The murder of Lord William Russell created an unpleasant sensation, though there was not anything mysterious in it, or particularly interesting to the amateur in crime. François Benjamin Courvoisier, a Swiss and Lord William’s valet, two maid-servants and Lord William, aged seventy-two, formed the household at the establishment in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. On the morning of 7th May, the housemaid found her master’s writing-room in a state of disarray, and in the hall a cloak, an opera-glass and other articles of wearing apparel done up together as if prepared to be taken away. The maid roused Courvoisier, who exclaimed, when he came upon the scene: “Some one has been robbing us; for God’s sake go and see where his lordship is!”
They went together to Lord William’s room, where a shocking sight presented itself, their master lying dead upon the bed, his head nearly severed from his body. The police were summoned, and money, banknotes, and some jewellery, believed to have been stolen from Lord William, being found concealed behind the skirting in the pantry, Courvoisier was arrested, tried, condemned, and then acknowledged his crime. He was executed on 6th July, before an immense mob of men, women and children.
Of another evening at Gore House Planché has this to relate of Lablache:—
“It was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunderstorm simply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, and twitchings of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face assured you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over.”
Another house to which D’Orsay frequently went was that of Charles Dickens, and we read of in 1845 an entertainment which no doubt was a festive jollification. In September of that year an amateur performance, with Dickens at the head of the troupe, was given of Every Man in His Humour, at Miss Kelly’s Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known as the Royalty. After the “show” it was decided to wind up with a supper, concerning which Dickens writes to Macready:—
“At No. 9 Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs Macready. The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves and D’Orsay and George Cattermole, ‘or so’—that sounds like Bobadil a little.”
In the company were included Douglas Jerrold, John Leech and Forster.
Referring to yet another dinner, Lady Blessington writes to Forster from Gore House, on 12th April 1848:—
“Count d’Orsay repeated to me this morning the kind things you said of him when proposing his health. He, I assure you, was touched when he repeated them, and his feelings were infectious, for mine responded. To be highly appreciated by those we most highly value, is, indeed, a source of heartfelt gratification. From the first year of our acquaintance with you, we had learned to admire your genius, to respect your principles, and to love your goodness of heart, and the honest warmth of your nature. These sentiments have never varied. Every year, by unfolding your noble qualities to us, has served to prove how true were our first impressions of you, and our sole regret has been that your occupations deprive us of enjoying half as much of your society as all who have once enjoyed it must desire. Count d’Orsay declares that yesterday was one of the happiest days of his life. He feels proud of having assisted at the triumph of a friend whose heart is as genial as his genius is great. Who can resist being delighted at the success of one who wins for himself thousands of friends (for all his readers become so), without ever creating an enemy, even among those most envious of another’s fame, and simply by the revelations of a mind and heart that excite only the best feelings of our—nature? I cannot resist telling you what is passing in my heart. You will understand this little outbreak of genuine feeling in the midst of the toil of a literary life.”
There were almost as many writers of genius then as now!