The usual choice company waited. There was the Marquis of G., the
ambassador from home, Col. Leigh, an attache of that embassy, the
Spanish and Belgian ministers,--all of whom, with myself, completed a
diplomatic circle. There were also wits and artists, but no ladies whose
beauty exceeded that of the St. Cyrs. With nearly all of this assemblage
I held certain relations, so that I was immediately at ease--G. was the
only one whom, perhaps, I would rather not have met, although we were
the best of friends. They awaited but one, the Baron Stahl. Meanwhile
Delphine stood coolly taking the measurement of the Marquis of G., while
her mother entertained one and another guest with a low-toned flattery,
gentle interest, or lively narration, as the case might demand.
In a country where a _coup d'etat_ was as easily given as a box on the
ear, we all attentively watched for the arrival of one who had been sent
from a neighboring empire to negotiate a loan for the tottering throne
of this. Nor was expectation kept long on guard. In a moment, "His
Excellency, the Baron Stahl!" was announced.
The exaggeration of his low bow to Mme. de St. Cyr, the gleam askance of
his black eye, the absurd simplicity of his dress, did not particularly
please me. A low forehead, straight black brows, a beardless cheek with
a fine color which gave him a fictitiously youthful appearance, were the
most striking traits of his face; his person was not to be found fault
with; but he boldly evinced his admiration for Delphine, and with a
wicked eye.
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