The marriage of Francis, moreover, would have left the future head of the house of Austria in occupation of a territory almost in the heart of France, without this arrangement, or a violent seizure. France stipulated that Tuscany should never be merged in Austria, as a state, however, but that it should be governed by a cadet of the family. Thus, when Joseph II. died without issue and was succeeded by his brother Leopold, then Grand Duke of Tuscany, the second son of the latter, Ferdinand, became sovereign of Tuscany. His son Leopold II. is the reigning duke; and, of course, he is a nephew of the emperor, and stands next in succession to the Imperial throne, after the two sons of the emperor, and before the Archdukes Charles, John, Regnier, Anthony, &c., &c., &c. Thus, though we are about to see the sovereign of Tuscany, it is an event by no means improbable that he may one day become Emperor of Austria, as happened to his grandfather, and predecessor in the grand duchy. I had hardly come to an understanding with the Signor Corsi, when the members of the family entered the little room in which we were ranged. The grand duke, a man of good stature and of an amiable countenance, came first. He was dressed in the uniform of an Austrian officer, or in a white coat and scarlet pantaloons, embroidered in gold, with military boots; and he wore the star and badge of the Golden Fleece, &c. He appeared to be about thirty. On entering the room he addressed himself to Count Fossombrone, his minister, with whom he conversed a few minutes. He then turned with a look of inquiry to the Marchese Corsi, who made a sign to me, mentioned my name, and retired a few steps. The conversation lasted about five minutes, commencing with the usual questions as to my route, the length of time I had been in Florence, and civil expressions of satisfaction at seeing me at his court: it was held in French. The grand duke left on my mind a strong impression of integrity of character; a quality far more to be prized than any other. One proof of the simplicity and justness of his mind was so striking, and so very different from what I had just escaped from in Paris, that it deserves to be recorded. “They tell me you are the author of many books,” he said; “but as it has never been my good fortune to meet with them, I can say no more to you on the subject, than that I have heard them well spoken of by those who have.” Here was a civil thing, united with an honesty that did equal credit to his tact and his truth. He left me with renewed expressions of his satisfaction at seeing me at his court, and then made the circuit of the secretaries and _attachés_.