Maria Theresa dubbed the young Prince knight of that order of chivalry which bore her name,—an Order into which no aspirant could find admittance unless he had achieved some conquest which he had no positive order to undertake. She further honoured him by despatching him to France with the news of the great victory; and there he became the intimate friend of Jean Jacques Rousseau, the cavalier of the basely brilliant Du Barry, and the cynosure of all the hooped ladies and red-heeled gallants who killed Time on the verdant lawns of the Trianon or in the gilded saloons of Versailles. He became at once the King of Fashion, as he _was_ the favourite of a dozen kings. Two Louises named him “friend;” and he sat, a gallant servitor, at the feet of Marie Antoinette. The great Frederick showed his affection for him by bestowing on him that very bad pen with which the King wrote very bad poetry, and the Prince still worse. The great Catherine he served in many acceptable offices. She loved the man and his humour. Once, when accompanying the imperial mother of All the Russias in a progress through her southern dominions, they skirted, in a yacht, the coast of Old Tauris. On passing the promontory of Iphigenia, the Empress made present of it to the Prince, who thereon, accoutred as he was, leaped overboard, and, with sword drawn, swam ashore, to take formal possession of the territorial gift. He was indeed a sort of cousin to the living heads of kingly houses; and, at one time, was looked upon as the probable occupant of the uneasy throne of Poland. Like many a kingly contemporary, he might for a long time have thanked Heaven that he was without a crown. But he was equal to the difficulties consequent upon a light purse. On one occasion he wished to proceed from Paris to Brussels; but, prince as he was, he lacked the means. Hearing that the Duke d’Aremberg was about to travel that way, he presented himself at the post-house as his courier, rode the journey through in that character, and so got to his destination—_gratis_. Such, in his early days, was the gay gentleman who, at the last Congress of Vienna, bore still gaily the weight of eighty summers. His lean horses used to gallop through that city with his ancient carriage behind them, on which was inscribed the punning device—“Quo res cumque cadunt, stat _linea_ recta.” This vehicle was almost as large as his house. The latter was of the smallest dimensions; and in that small dwelling, he gave small dinners to small parties. The dishes served were in strict keeping with the size of the table, and he generally ate four-fifths of what they contained. This superbly-dressed Amphitryon actually expected that his guests would let their hunger be appeased on the supply he liberally poured forth of brilliant but unsubstantial wit.