juno, and laugh outright, as she did at everything.
“I thought Thierry could do anything,” said Jupiter. “He has superintended the getting up of all our costumes; and he engaged, a fortnight ago, to render De Wurbna reasonable.”
Apollo caressed his very objectionable hirsutory adornment, humming as he did so, “Du, du liegst mir im Herzen.” He smiled as Mars asserted that if Thierry had entered into any such engagement, Apollo would be shaved, and the heathen goddesses in raptures. The ubiquitous and indefatigable Baron had, at all events, done his best, but hitherto he had failed. At the eleventh hour however he thought of the claim which he had on the Czarina Elizabeth, for whom he had contrived the strange gratification of kissing the daughter of her husband’s mistress. He procured an audience, and stated the predicament into which he and the court-players were thrown by the obstinacy of Apollo. The Czarina had recourse to her sister of Austria, but the two imperial ladies knew not how to solve the difficulty. The Emperor of Austria was called in, and then the difficulty began to wear an aspect less redoubtable.
The mythological deities were yet disputing in their luxurious green-room, when an officer of the Imperial Guard appeared at the door, and summoned De Wurbna to the imperial presence. The latter flung a cloak over his shoulders and hastened to obey.
“My dear fellow,” said the officer, “you will not appear before the Emperor in those mustachios!”
“Why not?” said the son of Latona, who began to suspect a mystification.
“Because of this morning’s general order, which commands the entire guard to which we belong to be shaved.”
De Wurbna had already remarked the smooth lip of his Hungarian comrade, but, still doubting, he proceeded to wait upon his master the Emperor.