The Baron de Stürmer, the Austrian minister, is about fifty years of age, partially bald, and remarkably grave-looking when not excited; but his address is peculiarly agreeable, and his smile like lightning. Madame la Baronne is a good specimen of the present school of Parisian breeding—her pride is blent with playfulness, and her courtesy is as gracious as it is graceful. Although _tant soit peu precieuse_—she is perfectly free from pedantry, and is a delightful conversationist. She has memories of Napoleon at St. Helena, where she resided for several years; anecdotes, _piquantes_ and political—those well-worded and softly-articulated compliments which seat you upon velvet; and, above all, that air of genuine _laissez aller insouciance_ which no woman save a Parisian ever thoroughly acquires. I am indebted to the elegant hospitality of this lady for many of the most pleasant hours that I spent in the Frank circle at Pera. M. de Boutenieff, the Russian minister, has a face which, for the first five minutes, baffles you by its contradictory expression—there is a character of benevolence and gentleness about the forehead and eyes that attracts, while the subtle curve of the lip repulses by its cast of craft and caution—his conversation is easy, courtly, and pleasing; and his unremitted good humour and affability render him universally popular in society. Madame de Boutenieff, who is his second wife, is young, graceful, and lively—an indefatigable dancer, and a fascinating hostess; and, moreover, the niece of Nesselrode. The _soirées dansantes_ at the Russian palace terminated with a masked ball, which worthily wound up the Carnival, and was sustained with great spirit. The fair hostess herself, with two ladies attached to the legation, and the wife of the French chancellor, personated angels, who were led into the ball-room by a _parti carré_ of devils, embodied by four of the Russian secretaries. Some of our politicians will assuredly smile at the conceit, nor can I forebear to admit the propriety of the fancy; for truly, when I consider the number of _attachés_ to the Russian Legation, as compared with that of the other powers at this court, I am inclined to allow that “their name is legion.” Even in a ball-room the Russian supremacy is palpably evident—their number, their political power, their never-ceasing efforts at popularity—cannot be forgotten for a moment. There is diplomacy in every action—in every look—in every tone—and withal a self-gratulatory, quiet species of at-home-ness every where and with everybody, which shews you at once that they are quite at ease, at least, for the present.