“Oh, that is the Count de F.,” said my friend, “the antiquated beau of Parisian high life. He is the same gay philanderer, the same favoured swain, the object of as many fluttering sighs and tender regrets, as he was thirty years ago, when he was in his prime, or forty years ago, when he was young. Some people have affixed a nearer relationship between him and the prince than the latter has ever chosen to avow. Be this as it may, the count, whether from this cause, or from the number of years which he has spent in the friendship and society of the Prince de Talleyrand, has imbibed much of his ready wit and cold, sarcastic philosophy, and displays them sometimes at the expense of others, with the same reckless disregard of feelings or _amour propre_. His victims are numerous, but they too are sometimes fully revenged by the prince, with whom he cannot vie, in spite of the florid wit and forked satire in which he will indulge. “The poor count had well nigh been overwhelmed, sunk for ever, on one occasion, by a witticism of Talleyrand’s, which spread over Paris in an incredibly short space, and filled the heart of the poor old dandy with gall and bitterness. The prince had always rallied the count most unmercifully upon his absurd pretensions to youth and gallantry, and yet, in spite of this, so great is the infatuating effect of love, that the latter was foolish and unguarded enough to mention, with great mystery, a new conquest which he had made, and upon which he piqued himself not a little. This time it was a lady of talent, rank, and fashion, and he wished most particularly to _keep_ his conquest, now that he had so fairly won it. It was just at the period of the new year, and _étrennes_ were flying in every direction. “‘I should like to give the lady of my heart something that would please her,’ said the count; ‘do assist me, prince; what can I procure that would be most rare—something unique of its kind—something that is but seldom seen, and of which the like could not be brought to her from anybody else.’ “The prince appeared to reflect for a moment, and the count waited impatiently for the answer. “‘I have it—I have it,’ at length exclaimed the prince, joyfully. “‘What? tell me quickly, I will go this moment and procure it.’ “‘No need to stir,’ returned the prince, drily; ‘give her one of the hairs of your head—if you can;—it must indeed be a thing unique of its kind, and of which none could bring her the fellow.’ “This allusion to the baldness of the antiquated Adonis was irresistible; the _bon mot_ was sure to be remembered wherever he appeared, and for a long time it drove him from the society of those who had heard it. It was only when he had _proved_ the reality of his pretensions, by the splendid marriage which he made soon afterwards, that he regained confidence, and once more appeared as you now behold him, more soft and Cupid-like, more captivating, and more _papillonant_ than ever.