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I inquired of Senor Agoncillo, the Philippine commissioner to Paris, whether those bloody stories were true. He scoffed at the notion that they might be so, and laughed and shouted "No, no!" as if he was having much fun. But Agoncillo is a lawyer and a diplomat, and I had heard so much, of this horrid society I did not feel positive it was certain that its alleged blood rites were fictitious.
Weed took charge of the press, and began, to the amused astonishment of the secretaries, by making what the Legation had learned to accept as the invariable mistake of every amateur diplomat; he wrote letters to the London Times. Mistake or not, Mr. Weed soon got into his hands the threads of management, and did quietly and smoothly all that was to be done.
This third wife, wrote one diplomat, will not be the last, for “those the King longs for will also want to be married.” The Prince in any case was always ready. Polygamy, in his eyes, was a prerogative of royalty. As the result of a Court intrigue in 1792 he had himself separated from Mademoiselle Dœnhof, crowning by this divorce the strange series of his conjugal evolutions.
The sister of his wife, Marie de Medici, became "King of France," as Talleyrand avers, and had a mad, glad, sad, bad, jolly time of it. Wherever the Duke of Mantua went, there too went Annibale Chieppo, the Minister of State. This man had a calm eye, a quiet pulse, and could locate any man or woman in his numerous retinue at any hour of the day or night. He was a diplomat, a soldier, a financier.
Actually, there is usually as much need of a diplomat here as between two nations. One very successful broker recently admitted that he tries to keep buyer and seller apart as much as possible when negotiating the details of price, terms, concessions and the like.
It was unfortunate for him that it was at a most trying and difficult time that he entered that department. The Spanish-American War was coming on, and there was necessity for exercising the most careful and skillful diplomacy. Senator Sherman's training and experience lay along other lines. He was not in any sense a diplomat, and his age unfitted him for the place.
The habits of the body, the handwriting, the sound of the voice, have often betrayed the woman who is in love, the diplomat who is attempting to deceive, the clever administrator, or the sovereign who is compelled to distinguish at a glance love, treason or merit hitherto unknown.
"The large size of picture gives us painters more courage to present our ideas with the utmost freedom and semblance of reality. ... I confess myself to be, by a natural instinct, better fitted to execute works of the largest size." He wrote this to the English diplomat Trumbull in 1621. In the midst of Rubens's greatest success as a painter came his diplomatic services.
I then made the acquaintance and acquired the friendship of that admirable diplomat whose subsequent career and mine have repeatedly crossed each other, Sir Edward Monson, then diplomatic agent at Ragusa, and of a brave and good soldier, the Austrian commander, General Ivanovich, of whom and of whose excellent family I have the most delightful recollections, and whose society during all the time I remained in Ragusa was my sole social refuge from the wretched life of a special correspondent in half-civilized regions.
When you've done your morning's work you go to your favorite café not with the one object in life to cram a Châteaubriand down your dry and resisting throat because he who labors must live, but to see your friends, to read your daily journals, to write your letters, and do it incidentally in the open air while some diplomat of a waiter serves you with food that assuages the palate, without insulting your mood.
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