AT THE STATES-GENERAL
Talleyrand was consecrated in the seminary-chapel at Issy, a house
of retreat belonging to Saint-Sulpice, on January 16th, 1788. He had
observed, in that age of forms, the form of making a preliminary
retreat at Issy. His delighted friends from Paris took care that the
“solitude,” as the place was called, should not depress him. The
ceremony was performed by the Bishop-Count of Noyon, Mgr. de Grimaldi,
a Voltairean prelate. There are two legendary versions of Talleyrand’s
bearing during the service. Renan was told by an aged priest who had
been present that he was so scandalised at the jauntiness of the new
prelate as to feel compelled to charge himself with disrespectful
thoughts at his next confession. Another version affirms that
Talleyrand fainted from some emotion or other during the morning. It
is more likely that Talleyrand bore himself with perfect propriety and
indifference. Liberal nobles and prelates rarely ridiculed religion
even in private conversation. “I have always moved in good society,”
said one at a later date, when asked if he had ever scoffed at sacred
things. Talleyrand would regard his share in the ceremony as a
regrettable necessity of his political career. It deceived nobody. In
the evening he returned to Paris, and received the pallium (a privilege
of the Autun bishopric) from the archbishop.
With the sonorous title of “Bishop of Autun, First Suffragan of
the Archbishop of Lyons, Administrator of the Temporalities and
Spiritualities of the said Archbishopric, _sede vacante_, Perpetual
President of the States of Burgundy, Count of Sanlien, Baron of
Issy-l’Evéque, Lucenay, Grosme, Touillon, &c.,” he was now somewhat
better equipped for political work. The See of Autun was one of
the most ancient in France, though its income was relatively very
small—22,000 livres a year. It was, however, regarded as having next
claim to the Archbishopric of Lyons, and the King had already bestowed
a second abbey (of Celles, with 9,500 livres a year) on Talleyrand,
and I find assigned to him in a list published at Paris in 1790, the
rich Abbey of Bec. He was able to resume his pleasant ways at Paris,
with an income of about 100,000 livres, and the credit of a rising
prelate. It is probably to this period that the story of his adventure
with the coach builder belongs. Receiving no answer to his applications
for payment for the new episcopal carriage, the maker presented
himself, hat in hand, at Talleyrand’s door when Monseigneur come out.
After a few days of this Talleyrand blandly asked him what he wanted.
“Oh, you will be paid,” he affably replied to the man. “But _when_,
Monseigneur?” “Oh, you are very inquisitive,” said the prelate with an
appearance of astonishment, as he drove away. It was the golden age of
debtors. The King once ventured to tell Archbishop Dillon that he had
heard he was greatly in debt. “I will consult my steward and report to
your Majesty,” said the prelate.
On the other hand Talleyrand found that he must at length resort to
actual duplicity to strengthen his position at Autun. The diocese
of Mgr. Marbœuf was likely to hear of the new appointment with some
misgiving. But already there were rumours of States-General, and it
was necessary to secure real influence at Autun. Within a fortnight
Talleyrand issued—let us hope he did not write—a letter to his
flock, which closed the mouths of the pious grumblers. It was full
of Scripture and redolent of a quiet, unmistakeable fervour and
simplicity. “God is my witness,” it says, in the words of St. Paul,
“that I am mindful of you without interruption.” He praises the zeal
of his clergy, alludes to those unhappy people who “only seek in
offices the miserable gratification of their vanity,” and urgently asks
their prayers for his comfort. It was read to tearful congregations
in all the churches of his diocese the next Sunday—Talleyrand being
detained in Paris. A few weeks later his useful secretary, the Abbé
des Renandes, was offered the Vicar-Generalship by the canons. He
would not fail to follow up the effect of the letter he had (probably)
written. On January 27th Talleyrand took possession of his cathedral,
by representative. Important events were preparing at Paris and
Versailles. A great arena for political adventure was being opened.
About the middle of March he was free to follow the impulse of his
heart and visit his beloved sheep; he had in his pocket the order to
convoke the preliminary assembly of the clergy which was to send him to
the States-General at Versailles.
This is really the most unpleasant page in Talleyrand’s life. I am glad
the writing of it is over. But there is—perhaps unhappily—no mystery
about it. He was carrying to logical conclusions the cynical estimate
of the ecclesiastical order which his experiences had forced on him.
