Among the memories of the Congress which I recall with the utmost gratitude is that of a very familiar--I might almost say a family-fête at M. de Talleyrand’s. It was a luncheon, partaken of solely by his ambassadorial staff, a few of his intimate friends, and a still smaller number of notable Frenchmen, then in Vienna. This matutinal entertainment was given in honour of his birthday; the prince was entering on his sixty-first year. Those who are fond of collecting the smallest particulars about a celebrated man have not forgotten to note the minute details of the Prince de Talleyrand’s toilet, and the ‘coquettishness’ of his rising. In fact, it partook of the peculiarities both of Mazarin’s and of Madame de Pompadour’s. Somewhat anxious to study its details, I followed to the great man’s bedroom MM. Boyne de Faye and Rouen, who were going to present their good wishes to their illustrious patron. At that moment the model diplomatist pushed his head between the heavy curtains of his bed. A small number of the most privileged were already assembled. Wrapped in a plaited and goffered muslin _peignoir_, the prince proceeded to attend to his luxuriant hair, which he surrendered, not like the man in La Fontaine’s fable, to two women, but to two hairdressers, who, after a great deal of brandishing of arms and combs, ended by producing the _ensemble_ of wavy hair with which everybody is familiar. Then came the barber’s turn, dispensing at the end a cloud of powder; the head and the hands being finished, they proceeded to the toilet of the feet, a somewhat less recreative detail, considering the by no means pleasant smell of the Barège Water employed to strengthen his lame leg. When all this was accomplished with the greatest care, we, though not valets, were enabled to judge the hero of diplomacy in his dressing-gown. To me personally, he looked better than in his ministerial court-dress. He looked the natural man: the model of that noble and courteous manner is no longer anything but a memory. When all those ablutions of water and perfume were terminated, his head servant, whose only function consisted in superintending the whole, came forward to tie his stock into a very smart knot. Then came the other parts of the adjustment. I am bound to say that all these transformations were carried out with the ease of a grand seigneur, and a nonchalance never over-stepping the good form which only permitted us to see the man, without having to trouble about his metamorphosis. At table, M. de Talleyrand not only showed his customary grace and urbanity, but he was in reality more amiable than in his reception-rooms, where, in spite of his free and easy demeanour, one always felt conscious that he kept a check upon himself. It was no longer that habitual silence which, as has been said, he had transformed into the art of eloquence, just as he had transformed his experience into a kind of divination. Though less