AWAY FROM NAPOLEON
The legendary version of Talleyrand’s character that still lingers
amongst encyclopædists and historians is refuted by his resignation
in 1807. No cause can be assigned for it except an honest refusal to
co-operate further with Napoleon’s harsh and dangerous and selfish
policy. “Napoleon has abandoned the cause of peoples and is bent only
on personal glory. He has entered on the fatal path of nepotism, in
which I shall decline to follow him.” Talleyrand said this in 1807, not
as a later explanation of his step. To Mme. de Rémusat he also said, in
the same year: “Napoleon suspects me whenever I speak of moderation; if
he ceases to believe me you will see with what folly he will compromise
himself and us.” We are offered no serious alternative as a motive of
Talleyrand’s retirement, which Count von Senfft describes as “very
honorable.” The Emperor, says Senfft, wanted “absolutely submissive
instruments.” Talleyrand declined to be one, as soon as the tragic
selfishness of Napoleon was fully revealed. No one affected not to
understand his action. It was a protest—a protest made at the height of
Napoleon’s power. He had worked loyally and well with the Emperor “to
establish for France monarchical institutions which should guarantee
the authority of the sovereign by restricting it within just limits;
and to induce Europe not to grudge France her prosperity and glory.”
Now Napoleon’s ambition was naked, France was burdened with the most
exacting and ruinous military servitude to it, humanity was trodden
under foot. And the only man in France to refuse further service was
the man who is glibly described as devoid of principle or ideal, and
prepared at all times to sell his soul to the wealthiest master.
So little obligation is felt to historical facts by those early and
malicious biographers of Talleyrand, on whom our historians seem to
rely, that Michaud says he is “quite sure” Talleyrand remained even
after Tilsit the inspirer of Napoleon’s plans of conquest. Michaud is
thinking in the first place of Napoleon’s descent on Spain, and it must
be admitted that it requires careful study to determine Talleyrand’s
attitude on this subject. Just before Jena, the Spanish minister,
Godoy, had commenced operations for war against some unnamed Power,
which all knew to be France, and Napoleon had sworn to Talleyrand that
he would extinguish the Spanish Bourbons. When the news of Napoleon’s
success reached Madrid, Godoy endeavoured to undo his terrible blunder,
and Napoleon concealed for a time the claw that was in readiness for
Spain. They returned to Paris in August, and Napoleon shortly turned
his attention to the Peninsula. Portugal had refused to join in the
blockade against England. A treaty was signed by Spain and France,
dividing it (in very unequal fractions) between them, and the French
troops crossed the Pyrenees.
I need only summarise here the rapid and disgraceful succession of
events in Spain. After Portugal had been taken, the French troops
remained masters of Spain. In March the Spanish people, threatened
with national ruin and disgusted with their incompetent and scandalous
rulers, effected a Revolution. Charles IV abdicated, and was replaced
by Ferdinand. Napoleon arrived at Bayonne, enticed both Ferdinand and
the late Royal Family there by a trick, and forced them to abdicate.
He wrote to Talleyrand on May 1st: “King Charles is a frank and
good-looking fellow. The Queen’s sentimentality and history are written
on her face—that will tell you enough. Godoy looks like a bull....
He had better be relieved of any imputation of lying, but must be
left covered with a thin veil of contempt. Ferdinand is a brute, very
malicious, and very hostile to France.” A few days later he wrote again
to say that Talleyrand must receive and guard the Spanish princes
at the mansion he had just bought at Valençay. “Your mission is an
honourable one,” he says, sarcastically. “To receive and entertain
three illustrious personages is quite in keeping with the character of
the nation and with your rank.”