On Sunday, March 15th, he took solemn possession of his cathedral, and
was honoured with a great fête. He took the oath, so often recalled by
his enemies afterwards, to defend all the rights and privileges and the
property of his church. He remained a month at Autun and captivated
everybody. Were there rumours of Voltairean opinions and loose
practices? He said his breviary daily in the garden—as anyone could
see—attended to every function of his office, presided at the episcopal
council, was a model bishop. Meantime his young abbé-assistants from
Paris were circulating in the diocese, their conversation always
ending with politics. There was open table at the episcopal palace
for the poor curés, and the reputation of some of his Lenten dishes
flew from parish to parish. The townspeople were badly supplied with
fish, and a word to friends at Versailles got the post to stop at
Autun and drop a load of fresh fish daily for the public market. The
religious congregations were amiably cultivated, and became zealous for
Monseigneur’s candidature. Soon there are 209 ecclesiastical electors
assembled at Autun, many of them rough, hard-working curés, who
distrust this descendant of all the Périgords. Monseigneur is tactful,
candid, democratic; quietly leads their meetings as honorary president.
He finds that the only serious rivals are Radical curés, with cries of
“Down with the aristocrats in Church and State,” and better salaries
for the “working clergy.” Then he issues his manifesto.
Sainte-Beuve was forced to say after reading it that Talleyrand “showed
from the first day that he was one of the most enlightened and most
penetrating minds of the time.” It met every serious grievance on which
his rivals depended, and it was perfectly sincere. Talleyrand was
not embittered against his order, like Mirabeau, by his experiences,
nor did he lean to democratic principles on the lines of the Duc
d’Orléans. He formed a sober and consistent judgment on the social
and political situation, and it does no less credit to his humanity
than his sagacity. He would claim at the States-General that that body
should not be arbitrarily interfered with or prematurely dispersed. He
would press for the making of a constitution as its first achievement;
and, for all Carlyle’s raillery, this was the first political need
of France. In this new constitution the rights of the people must be
recognised as well as those of the king. The new political structure
must have its first elements in the parish, and so up through
Provincial Assemblies to a permanent States-General. All elections
shall be free. The sanctity of private or corporate property shall
be respected, but only after claims have been judicially examined
and unsound claims rejected; in this he is clearly foreshadowing his
attitude towards Church property. The administration of justice shall
be simplified and purified; the criminal law reformed, lotteries
suppressed, privileges abolished. The press shall be free, and the post
shall not be interfered with. Feudal servitude shall be abolished.
There shall be a strict inquiry into the financial situation, a
reduction of expenditure, and the abolition of pecuniary privileges.
I repeat that this was not a rhetorical and insincere document, written
for the purpose of catching votes. There is, in the first place, no
rhetoric about it. It is a plain and sober statement of remedies for
the national malady. Then, it is quite in accord with the few previous
expressions of Talleyrand’s mind; and it is a faithful presentment
of the measures he proposed or supported unequivocally afterwards at
the National Assembly. To appreciate it fully, we must, as Mr. Belloc
strongly pleads, beware of reading the ideas of ’91 and ’92 into ’89.
Camille Desmoulins said there were not ten Republicans in France at
that time. There were demands for reform on every point that Talleyrand
takes up. I do not claim originality in the details, but the manifesto,
as a whole, is an unanswerable refutation of those who would see
nothing but frivolity, selfishness and cynicism in its author. His
experiences had made him almost incapable of a zeal for an abstract
ideal of justice, but his sympathy and humanity, as well as his
political sagacity, gave a serious strain to his work. He was elected
deputy by a large majority, and his address, with a few additions, was
adopted by his clergy as their _cahier_ or book of instructions to
their representative.
But from the moment of his election he ceased to be an ecclesiastic,
as far as possible. He left for Paris on Easter Sunday, not waiting to
officiate at the services or to follow the retreat of the clergy which
was commencing. His parishioners never saw him again; except that,
thirteen years afterwards, his carriage broke down at Autun, as he
passed through on the way to Lyons, and he is said to have been rather
roughly noticed.
