“The things I have heard said to Joseph by the ladies of his society are simply inconceivable,” writes the Prince de Ligne. “One of them said, referring to the execution of a robber who had been hanged by his orders that day: ‘How could your Majesty condemn him after your robbery of Poland?’ “It was at the moment of the first division of that country. “‘My mother, who enjoys all your confidence, ladies,’ he replied, ‘and who goes to Mass as often as you do, has long ago made up her mind on that question. I am only her first subject.’” The Emperor was fond of receiving confidences, and was safe and discreet, though he was fond of meddling. His manners were agreeable, he had some brilliancy of conversation, a great deal of natural wit, and was a pleasant narrator. The following is an anecdote he was fond of repeating. When Marie-Thérèse was so closely pursued by her enemies that hardly a town was left to her in Germany, not knowing where to go for her confinement, she retired to Presburg and assembled the States. She was young and handsome, with a dazzling complexion, and appeared before the Hungarian _paladins_ clad in a long mourning garment, which set off the radiancy of her beauty; her son, two or three years of age, was clasped in her arms. “I confide him to you,” she said, presenting the child, who began to cry. The Emperor, in telling this story, always added that his mother, who knew the way to produce an effect, gave him a sly pinch as she presented him to the Hungarians; touched by the cries of the child, who seemed to implore their compassion, “my bearded heroes drew their swords, and swore on their Turkish blades to defend both mother and son to the last drop of their blood.”[53] The little group that met at the Belvédère did not represent the only society in Vienna; many other houses threw open their doors. The Princesse Lubomirska,[54] commonly called the Princesse Maréchale, held some of the most brilliant receptions. Her original and ready wit, and the piquancy of her manner, imparted a certain liveliness to the character of her “salon.” She forebade all talk of war or politics at her house. “No politics,” she said, “in the drawing-room, where the men are more women than we are.” A great many balls were given in Vienna, and they were always very animated, for the Viennese were passionately fond of dancing. They waltzed so furiously and with such rapidity that at first Hélène, though a beautiful dancer, was made quite giddy by the pace. She, however, soon became accustomed, like others, never to rest for a moment as long as the waltz lasted.