Talleyrand affirms in the memoirs that he had entirely disapproved
the Spanish expedition, and that Napoleon sent the princes to him in
order to make it appear that he approved. His enemies and Napoleon
declare that he fully endorsed and urged the expedition until its evil
effects were clear, and then disowned it. We have here another of the
“mysteries” of Talleyrand’s career. The subject had arisen while he was
with the Emperor in Germany and Poland, and, although he had resigned
the Foreign Ministry on their return, it must not be supposed that he
ceased entirely to share the conduct of foreign affairs. Senfft says
that his successor in the Ministry, Champagny, so bored and annoyed
Napoleon by the contrast of his incompetence, that Talleyrand was
practically recalled to office in October. The truth seems to be that
his Chancellorship, which gave him a certain formal interest in foreign
affairs, was interpreted with some elasticity. For a time Talleyrand
did not resist this. We shall find him doing important work presently.
He had made his protest sufficiently clear.
However, in the matter of the Spanish expedition it seems possible to
show that Talleyrand had little or no influence. Did he, or did he not,
approve the expedition, apart from the treacherous termination? In his
memoirs he says that he violently opposed this “insensate” invasion,
and that “the disgrace which my candour brought on me justifies me in
my conscience for separating myself from his policy and finally from
his person.” This was written, of course, after all the world saw the
blunder. Thiers concludes that he recovered Napoleon’s favour after
Tilsit by complaisance in his Spanish plans. He relies on Cambacérès,
who is habitually hostile to Talleyrand. Pasquier, another hostile
writer, says that Talleyrand urged Napoleon to make war on Spain, and
appropriate the crown. D’Hauterive is described by his biographer as
saying that Talleyrand was “in favour of the expedition _on certain
conditions_.” Napoleon declared to Las Cases that Talleyrand “goaded
him into war.” Mme. de Rémusat, generally credible, says Talleyrand
“was in favour of an open declaration of war” to overthrow the dynasty
in the interest of Spain. Lytton quotes Beugnot for his belief that
Talleyrand opposed the expedition altogether; and Count Ségur quotes de
Pradt virtually to the same effect.
We have the usual conflict of evidence. We must at once distrust
Napoleon’s later statements. The ex-Emperor would not take the trouble
to “lie beautifully.” He forfeits all claim to be heard here when
he goes on to say that Talleyrand urged him to murder the Spanish
princes! I am just as ready to surrender Talleyrand’s statement that
he “vehemently opposed” the expedition. In fact he also says: “Driven
to death by the specious arguments of the Emperor, I advised him to
occupy Catalonia until he should be able to conclude a maritime peace
with England.” If we moderate the first few words, we probably have
here the truth of the matter; though it is very possible that the sight
of the incompetence of the royal family and the distress of Spain kept
his mind in some vacillation as to the intervention of France. That
he urged Napoleon to invade and annex Spain is a statement made by the
Emperor’s admirers only after it had proved a fatal and dishonourable
enterprise; that the Emperor needed any such urging on the part of
Talleyrand is a perfectly ludicrous supposition. The most probable
reading of the situation (as regards Spain) _before_ the troops cross
the Pyrenees is that Talleyrand wavered between two motives—a keen
perception of Spain’s evil plight on the one hand and of Napoleon’s
ambition and nepotism on the other—and used vaguely approving language.
The final action of Napoleon was determined by the course of events,
and not submitted for his approval or disapproval. There is no
ambiguity about Talleyrand’s attitude on that. He was at his new home
at Valençay in Touraine, a large and beautiful chateau lying in an
extensive park, when the Spanish royal carriage arrived. In its heavy
medieval splendour, with its panels of gold and silver, its curtains of
crimson silk, and its huge gilt wheels, it reminded him painfully of
the arrested development of Spain. He received the two young princes
and their uncle with some feeling, and then set out for Nantes to
meet Napoleon. If we may trust the memoirs (I would not press the
point), he told Napoleon very freely what he thought of his stratagem.
“It is one thing to take crowns, another thing to steal them,” he
claims to have said; and it is stated that he told the Emperor that
many irregularities, such as mistresses, would be overlooked in a
gentleman, but when he stooped to cheating at cards he forfeited the
name. Napoleon went on to Paris, and Talleyrand returned to Valençay.