The next fortnight was spent in feverish debate at Paris on the
forthcoming meeting. At the Thirty Club, where cultured Radicals
foregathered, and where Talleyrand and Mirabeau had met the boldest
politicians of their class during the last year or two, the interest
was deep. Lafayette, Roederer, the Dukes de Luynes and Larochefoucauld,
Sabatier, and other Liberals belonged to it, as well as some of
Talleyrand’s earlier friends. A new salon that he frequented, and that
rang with political controversy, was that of Mme. de Staël. Necker’s
daughter had married the Swedish Minister in 1786, and she succeeded
in drawing Talleyrand into her social circle. In such a circle
the dangers and possibilities of the coming meeting were properly
appreciated. These men, resolutely bent on anticipating instead of
waiting for events, like the bulk of the nobles and the King’s party,
saw clearly enough that the great question was: Will the voting be by
orders separately or in common? The country had been agitated over the
question what proportion of delegates should be allowed to the Third
Estate. The King had granted them a representation equal to that of
the first two orders together, or 600 members. But the effect of this
was inappreciable until the procedure of voting had been settled; and
this had been left undecided. No one, indeed, approached the date with
the feeling of solemnity with which we now look back on it through the
smoke of the revolutionary fires. But the situation was serious for
men who, like Talleyrand, were bent on making the national parliament
a reality. If the orders were to vote separately, the machine would
produce nothing; if together, the Third Estate would be supported by
the democratic curés and would rule the Assembly.
And were the people prepared for this power? Talleyrand must have
stopped many a time in the gardens of the Palais Royal, now the agora
of Paris, and listened to the barrel-oratory before the cafés. Men who
had been seen washing their only shirt in the Seine a few months ago
are leading crowds. Pamphlets are poured out by the thousand. The
Duc d’Orléans is fanning the flames that break out here and there.
Mirabeau is thundering. Sieyès is giving substance to the quips of
Chamfort. Grim, gaunt, ragged crowds flood the street at the slightest
provocation, sack merchants’ houses, and attack the troops. Talleyrand
goes to Versailles in thoughtful mood. Popular representation on the
English plan, with a second house, is the only hope.
Arnault describes in his _Souvenirs_ how he saw Talleyrand at
Versailles at that time. He would have us believe that he did not
know the bishop, but was struck by this “angel’s face through which
broke the spirit of a devil.” He would have thought it the face of
a fast-living officer, but for the cassock and pectoral cross. The
portrait given in the _Galerie des États-Généraux_, of Choderlos de
Laclos, is of greater value, because it was drawn at the time. It gives
the estimate in which he was held by his shrewder contemporaries.
Intelligence, it is said, is his distinctive gift. Moderation, tact,
and restraint are well cultivated. He is mild to a possible fault. He
“yields to circumstances, to reason, and thinks he can make concessions
for the sake of peace, without deserting the principles which he has
made the ground of his morality and conduct.” His future depends on
himself. If he is influenced by _esprit de corps_ he will do nothing;
if he acts independently he may do anything. We are justified in
thinking that Talleyrand had made up his mind to act independently,
though he had no dream of leading. He was for a limited monarchy and a
second chamber representing culture and wealth.[14] Beyond this he was
for Talleyrand, for France, and for humanity.
On the very eve of the opening of the States-General he received
another proof of the foolishness of the order to which he now belonged.
A few days before the 4th the leaders of the clergy met at the Cardinal
de la Rochefoucauld’s house at Versailles to discuss the situation.
All were agreed, to Talleyrand’s disgust, that this was a favourable
opportunity for asking the nation to extinguish their debt. One of
their number was deputed to introduce the proposal, and for a long time
they clung to it. Clearly, one must not sacrifice much for clerical
_esprit-de-corps_.
Then the 4th of May arrives. Chaos settles into order at Versailles.
