“Well, well, the idea is not a bad one,” said C., laughing heartily; “it is certainly not the _matériel_ that would be wanting, and when we have time and solitude it may amuse us both. _One_ talent at least is secure, for you are undoubtedly a capital listener.” CHAPTER VIII. THE COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE, OF NECKLACE NOTORIETY. It will easily be believed that I did not lose sight of the promise which my friend had made with so much _bonhomie_, and the very first time I found myself alone with him, I did not forget to claim it. The opportunity occurred soon after the conversation I have just recorded. We were pacing together the long picture-gallery of the château; the rain was beating in torrents against the Gothic casements, and all hopes of going abroad had been abandoned. The prince had not left his chamber that morning. He was busily engaged, and had announced his intention of remaining _invisible_ until dinner. He was occupied “_à faire son Courier_,” as he called it, upon which occasion I have known him sign and send off an entire bag full of letters, not one of which was despatched without having first been carefully perused and corrected by himself. The facility and precision with which he could always find the exact word which was needed, and which his secretaries would, perhaps, have been seeking for some time in vain, was matter of the greatest admiration to all who witnessed it; but he could neither write nor dictate with ease; the most trifling _petit billet_ which, when completed, appeared the very model of graceful _laiser-aller_ and badinage, often gave him as much trouble to indite as one of his most complicated despatches. This, I think, may be attributable to the neglect of his early education. Subsequent study and careful reading may impart taste and erudition, but can rarely give facility. C. told me that he has known the prince remain for more than a week upon the composition of a letter of condolence or congratulation, if it chanced to be addressed to a brother wit, or one of whose criticism he might happen to stand in awe. In these cases, he would cause his secretary to write two or three letters, in different styles, upon the subject he had at heart, and would then compile from the number, one in his own writing, with his own piquant additions and improvements, which was soon bandied from hand to hand, and quoted in every _salon_ as a _chef-d’œuvre_ of wit and epigram. Those who were in the secret would smile at the unbounded praise bestowed by the journals upon the composition of his despatches (some of which are really masterpieces), and the wording of his protocols; for they well knew that they would scarcely have attracted a single moment’s notice had the truth been known.