The Emperor paid him 75,000 francs a year for the maintenance of the
princes, but he seems to have treated them with real sympathy.
The task of entertaining them proved difficult. They had not a single
accomplishment that counted in the code of a French gentleman. The
attempt to interest them in books was a complete failure. Talleyrand
did, indeed, notice with some consolation, that the pious uncle, Don
Antonio, spent long hours in his valuable library, but he was more
than disappointed when he discovered that the devout Spaniard had been
cutting out the illustrations from rare old editions of the bible and
the classics, to protect the morals of his nephews. It is usually
said, and was certainly generally believed at Paris, that Don Carlos
repaid his host by becoming the lover of Princess Talleyrand. “Spain
was unlucky for both of us,” said Napoleon to him when he heard this.
But the anonymous biographer of the princess[46] points out that even
Mme. de Rémusat (who detested the princess) does not expressly accuse
them of more than a platonic affection, and claims that not a single
stain rests on her character after she became Mme. Talleyrand. In any
case, Talleyrand insisted that they should be treated as princes.
Napoleon wrote to complain that Ferdinand was addressing him as “mon
cousin,” and directed that he be taught to write “Sire.” “Ajaccio
and St. Helena dispense with comment,” says Talleyrand. When Colonel
Henri, commanding the military guard, made himself officious, he told
him that the Emperor did not rule at Valençay. But in the midst of his
efforts to teach them to shoot and ride and read he was summoned to
Paris. The princes parted from him with tears, and offered him their
old prayer-books as souvenirs.
Napoleon had in February suggested a second conference with the Tsar.
At that time he was offering Russia Constantinople and impelling it
to a descent on India, was sending an army against Sweden, and was
menacing the very existence of Prussia and Austria. He had a real
idea of dividing the Old World with Russia, and excluding England
from it. Then came news of the rising of the people of Spain against
France, and the landing of the English in Portugal. Wellesley had
begun his historic advance towards Paris; though few then dreamed of
the end of it. The southern trouble upset Napoleon’s calculations and
diverted troops from the north. He fixed September 27th (1808) for the
meeting with Alexander, and sent for Talleyrand to accompany him. He
was weary of Champagny “coming every morning to excuse his blunders
of the previous day,” Talleyrand says. At all events, Talleyrand’s
experience at Tilsit and his friendship with Alexander recommended him.
Napoleon directed all the documents to be sent to him, and met him
with the most engaging confidence and cordiality. He would remember
later that Talleyrand was already talking to members of his Court of
his “vile treachery” in Spain. Talleyrand studied the correspondence,
and “at once made up his mind to prevent the spirit of enterprise from
dominating this singular interview.” In the circumstances we can hardly
hold that his acceptance was an infringement of the dignity of his
resignation. In any case, his position as Grand Chamberlain compelled
him to go.
So in September Talleyrand found himself on the way to Erfurt with the
vast apparatus that Napoleon had dispatched to impress his allies.
The road from Paris was alive with couriers, carriages, officers and
troops. Napoleon had ordered the whole of the Comédie Française to go.
When Dazincourt asked if they were to play comedies or tragedies, he
replied that comedy was not appreciated beyond the Rhine. Dazincourt
suggested “Athalie” amongst other tragedies. “What do you mean?”
he said. “Do you think I want to get Joas into the heads of these
Germans?” “These Germans,” he said to Talleyrand, “are still talking of
d’Enghien. We must raise (agrandir) their standard of morality. I am
not thinking of Alexander. Such things are nothing to a Russian. But we
have to stir the men with melancholic ideas who abound in Germany.” He
meant thinkers like Goethe. They must “give tragedies like Cinna,” and
he sang the couplet:
Tous ces crimes d’État qu’on fait pour la couronne
Le ciel nous en absout alors qu’il nous la donne.
