I do not know anyone who remembers a single word uttered by Francis Joseph that was worth repeating. His conversation in the Imperial circle was disconcertingly cold and poor. He never became animated except when talking scandal, but that was generally in the apartment of Madame Schratt, who constituted alike his refuge and his relaxation, where he was really "at home" and where he was simply "Franz" or "Joseph." I have seen Madame Schratt at the Burg Theatre. Her influence (if she ever had any, other than that of permitting the Emperor to escape from the insufficiencies which constituted the fatalities of his life) was not injurious to any living soul. An actress at the Comédie Française of Vienna, pretty, and honest by nature, Katti Schratt was a "Brohan," and her gaiety of heart at least pleased the Sovereign. He first gave her a peaceful and an assured position, and then one fine evening he quietly introduced her to the Court, where the Empress resigned herself admirably to this Imperial audacity. She was quite satisfied in knowing that Francis Joseph was now methodical in his passions, had curtailed his excesses and had chosen a confidante who did not pretend to be anything more than a recreation for him. There was a great difference between Madame Schratt and Madame de Maintenon. There was a still greater difference between Francis Joseph and Louis XIV. But so far as actual looks went, the Emperor might easily have been taken for his _maître d'hôtel_ had it not been for his uniform and his surroundings. Seen at close quarters he was a very ordinary person. Two bad habits, however, were noticeable in him: at the least perplexity he pulled and massaged his side-whiskers, and at dinner he frequently looked at his reflection in the blade of his knife. As for the rest of his actions, he ate, he drank, he slept, he walked, he hunted, he spoke according to the accepted ritual laid down by the circumstances of the hour, the day, and the calendar. These mannerisms were hardly disturbed by revolutions, wars or misfortunes. He greeted his calamities with the same expression with which he noticed if it were raining when he was about to leave for Ischl. When his son killed himself, when his wife was assassinated, he did not lose one ounce of flesh; his step was as firm as ever, and his hair just as faultlessly dressed. The funeral ceremonies over, nothing changed in Austria. Francis Joseph still continued to speak in just the same tones of the love of his people towards himself, and of his love for them. And that same evening he was with Madame Schratt. To this man devoid of brilliance, without courage, and without justice, I owe the misfortunes of my life. At the time when he should have filled his place as Sovereign and head of the house where I was concerned, he did not do so because he was afraid.