Talleyrand notes the petty devices by which royalism mitigates its
concession of popular representation. On the previous day the King had
received the deputies: first the Clergy and Nobles, then, with less
ceremony, the Commons. He notes, too, how the leaders of the Commons
are beginning to emphasize the distinction. “Three orders? No: three
nations,” says Sieyès, constitution-maker for the next ten years. Now
they march to the _Salle des menus_, all Paris lining the route or
hanging out of the windows. Talleyrand sees the 550 popular deputies
greeted with a roar of applause; mostly lawyers, with set faces under
their “slouch-hats.” He sees the plumed and embroidered nobles, “the
illustrious obscure,” tread daintily between silent hedges of soldiers
and people. He marks the same silence as he and his forty colleagues in
violet cassock and lace surplice step out, followed, with a convenient
band between, by 260 curés. He hears the shouts of _Vive le Roi_ in the
rear: the Queen is ignored. Even in the intoxication of the spectacle
and its symbolism the people discriminate conspicuously. The next
day he is interested to hear the King express his pleasure that the
privileged “are going to renounce their privileges” and Necker rub in
the lesson. And he notices that first innovation in the history of
France, when commoners put their hats on before the King has got out of
the room. It is the first shot. On the third day the Third Estate finds
itself alone in the great hall. The clergy and the nobility are meeting
separately, as of old, to verify their papers. The commoners see that
this means separate votes and impotence, and the historic battle begins.
History has described the fortunes of the Commons. I must follow
Talleyrand into the obscurer meeting-place of the First Estate.
The Nobles, pampered and encouraged by the unfortunate Queen, were
violently opposed to union with the Commons. The Clergy knew they
were fatally divided, being themselves composed of two orders, and
their leaders were for a policy of drifting or compromise. Cardinal
de la Rochefoucauld was president, and he contrived to bring the
Clergy together for three hours a day for six weeks without doing
anything. Some of the curés spoke at once in favour of joining the
Commons, but they were silenced by an agreement to verify their papers
“provisionally” where they were: the delegates from Paris, and several
others, had not yet arrived. The Commons break in on their provisional
action the next day by inviting them to come into the large hall—into
which their own hall opens—and the struggle begins. The prelates name
commissioners to discuss the matter with their colleagues of the other
orders. The Commons, after a grumble, assent: the Nobles assent,
but practically say their decision is taken. The cardinal suspends
sittings, but there is mutiny amongst the curés, who are going to
appoint a new president, and he hastily retracts. A week is taken up
in “provisional” verification, voting commissioners, being polite to
each other (except when a deputation comes from Dauphiné to disown the
Archbishop of Vienne as improperly elected), and hair-splitting. On
the 13th they send deputies to inform the Commons they have appointed
commissioners: the deputies announce on their return that they were
“not so well received as they had expected.” Fourteen days more are
spent in discussing their _cahiers_ (instructions), disputes about
titles and costumes, abandonment of privileges (which is carried
in general form, but disputed in detail), homage to the King, and
indignation that pamphlets are in circulation accusing them of
slowness. On the 27th they are “examining their _cahiers_” when “a
numerous deputation” of grim, business-like lawyers from the Third
break in, and implore them “in the name of the God of Peace and the
interest of the nation” to stop quibbling and join the Commons. The
deputies are bowed out, and a discussion follows, which is interrupted
by M. Target and his companions once more with the same message. They
are assured that the Clergy are going to “occupy themselves seriously”
with the matter.
Talleyrand knew (as all his colleagues did) that these men of business
had been sitting in the next room day after day in the most painful
idleness. They would not open a letter or do a single act that could
be construed as an admission that they were a separate body. They were
“a meeting of citizens,” waiting to be joined by other citizens to
do the business of the State. It was now clear that their resolution
was unshakeable, and Talleyrand and the moderates cursed Necker very
freely. The situation was becoming serious. Citizens from Paris (who
had now sent their deputies) keep running down to see how business is
proceeding. The curés are getting restless. One of them is interrupted
by a Vicar-General, and he says: “Hold your tongue, monsieur.” Prelates
leap to their feet in horror. Then some of the curés induce a secretary
to begin at the bottom of his list when he is calling the names. One
of the bishops rushes at him and snatches the list from his hand. That
night (the 27th) 60 or 70 curés meet and decide to press matters.
The next day there is a warm debate, when the cardinal produces a
letter from the King, who is painfully surprised to hear there is some
hitch or other; the commissioners will meet to-morrow in presence
of his keeper of the seals. Another fortnight goes in meetings of
commissioners, &c. The Nobles have sent to say they are determined to
remain a separate order, and the shifty cardinal has betrayed himself:
“Your fathers built and defended our churches: you will be to-day
the saviours of your country.” They have tried, too, to tempt the
Commons into action by inviting them to discuss the pitiful condition
of the country; just what we are waiting for you to come and discuss,
reply the Commons. Now (the 10th) Sieyès, the cool, hard-headed
ex-theologian, is urging the Commons to “cut the cable.” On the 12th a
deputation of ten offers a dignified but unmistakeable invitation to
the clergy; they get a promise of “serious consideration.” The next
morning it appears that three curés have joined the Third; three more
go during the discussion: five the next day. On the 17th they hear
that the Commons have constituted themselves the National Assembly.