The first actors and actresses and the first soldiers in Europe
jostled each other on the route. Nothing was forgotten. One dignitary
was included “to do the honours of our actresses for the Grand Duke
Constantine.”
In giving Talleyrand instructions he said that he wanted a treaty
which would pledge him to nothing in the Levant (the chief magnet with
which he was drawing Alexander), secure the passivity of Austria, and
leave him free to do what he liked in Spain and to attack England.
Talleyrand drew one up in two days, which was fairly satisfactory,
though not strong enough as regards Austria. His last direction to
Talleyrand was to see Alexander often in private and feed his facile
imagination with dreams. “There’s a fine field for your philanthropic
faculty! I give you carte blanche in it—only let it be a sufficiently
remote philosophy. Adieu!” There was just one point that the great
impresario overlooked, or failed to appreciate enough—the change in
Talleyrand’s disposition. His Grand Chamberlain was now seriously
determined to thwart him and save Austria. “If he had succeeded at
Erfurt,” Talleyrand says, “he would have picked a quarrel with Austria
and dealt with it as he had done with Prussia.” In the end he signed a
totally different treaty from what he had intended, and the Tsar wrote
a private letter to reassure the Emperor of Austria. Talleyrand claims,
not incongruously, that he acted in Napoleon’s true interest.
To understand this result we have to examine the double current of life
at Erfurt. While Alexander was exposed to the full force of Napoleon’s
ingenious action every day, he was seeing Talleyrand privately every
night and being put on his guard. Napoleon arrived on the morning
of the 27th with some of his most brilliant regiments, the crowds
having lined his route all night. By the time Alexander arrived, two
days later, there were forty monarchs and dukes in Erfurt with their
Courts. Napoleon told Talleyrand he was delighted with his first
conversation with Alexander, but no business must be touched until the
Tsar is thoroughly “dazed” with French magnificence. He had altered
Talleyrand’s treaty, making the terms more onerous for Austria. That
night Talleyrand went to take tea with the Princess de la Tour et
Taxis. Alexander followed in a quarter of an hour, and it was arranged
that they should meet there every night after the opera. Talleyrand
was also intimate with the Austrian ambassador, Baron Vincent, who was
admitted at times to the nocturnal tea-party.
Thus the play proceeded. Napoleon artfully arranged long déjeuners,
to be followed by hunts, reviews, or excursions that would last until
dinner, and opera to close the day’s work. There was no time to talk
business. Every opera was selected by Napoleon. He foresaw the applause
when, in “Mahomet,” the line occurred:
“Qui l’a fait roi? Qui l’a couronné? La victoire.” The Grand
Chamberlain saw Napoleon home every night (or early morning), and
went at once to the house of the discreet princess. After a few
days Napoleon said to Alexander that they must speak of the treaty,
and suggested that it should be kept to themselves. That night, when
Alexander came to the princess’s, he bade her guard the door, and
pulled the treaty from his pocket. Talleyrand implored him not to
be drawn into any engagement to the detriment of Austria. Napoleon
complained to Talleyrand that he could “get nothing out of Alexander.”
He must leave Austria alone, and trust to scare it with the secret
articles of the treaty. Talleyrand did not conceal his interest in
Austria, but was told to continue to see Alexander, as Napoleon wanted
to part on good terms. He did continue, with more effect than Napoleon
imagined. When asked afterwards if he had not been imprudent, he
replied: “I have never been betrayed by a woman.” From the first day he
had said to Alexander: “It is for you to save Europe by making a stand
against Napoleon. The French nation is civilised, but its ruler is
not; the sovereign of Russia is civilised, but his people are not. The
Russian monarch must unite with the French people.”
It is idle casuistry to prove that this was not treachery to Napoleon.
