Just as my friend had ceased speaking, the door was opened, and the two valets-de-chambre of the prince, armed with shaving-pot and powder-puff, with the same solemn look as at the toilet of Louis Quatorze, described with such humour by Saint Simon, entered and took their station one on each side the doorway; but when the prince himself entered likewise, in dressing-gown and slippers, leaning on his cane, and bowing low, with a courteous “good morrow,” the picture was complete. Le grand monarque in his old age, Fagon and Bréville, seemed to arise before me. I have heard it said that one great test of the temper of a man is the mood in which he awakes from slumber. This certainly was true as applied to Prince Talleyrand, for perhaps at no other moment in the day was he more lively, more free from care, than at the hour of his toilet. It seemed as if the dreams of the past night had brought with them calm and pleasant recollections, for he was always more disposed to narrate at that moment than during the rest of the four-and-twenty hours. He had soon despatched the business upon which he had summoned me; but he bade me remain, and I was in no hurry to depart; for one by one the favoured few dropped in, and the conversation became interesting enough to make me behold without regret the hurrying off to the wood of a joyous caravan which issued from beneath the gateway with echoes of merriment. C. had busied himself in turning over the journals, translating from the various English papers the leading article of each, and pausing here and there to extract speeches and opinions most worthy of notice. I shall never forget that morning—it was the last opportunity which was afforded me of judging of the never-failing faculty of that _conteur intarissable_. The conversation had turned upon England, and it was in reference to some observation made in one of the articles which C. had just been reading that the prince expressed himself towards this country with an admiration and gratitude which I shall never forget.