On the 19th they put the question of union to a formal vote. The
cardinal says that separation is maintained by 135 votes against 127.
The archbishops of Vienne and Bordeaux, the leaders of the unionists,
cry that the list has been manipulated, and keep their party in the
hall; they turn out to number 149 (against 115). Talleyrand marches out
with the separatists, who are hooted by the great crowd at the door;
the Archbishop of Vienne and his colleagues are carried in triumph.
Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld and the Archbishop of Paris fly to the
King.
The rest of this story of the disruption of the First Order and the
consequent recognition of the National Assembly (the Revolution) is
well known. Talleyrand was opposed to union. He looked with anxiety to
the formation, in a totally uneducated country with a wide franchise,
of a single elective chamber. We know now how just his concern was. He
and the moderate reformers pressed the King (through M. d’Artois) to
dissolve the States-General at whatever cost, and make a fresh appeal
on a stricter franchise. He was told that it was too late (and in this
the King was probably right), and had then to witness the miserable
devices by which the royal party insinuated a power they dare not
assert. The halls were closed to prepare for a royal sitting, and
the famous oath in the tennis-court was the result. That night (June
20-21st) or the following Talleyrand probably made his last effort to
stem the tide of the Revolution. He has told us in the memoirs how he
and one or two other Liberal nobles went to Marly by night to see and
advise the King.[15] The King would not see them, and his brother
told them that their proposals—namely, that the King should disperse
the present Assembly and proclaim a fresh election—could not be
considered. Talleyrand then said that the Prince could not hold them
responsible if in the course of events they felt compelled to throw
in their lot with the popular party, and M. d’Artois replied that he
could not blame them. Talleyrand thereupon returned to Versailles with
a deep resentment of the folly of the King’s advisers and a feeling of
independence. “Under pain of folly,” he writes, “it was time to think
of oneself.” He, of course, held to his ideal of a limited monarchy,
but it was clear that this might have to be attained in spite of the
Court party. He proposed to watch the development closely and act as
circumstances would direct.
On the Monday the tennis-court was closed—reserved for the Princes to
play—and the deputies, after wandering about Versailles in sight of
an angry crowd, met in the church of St. Louis. There 151 clerical
deputies, with two archbishops at their head, join them amidst the
wildest excitement. The royal sitting takes place on the Tuesday. The
King promises considerable reforms and then affects authority, and
orders them to separate into their respective rooms. Talleyrand saw, on
the one hand, the delighted nobles crowding about the Queen, in the
belief that all danger was over; and, on the other, the sullen Commons
send Brézé to tell the King they will only yield to bayonets, and King
Louis abdicate, as he says, “Let them stay”; and 6,000 people invade
the chateau with cries for Necker. The Archbishop of Paris has to fly
for his life. Soldiers refuse to fire on the crowd. On the next day
(24th) the clergy find the door walled up that leads to the Assembly,
and the minority continues its separate sitting, but its members melt
away. On the 26th Talleyrand and the Bishop of Orange quietly take
seats in the National Assembly; they are presently followed by the
Archbishop of Paris. On the 27th the King enjoins the rest of the
Clergy and the Nobles to unite with the National Assembly. Talleyrand
sees the crowds frantically cheer the King and Queen, but he knows it
is the royal submission, not the royal authority, they are greeting.
It is from this date, and during the next three years, that Talleyrand
is especially found enigmatic, and I must trace his course with care,
avoiding the temptation to linger over the stirring scenes of the time.
Talleyrand’s opposition to the union of the three orders is clear
enough; he wanted a second chamber as a check on undisciplined passion.
When it became imperative he went into the Assembly to do what good
he should find possible. He was becoming seriously concerned for the
nation. He knew well the leaders of the democratic party. Desmoulins
was living with his friend Mirabeau at Versailles, and Sieyès was
often there. Sieyès ridiculed the English model. Desmoulins was a
Republican.