It was done in pursuit of a deliberate plan to thwart him in the
interest of France. There was now in the mind of Talleyrand a broad and
clear distinction between the needs of France and the ambition of its
Emperor, or, if you will, Napoleon’s view of its needs. Talleyrand’s
view is admitted to have been more statesmanlike. The only question
is whether Talleyrand was justified in accepting service under the
Emperor with the determination to be disloyal to his personal views
for the good of the country, if not in his own real interest. However
that question may be answered, we must not ignore the bearing of
these episodes on the chief charge against Talleyrand’s character.
Lord Brougham, in his otherwise admirable sketch, says that we cannot
altogether admire a man who was “always on the side of success.” But
here we have Talleyrand wielding an opposition to Napoleon that would
almost have cost him his life if it had become known, at the very
summit of the Emperor’s power, and in a purely patriotic and humane
interest. The legendary Talleyrand would not have dared to do it—could
not have conceived it. Napoleon never discovered precisely what passed
in the princess’s house, but he knew Talleyrand was meeting Alexander
there, and that Talleyrand was a convinced pro-Austrian.
The Tsar obtained the provinces he wanted on the Danube without being
pledged to more than an attack on Austria if she joined with England
against France. In one other important matter Talleyrand more or less
deceived Napoleon. The Emperor detained him one night with a pathetic
reference to his childlessness, and at last “dropped the word divorce.”
He would like to marry one of Alexander’s sisters, and Talleyrand
might, “as a Frenchman,” suggest the idea to the Tsar. Towards two
o’clock he went to the usual rendezvous, and found the Tsar telling
the Princess with some feeling how Napoleon had that morning referred
to his want of an heir. It had been “wrung from him.” Talleyrand
not only knew the alliance was impossible from the Russian point of
view, but considered it inadvisable for the country. He told the Tsar
of Napoleon’s wish, and they agreed to humour him for the time by
suggesting Anna, who was only fourteen years old.
The long series of fêtes and spectacles wore on meantime. One day
Napoleon sent his actors to Weimar, and, after a hunt on the very field
of Jena, entertained the princes to a banquet. The opera that night
was unhappily chosen, “La mort de César,” but a ball was added that
“dissipated the impression.” Napoleon made an effort to dazzle Goethe
and Wieland with the brilliancy of his culture. Goethe made quiet and
neat replies to the Emperor’s forced and well-prepared sallies into
literature. Talleyrand has preserved an account of the conversation,
but omitted one of its best passages. When Napoleon said he did not
like the end of “Werther,” Goethe replied: “I did not know that your
Majesty liked romances to have an end.” Wieland took up the defence
of Tacitus against Napoleon. “I agree,” he said, “that his chief aim
is to punish tyrants; but he denounces them to the justice of the
ages and of the human race.” When, on the day before his departure,
the crowd of princes and nobles gathered about Napoleon—“I did not
see a single hand pass with any dignity over the lion’s mane,” says
Talleyrand—he turned again to the literary men, and asked if they had
any idealists in Germany. They had many. “I pity you,” he replied.
“These philosophers torture themselves with the creation of systems.
They will search in vain for a better one than Christianity, which
reconciles man with himself, and at the same time assures public order
and the tranquility of States.” The feelings of the “idealists” are
not recorded. Talleyrand himself disappoints us. He had Goethe to
dinner one evening, and does not reproduce a word of the conversation,
or devote a single line to appreciation of the greatest man in that
historic gathering.
When they returned from Paris Napoleon set out for Spain, and
Talleyrand settled down to a life of comparative quiet. After leaving
the Hotel Galiffet he had occupied a small house at the corner of the
rue d’Anjou, but he now bought the large Hotel de Monaco in the rue de
Varennes. His old friends, Narbonne and Choiseul, had returned to Paris
and helped to restore in his magnificent salon the gaiety and wit of
the earlier days. Other groups of the old nobility were forming, and
no figure was more welcome amongst them than that of the ex-bishop.
