Even if this story be not true, it is characteristic.
One other story of his power.
A certain peer quarrelled violently with him; result, a duel. It was pointed out to the unfortunate gentleman that if D’Orsay fought with him it would become the fashion to do so! When D’Orsay heard of his adversary’s urgent reason for wishing not to meet him, he agreed readily that it was reasonable, and the affair was arranged. D’Orsay laughingly added: “It’s lucky I’m a Frenchman and don’t suffer from the dumps. If I cut my throat, to-morrow there’d be three hundred suicides in London, and for a time at any rate the race of dandies would disappear.”
By Greville we are informed that D’Orsay was “tolerably well-informed,” which surely must be the judgment of jealousy.
In manner and habits D’Orsay grew to be thoroughly English, no small feat, while retaining all the vivacity, joie de vivre, and “little arts” of the Frenchman. But he does not seem ever to have acquired a perfect English accent; Willis in 1835 says of him, he “still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind.” The language and the waistcoats of those dandy days were alike flowery.
It is difficult to decide, the evidence being scanty, whether or not D’Orsay was a wit of eminence, or a mere humorist. Chorley the musical critic, or rather the critic of music, said that his wit “was more quaint than anything I have heard from Frenchmen (there are touches of like quality in Rabelais), more airy than the brightest London wit of my time, those of Sydney Smith and Mr Fonblanque not excepted.” It was a kindly wit, too, which counts for grace. It is not unlikely that the broken English which he knew well how to use to the best advantage helped to add a sense of comicality to remarks otherwise not particularly amusing; just as Lamb found his stammer of assistance.
A little wit carried off with a radiant manner goes a long way, and we are inclined to believe that D’Orsay on account of his good-humoured chaff and laughing impertinences gained a reputation for a higher wit than he really possessed. True wit raises only a smile, sometimes a rather wry one; humour forces us to break out into laughter such as apparently usually accompanied D’Orsay’s sallies. The following is preserved for us by Gronow, who held that D’Orsay’s conversation was original and amusing, but “more humour and à propos than actual wit.” Tom Raikes, whose face was badly marked by small-pox, for some reason or other, wrote D’Orsay an anonymous letter, and sealed it, using something like the top of a thimble for the purpose. D’Orsay found out who was the writer of the epistle, and accosted him with—“Ha! ha! my good Raikes, the next time you write an anonymous letter, you must not seal it with your nose!”—looking at that pock-pitted organ. Which is more facetious than witty.
Here is another story of a somewhat similar character, kindly provided me by Mr Charles Brookfield:—“My father once met D’Orsay at breakfast. After the meal was over and the company were lounging about the fireplace, a singularly tactless gentleman of the name of Powell crept up behind the Count, and twitching suddenly a hair out of the back of his head exclaimed: ‘Excuse me, Count, one solitary white hair!’ D’Orsay contrived to conceal his annoyance, but bided his time. Very soon he found his chance and approaching Mr Powell he deliberately plucked a hair from his head, exclaiming, ‘Parrdon, Pow-ail, one solitary black ’air.’”
Gronow also tells this. “Lord Allen, none the better for drink, was indulging in some rough rather than ready chaff at D’Orsay’s expense. When John Bush came in, d’Orsay greeted him cordially, exclaiming: ‘Voilà la différence entre une bonne bouche et une mauvaise haleine.’”
D’Orsay, Lord William Pitt Lennox and “King” Allen were invited to dinner at the house of a Jewish millionaire, and the first-named promised to call for the other two.