Charles II., after his restoration, appears, according to custom, to have neglected his most faithful adherent, Lord St. Albans, who nevertheless was a frequenter of the court. One day, when a gentleman had requested an interview of his majesty to ask for a valuable office then vacant, the king in jest desired the Earl of St. Albans to personate him, which he did before the whole court; but, after hearing the stranger's petition with an air of dignified authority, he said that the office was by no means too great for so deserving a subject. “But,” added the earl, gravely, “I have already conferred it on my faithful adherent, Lord St. Albans, who constantly followed my father's fortunes and my own, having never before received any reward.” The king was so amused by this ready jest that he instantly confirmed the gift to his clever representative.
But we have yet a cooler thing (though somewhat different in character) than either of the preceding to bring forward, and which, if true, is really one of the strangest incidents that could happen in a man's experience.
Barthe, a writer of French comedies, hearing that his intimate friend Colardeau was on the point of death, instantly hastened to the sick man's chamber, and finding him still in a condition to listen, addressed him thus:
“My dear friend, I am in despair at seeing you in this extremity, but I have still one favor to ask of you; it is that you will hear me read my 'Homme Personnel.'”
“Consider,” replied the dying man, “that I have only a few hours to live.”
“Alas! yes; and this is the very reason that makes me so desirous of knowing what you think of my play.”
His unhappy friend heard him to the end without saying a word, and then in a faint voice, observed, that there was yet one very striking feature wanted to complete the character which he had been designing.
“You must make him,” said he, “force a friend who is dying to listen to a comedy in five acts.”
Our collector has treasured up two or three tolerable anecdotes of that artfullest of “dodgers,” Talleyrand, which, though not new to every body are likely to have a novelty for some, and there fore may bear quoting.
After the Pope had excommunicated him, he is reported to have written to a friend, saying, “Come and comfort me; come and sup with me. Every body is going to refuse me fire and water; we shall therefore have nothing this evening but iced meats, and drink nothing but wine.” When Louis XVIII., at the restoration, praised Talleyrand for his talents and influence, the latter modestly disclaimed the compliment, but added, with an arch significance, “There is, however, some inexplicable thing about me which prevents any government from prospering that attempts to set me aside.” The next is exquisitely diplomatic. A banker, anxious about the rise or fall of stocks, came once to Talleyrand for information respecting the truth of a rumor that George III. had suddenly died, when the statesman replied, in a confidential tone, “I shall be delighted if the information I have to give be of any use to you.” The banker was enchanted at the prospect of obtaining authentic intelligence from so high a source; and Talleyrand, with a mysterious air continued, “Some say the King of England is dead; others, that he is not dead; for my own part, I believe neither the one nor the other. I [pg 351] tell you this in confidence, but do not commit me.” No better parody on modern diplomacy could easily be written.