On one occasion, before the Washington mission, the Prince, who, moved by some caprice, had wished to get rid of Katakazy, sent for him and told him that he thought the time had come when he should send him abroad. Katakazy, who did not wish to go, and who could play upon his chief as Paganini could upon a Stradivarius, thanked him warmly, and expressed his joy at being given the opportunity of telling the world how great was the man whom he had had the honour to serve so long as secretary. The Prince chortled and said, in his purring way: “Well, perhaps I should miss your cleverness, so you had better stay.” There was another claim to renown which M. Katakazy possessed—one of which he was perhaps even more proud than he was of that of being the champion despatch writer and protocolist of the Russian Foreign Office. All of us who knew our Paris in the late fifties and early sixties (alas!) remember the famous waiter in the Café de la Rotonde whose “_Boum!_” in answer to the cry of “_Garçon!_” rolled out in a deep bass voice that made all the cups and saucers and spoons and glasses rattle on the marble tables, made the fortune of the “patron” of the establishment. His fame lives, for our beloved Du Maurier has celebrated him in his masterpiece “Trilby.” M. Katakazy’s mimicry of this hero was the delight of St. Petersburg. He had, moreover, a very handsome wife, and that is always an asset for a diplomatist and private secretary. Here is another of the Prince’s harmless little vainglorious speeches. One day he called at the British Embassy with his son Michel, whom he presented to Lady Napier in the following words: “Permettez, Madame, que je vous présente le brûlot que je viens de lancer dans le monde.” Poor little _brûlot_! destined neither to set the Thames nor the Neva on fire! As the Prince was a widower, a lady who was a relation of his, used to do the honours for him at his parties, and she had her private apartments in his official residence. This lady had a great friend, an officer in one of the Guards’ regiments. One evening, when Prince Gortchakoff had a great official banquet, Tutcheff, who was one of the guests, as he drove up to the grand entrance saw this officer being admitted at the private door. As he reached the drawing-room, he heard the Prince making the lady’s excuses for not being present. “Figurez-vous son désespoir! Elle est retenue chez elle par une affreuse migraine.” “Ah, oui!” said Tutcheff the cruel, “je l’ai vue, sa migraine, qui montait chez elle au moment où je descendais de mon traineau.” Of course the story was all over the town the next morning.