‘Just cast your eye behind the chair of Emperor Alexander,’ remarked the Baron to me; ‘and look at his brother, the Grand-duke Constantine. He is the third personage of the empire, and probably the heir-presumptive to the throne. Nevertheless, observe his servile attitude, and the affectation with which, as it were, he proclaims himself the Czar’s first subject. One would think him permeated with the sentiment of submission as others are with the feeling of liberty. Personally, I fail to understand this voluptuous enjoyment of obedience. And now,’ he went on, ‘glance at that other personage close to him; that is the young Prince de Reuss, the twenty-ninth of the name. In his case, it’s a horse of a different colour. He has tumbled or drifted into the dreamland of I do not know what kind of German sect or school, and has become imbued with a sort of affected sentimentalism calculated to spoil the most sterling and happiest gifts of nature. This vague sentimentality, which he professes in and out of season, inspires him with the strangest ideas. A few days ago, he wrote to a lady, seated not far away from us: “Hope constantly renewed and equally constantly destroyed only keeps one alive to languish suspended like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. It is for you to decide ... it is a question of your love or my death.” He has not had the one given to him, and he has taken good care not to inflict the other upon himself. And thus, from sheer lightness of heart, people adopt ridiculous fads, far often less pardoned by the world at large than real faults. His uncle, Henri XV. or Henri XVI., the actual civil and military governor of Vienna, is somewhat more positive. Frederick the Great one day asked him if the princes of his house were numbered like hackney-carriages. “No, sire, not like hackney-carriages, but like kings,” was the answer. Frederick must have been somewhat embarrassed at the reply; nevertheless it pleased him, as everything witty and spontaneous did, and from that moment Prince Henri always enjoyed his favour and goodwill.’ Shortly afterwards Prince Koslowski drew my attention to a lady placed near Empress Elisabeth. It was the Comtesse Tolstoy, _née_ Princesse Baratynski, the wife of the grand-marshal. Her mother belonged to the Holstein family, and was a cousin once removed of Catherine II. ‘You are probably aware,’ he said, ‘that the marshal is in disgrace?’ ‘Yes, prince,’ I answered; ‘but I do not know the cause.’