I never knew Curran express more unpleasant feelings than at a circumstance which really was too trivial to excite any such; but this was his humour: he generally thought more of trifles than of matters of importance, and worked himself up into most painful sensations upon subjects which should only have excited his laughter.
At the commencement of the peace he came to Paris, determined to get into French society, and thus be enabled to form a better idea of their habits and manners,—a species of knowledge for which he quite languished. His parasites (and he liked such) had told him that his fame had already preceded him even to the closet of Louis le Désiré: he accordingly procured letters of introduction from persons of high rank in England, who had foolishly lavished favours and fortunes on the gang of emigrants, in general the most ungrateful (as time has demonstrated) of the human species, although it was then universally believed that they could not quite forget the series of kindnesses which had preserved them from starving or from massacre.
Among other letters, he had the honour of bearing one, couched in strong terms, from his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex to the Count d’Artois, now King of France.
“Now I am in the right line,” said Curran, “introduced by a branch of one royal family to that of another: now I shall have full opportunity of forming my own opinion as to the sentiments of the old and new nobility of France, whereon I have been eternally though rather blindly arguing.”
I was rather sceptical, and said, “I am disposed to think that you will argue more than ever when you get home again. If you want sentiment, they say in England that Monsieur has very little of Sterne in his composition.”
“Egad, I believe there is two of you!” retorted Curran; and away he went to the Tuileries, to enter his name and see Monsieur. Having left his card and letters of introduction (as desired), he waited ten days for an audience: Monsieur was occupied.—A second entry was now made by Curran at the palace; and after ten days more, a third: but Monsieur was still occupied. A fresh entry and card of J. P. C. had no better success. In my life I never saw Curran so chagrined. He had devised excuses for the prince two or three times: but this last instance of neglect quite overcame him, and in a few days he determined to return to Ireland without seeing the Count d’Artois or ascertaining the sentiments of the ancient and modern French nobility. He told his story to Mr. Lewins, a friend of ours in Paris, who said it must be some omission of the Swiss.
“Certainly,” said Curran, catching at this straw, “it must, no doubt. It must be some omission of the Swiss. I’ll wait one week more:” and his opinion was in a few days realised by the receipt of a note from Monsieur’s aide-de-camp, stating, that His Royal Highness would be glad to receive Mr. Curran at eight o’clock the following morning at the Tuileries.
About nine o’clock he returned to the hotel, and all I could get from him, in his wrath, was “D——n!” In fact, he looked absolutely miserable. “Only think!” said he, at length; “he told me he always dined with his brother, and kept no establishment of his own; then bowed me out, by ——, as if I was an importunate dancing-master!”
“Wait till the next revolution, Curran,” said I, “and then we’ll be even with him!”
At this moment Mr. Lewins came in, and, with a most cheerful countenance, said, “Well, Curran, I carried your point!”