In the year 1852, not long after the famous coup d’état of December, chance brought me together with the Prince de la Klioukwà, a man still young although a little tarè, a man whom I, seeing only his personal appearance and cheerful manners, should never have guessed to be a high official. It appeared, however, that such he was.
We met in one of the Parisian cafés chantans which I frequented in the exercise of my professional duties, as these agreeable places were the favourite resorts of those mistaken young people who failed to show due unconditional confidence in the changes of December 2nd. Here also were to be found many foreigners, acquainting themselves with Paris from the point of view of the dolce far niente.
Our conversation began à propos of the song, “Ah! j’ai un pied qui r’mue,” which at that time had just come into fashion, and was charmingly sung by Mdlle. Rivière. It appeared that my neighbour (we were sitting at the same table, in leisurely enjoyment of our petits verres) was not only a fine connoisseur of genre, but himself performed admirably the principal pieces of the Cascade repertoire. I cannot explain how it was, but, to my sorrow, I experienced a kind of blind, unreasoning attraction towards this man, and, after not more than a quarter of an hour’s conversation, I frankly acknowledged to him that I was an agent provocateur, honoured by the peculiar confidence of Monseigneur Maupas. To my astonishment, he not only did not start up to strike me (as mistaken young people almost invariably do), but he even held out both his hands to me, and, in his turn, informed me that he was a Russian, occupying in his native land the rank of Pompadour.
“WE MET IN ONE OF THE PARISIAN CAFÉS CHANTANS.”
“I will explain to you afterwards,” said he, observing the perplexity expressed in my face, “what constitute the attributes and jurisdiction of a Pompadour’s office; at present I will only say that no other meeting could cause me such pleasure as this meeting with you. I was just seeking to make the acquaintance of a good, thoroughly reliable agent provocateur. Tell me, is your business a profitable one?”
“Monseigneur,” I replied, “I receive a regular salary of 1,500 francs a year, and, besides that, as encouragement, extra pay for every denunciation.”
“Why ... that’s not bad!”
“If I were paid by the line, though only at the rate of the newspaper penny-a-liners, it would really be not bad; but the thing is, monseigneur, that I am paid by the job.”