[Illustration: CAMILLE DESMOULINS.]
On July 7th Talleyrand spoke for the first time in the Assembly, and
made a great impression. The question had been raised whether the
deputies should still consider themselves bound by the instructions
given them by the electors. Talleyrand, Sieyès and Mirabeau urged the
abandonment of these _cahiers_, and carried it by a huge majority.
Lytton defends Talleyrand’s action, and it is intelligible enough. The
chief point of his subtle and rather formal speech is that the new
Assembly is deliberative, and that therefore “imperative” instructions
would only hamper its usefulness. Meantime the situation outside grows
serious. Necker is dismissed, Paris is breaking prisons, troops are
gathering thick round the capital and Versailles. Talleyrand marks the
ascendancy of the violent Mirabeau. On the 13th the Assembly, receiving
an unsatisfactory reply from the King, formally demands the withdrawal
of the troops, censures the King’s advisers, decrees the consolidation
of the national debt, and declares its sitting permanent. After a short
adjournment during the night they meet with grave looks at five on the
Tuesday morning, and settle down to the work of forming a committee to
prepare the constitution.[16] Deputies and spectators run in and out
all the morning—the Queen and nobles are mixing with the soldiers in
the orangery, the Parisians are arming, the air is thick with plots and
rebellion. The Prince de Lambesc gallops past for Paris. Deputies fancy
they hear the sound of cannon. At last the heroic nerve of the Assembly
fails, and Mirabeau proposes that they send a deputation to the King.
Then the Vicomte de Noailles and others from Paris are announced, and
walk up the great hall amidst a strained silence. The streets of Paris
are red with blood; the people are storming the Bastille, the symbol of
the old order. About midnight they hear that the Bastille has fallen.
They separate about two, but reassemble early in the morning, and send
deputation after deputation to the distracted monarch, who has been
awakened from his sleep to be told there is “a revolution.” As the
fifth delegation is going, with a ferocious message from Mirabeau, King
Louis is announced, and is received with chilling silence. But he makes
a fine speech, and promises everything—to disband the troops, recall
Necker, and so on.
A feeling akin to that of intoxication is growing epidemic, but
Talleyrand coolly watches the strange scenes with the keen, blue-grey
eyes under the bushy eye-brows. He sees these prim lawyers crowding
like schoolboys about the King as he returns to the chateau, covered
with sweat and dust, and the royal family again on the balcony and the
great crowds wild with rejoicing. Then he returns to the hall, and is
deputed to set out at once with ninety-nine other members to inform
Paris and allay its panic. Through long lines of drawn and excited
faces—Paris has not been to bed for three days and nights—they drive up
the Rue Saint Honoré to the sound of trumpets. At the Hotel de Ville
they tell their news, and heaven and earth seem to melt in confusion.
Lally-Tollendal is crowned with a wreath, but he passes it on to the
archbishop, and the sedate prelate is dragged to the window where
thousands of Bastille stormers cheer him. Then they march to Notre Dame
to sing a Te Deum. Talleyrand sees the archbishop arm-in-arm with the
black, ragged Abbé Lefèvre, who has been chief powder-distributor; and
the placid, learned Bailly arm-in-arm with Hullin, the chief Bastille
stormer, with four fusiliers as guard of honour. On they go through
lanes of patriots—many of them monks and priests—with bloody pikes and
axes and scythes, and faces unwashed for a week, and scraps of valuable
old armour from the museums over tattered costumes. What a Paris
compared with that he had left only three months before.
The following morning the deputies gave an account to the Assembly, and
crowned the confusion by proposing to erect a statue of the King on the
site of the Bastille. That night M. d’Artois and the Court nobles fled
from France. It is probable enough that Talleyrand saw him, though the
account in the memoirs is very inaccurate; he states explicitly that
he was invited to fly with the Prince, but refused. In the morning the
King went to Paris—driving between 200,000 silent men with pikes,
sabres, scythes, axes, and lances—and renewed his promises. But as the
news of the fall of the Bastille spread through the provinces it lit
up the same conflagration over the country. About sixty monasteries
and nunneries were burned in Talleyrand’s diocese. His uncle’s chateau
was burned down during the night of July 29th. The Assembly appointed
a committee to enquire into the disorders whilst it discussed the
advisability of prefixing a declaration of the Rights of Man to the new
Constitution. Fifty deputies demanded speech on the subject, and the
flow of oratory began on August 1st. Meantime addresses and deputations
poured in on the Assembly from all parts: thirty-one on July 24th,
thirty-eight on the 28th, and so on.
