The same young cavalier might have been recognised not long since as a grim old warrior, munching a sandwich in the vestibule of Stafford House after the levée in honour of the Mutiny heroes!
And the charming lad who was responsible for the introduction of the diabolical appendage. We all remember the shock that literally smote every heart when the news of the Prince Imperial’s untimely death reached England.
A youth divested of every suspicion of affectation, possessing to an inordinate degree that fascination of manner rarely to be found except amongst the old nobility of France, discarding every comfort to fight in the ranks of an alien army, to be assegaied by a handful of Zulus! Was ever such irony of fate for the great-nephew of Bonaparte, who, had he lived, would assuredly by his charm have eventually won back his throne.
One voice only struck a discordant note, the overrated Quaker Solon of Rochdale. “Perish India,” he once said in his wisdom. “He went out to kill the Zulus, and the Zulus killed him” was this time his funeral oration.
It was in the early seventies—if I remember rightly—that I had many acquaintances amongst the various embassies and legations, which frequently brought me to the St. James’s, the club of the foreign attachés generally. My most intimate friend was Baron Spaum—at the time naval attaché at the Austrian Embassy—and at the present moment Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Austrian Navy. I was also familiar with Prince Hohenlohe and Count Mongela, of the same embassy, and, in a lesser degree, with Count Beust, son of the Austrian Ambassador. Amongst the Russians I knew Count Adelberg well, and it was through his representations that I eventually came into contact with that wonderful man Count Schouvaloff. Count Paul Schouvaloff at the time was Russian Ambassador in London. An intimate and trusted friend of the Czar, his Excellency had filled every office in his country that called for administrative and diplomatic talents of the first order. As Chief of the Secret Police his power was literally absolute and irresponsible; as governor of a vast province he had ruled almost as an independent sovereign; and in later years was the ruling spirit—and certainly the most difficult nut to crack—at the Congress of Berlin, when Lord Beaconsfield was accredited with having returned with “Peace with Honour.”
It was as the guest of this historical personage that I one day found myself at Chesham House, eating the most delightful lunch, drinking the rarest Crimean wines, and marvelling at the courteous, retiring-mannered man who plied me with the most delicate attentions.
His English, as may be supposed, was faultless, and so it was that my admiration was turned to astonishment when a personage to whom I assumed there could be nothing new under the sun asked me if I would do for him the great favour of piloting him amongst the sights of London.
Not many nights later a muster of some dozen souls paraded at my rooms in Charles Street, and as all were scrupulously attired in pot hats and shooting coats it would have been difficult for the most observant to have sorted ambassadors or attachés from the less diplomatic clay made in England.
The muster roll contained the Russian Ambassador, Count Adelberg, Count Beust, Count Mongela, Baron Spaum, Prince Hohenlohe, Colonel (Charlie) Norton, Sir Edward Cunynghame (Ned), the Duke of Hamilton, and my humble self.
The programme had been settled prior to all this with the assistance of an ex-detective, who made a princely addition to his slender pension by piloting exploration parties to latitudes where much depended on diplomacy.