André Razumowski, his son, who had only received his princely title some short time before from Alexander as a reward for important services, had inherited several of those qualities which seem such dignified accompaniments to great wealth. He also had a remarkable and enlightened taste for art. The genuine type of the grand seigneur, he was at the same time wholly familiar with the less redundant graces of diplomatic courtesy. Most expensive in his taste and grandiose in his projects, he noticed one day that he might shorten the distance separating him from the Prater, and had a bridge thrown over an arm of the Danube. As the ambassador to the Austrian Court, he was on the most confidential footing with Prince de Metternich, the presiding spirit; and more than once, Razumowski, by his cleverness, had dissipated the clouds gathering over the discussions of the Congress. The fire had meanwhile been got under, but that part of the palace looking out upon the gardens was irrevocably gone. Among the crowd of lookers-on, I noticed the Prince Koslowski. After the death of the Prince de Ligne, an instinctive feeling of friendship, and perhaps sympathy also, seemed to draw me nearer to that other friend. If, in the case of the old marshal, I had admired the treasures of experience and reason and that subtle and delicate appreciation of society, in the case of the Russian prince I found a loftiness of views, an entire independence of judgment and expression about men and political events, too rare, perhaps, among diplomatists. His sprightly conversation bound many people to him, while at the same time his frankness commanded affection.