By August 4th the deputies seem to have been wrought to a curious
pitch of nervousness by the oratory and the addresses. In the morning
a letter from the King is read, from which they learn that their
Archbishop of Bordeaux has been made Keeper of the Seals, and the
Archbishop of Vienne has been given the _feuille des bénéfices_. There
is great rejoicing and acclamation of the King. In the afternoon the
Vicomte de Noailles mounts the tribune and proposes that, in “this age
of light, when sound philosophy has regained its sway,” the nobles
shall lay at the feet of the nation every one of their privileges. The
Duc d’Aiguillon supports the proposal. A marquis, another viscount,
and a bishop (a colleague quarrelling for priority) follow with the
same story. Michelet is unfair when he says the Clergy were the last
and the least willing to join. Soon the steps of the tribune are
crowded with men eager to renounce age-old privileges, and a scene
unique in the history of the world is witnessed. Nobles abdicate their
feudal rights, bishops abandon their benefices, the Clergy rise in a
body to renounce tithe, starving curés forswear their miserable incomes
(without a smile), barons part with their baronies, towns and provinces
give up their proudest privileges. Time after time business—if this
ought to be called business—is suspended till emotions can subside a
little. At two in the morning they conclude with the ordering of a
special medal and a _Te Deum_.
We do not distinguish Talleyrand in the crowd of enthusiasts, but he
soon appears when it comes to the sober and detailed execution of
the promise. On the 6th he proposed to distinguish between feudal
rights that could be forthwith extinguished and rights that should be
compensated. On the 11th he becomes more prominent. It was understood
on the 4th that tithe would be redeemed, but, some of the Clergy
haggling a little, the philosophic Marquis Lacoste proposed on the 10th
that they abolish it outright, and Chasset made a formal motion to that
effect. The Clergy resisted at first, and Sieyès supported them; but on
the 11th the Archbishop of Paris declared with great solemnity that the
Clergy surrendered its tithe to the nation, and trusted to its honour
for a proper provision for worship and religion. There was a loud
outburst of applause, and the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld and several
bishops rose to support their leader. Then the deep, slow, suave voice
of Talleyrand broke through the uproar, and, to the astonishment
of all, he drily demanded that it be entered in the minutes that
Chasset’s motion of the previous day had been passed unanimously. This
meant nearly all the difference between an enforced and a voluntary
surrender. It was the beginning of Talleyrand’s secession from the
clerical body. It is usually thought that he wanted to conciliate the
Radicals by having the result cast in the form of a victory for them.
It is probable enough that this was in his mind, but it is probable too
that he distrusted sentimental promises and thought it advisable to
have a formal motion passed.
The remainder of August was taken up with the discussion of the form in
which the Rights of Man should be declared. Talleyrand intervened once
or twice with effect. It was he, supported by Mirabeau, who induced the
Assembly to cut out the two Articles relating to religion and morals.
He has been censured for this, but his speech is a quite honest plea
for a purely secular and political declaration, without any antagonism
to religion. Long afterwards we shall find him pleading eloquently for
moral instruction and for lessons in religion in the schools. On the
18th he was appointed Secretary, and on the 27th spoke with great
effect in support of a proposed loan. In the long and stormy debates
of September on the subject of the royal Veto, in the course of which
the distinction of Right and Left became fully pronounced, Talleyrand
took no part. The life of the people’s Assembly must have jarred on
his taste. A hundred deputies at once would spring to their feet and
out-bawl each other, only the roar of a Mirabeau or a Maury being heard
through the din. Gallery also joined in—encouraging, threatening,
whistling and singing. How Talleyrand must have longed for his Upper
House—and a seat in it! Through this chaotic period it was almost
useless to have a constructive policy. His one preoccupation was, as
Aimée de Coigny afterwards said, to assist in allaying violence and to
see that as little blood as possible be shed. His moderate colleagues
on the Constitution-Committee resigned, but he and Sieyès were
appointed on the new committee, and he continued his effort to frame a
constitutional check for the daily increasing violence.