We stepped up to Isabey, who had just put the finishing touches to the portrait of the young prince. It was a striking likeness, and, in common with all his works, pervaded by an exquisite grace. It was the identical picture he presented to Napoleon on the latter’s return from Elba in the following year. ‘What I like best in this portrait is its wonderful resemblance to that of Joseph II. when he was a child, which was given to me by Maria-Theresa. After all, this resemblance to a great man is a happy augury for the future.’
Then the prince complimented the painter on the perfect finish of his work, adding a few happily-chosen words on his European reputation.
‘I came to Vienna, M. le Maréchal,’ replied Isabey, ‘with the hope of being allowed to reproduce the features of all the celebrities that are here, and without doubt I ought to have started with yours.’
‘Assuredly, seeing that, in virtue of my age, I am the dean.’
‘No,’ retorted Isabey, who was also known for his ready wit, ‘not in virtue of your age, but as the model of all that is illustrious in this century.’
Meanwhile, young Napoleon had gone to a corner of the room in search of a regiment of wooden Uhlans which his grand-uncle Archduke Charles had sent him a few days previously. Set in motion by a piece of simple mechanism, the troopers, stuck on movable pins, imitated every military evolution, breaking the ranks, deploying into line, forming into columns, etc.
‘Time to begin our manœuvres, prince!’ shouted the marshal in a tone of command. Immediately the Uhlans were taken from their box and disposed in battle order. ‘Attention,’ cried the marshal, drawing his sword and assuming the attitude of a general on parade.
Stolidly attentive and grave, like a Russian grenadier, the child took up his position to the right of his troop, his hand on the spring. No sooner has the word of command left the old soldier’s lips than the movement is carried out with the utmost precision. A second order meets with similarly prompt obedience; the chief and the subaltern are equally grave. To watch the charming face of the child lighting up at this mimic piece of drill, and, on the other hand, to watch the aged and illustrious relic of the wars of the past becoming animated at the child’s grave demeanour, was a sight never to be forgotten. It looked as if the one had inherited the irresistible passion of his sire for the science of warfare; as if the other, suddenly growing younger by a couple of decades, was going to recommence his glorious campaigns. It was a delicious contrast, fit to inspire the genius of our greatest painters.