At the Duchess de Laval’s he met once more the Duchess de Luynes, the
Duchess de Fitzjames, the Countess Jaucourt, Mme. de Bauffremont, and
many another great lady of the past and great admirer of himself. The
Countess Tyszkiewicz, who had “caught the complaint of falling in love
with Talleyrand” at Warsaw, brought a strong accession of fervour to
the cult. The old society of Paris was forming the nucleus of the new,
and, with a dim consciousness of their work, preparing the scene for
the next act in the history of France. From these brilliant and envied
centres daring witticisms crept abroad and began to circulate in Paris.
The Napoleonic Court, the new Foreign Minister, the campaign in Spain,
the succession to the throne, were fruitful in enlivening topics of
conversation over the tea or whist tables. Possibly the story of Erfurt
was discreetly told; certainly the story of the Archduchess Anna would
prove irrepressible. There were more serious matters. It was observed
that Talleyrand was reconciled with Fouché, and it was known that they
were daring to speculate on the contingency of a Spanish ball finding
its way to the Emperor’s heart; though the kinder of the myth-makers
declare that the object of the new conspiracy was merely the heart of a
certain pretty lady.
By this time the Bonapartes and the Beauharnais hated Talleyrand. He
had never concealed his small estimate of Napoleon’s brothers. “Say
what you like about my family,” said the Emperor with a laugh, when
he asked Talleyrand to speak to Alexander about his want of an heir.
He also warned him that Josephine knew he favoured a divorce. They
and the Foreign Minister, and every other Napoleonist that had been
made a butt of royalist wit, now joined in reporting to the Emperor,
when he returned in January, the latest misdeeds of the Faubourg St.
Germain. Talleyrand had written amiable letters to Napoleon in Spain.
He had congratulated him on his victories (with, we must remember, the
usual hope that they will be made a step to peace and the real good
of Spain), and encouraged his political action in Paris. The Corps
Legislatif was giving trouble, and Talleyrand agreed that it might be
extinguished without tyranny. In a country like France it was only
necessary to have sufficient popular representation to vote supplies.
When, therefore, Napoleon heard of the satirical comments on his
campaign and the friendship of Talleyrand and Fouché, he determined to
strike.
On the day following his return, when Talleyrand and the other Court
dignitaries came before him, he opened the sluices of his Corsican
oratory. “He became a sub-lieutenant once more,” says Meneval in
recalling his language. In the general confusion Talleyrand alone stood
“like a rock,” though the Emperor even threatened to strike him. To
Napoleon’s brutal observation: “You did not tell me that the Duke of
San Carlos was your wife’s lover,” he quietly retorted: “I did not
think it redounded either to your Majesty’s honour or mine.” When the
Duchess de Laval asked him afterwards why he did not knock Napoleon
down with the tongs, he said he was “too lazy.” The only remark he made
to those present, when the Emperor had exhausted himself and departed,
was: “What a pity that such a great man had not a better education.”
We are often asked at this juncture by Talleyrand’s biographers to
deplore the lack of self-respect that he betrayed in _not_ seizing the
tongs, or returning the torrent of rhetoric. If he had been a bishop
the same writers would ask us to admire his superhuman fortitude. The
general reader will probably prefer an intermediate attitude. The
aphorism quoted by Lord Acton, that such conduct belongs to one who is
either more or less than man, is pretty but absurd.
It is just four years from the date of this incident to Talleyrand’s
last interview with Napoleon. Those four years are full of adventure
and life for the Napoleonist writer, but they offer little material
to the biographer of Talleyrand. Throughout them the scene is being
prepared for the next act. Wellesley is slowly forcing his way
towards the Pyrenees. The coalition against England is gradually
being converted into the final coalition against Napoleon. Parisian
society is falling into two definite groups, Napoleonists and people
who whisper to each other that the Emperor has no guarantee of
immortality—“passengers,” in the words which Metternich applies to
Talleyrand and Fouché; “passengers who see the helm in the hands of a
reckless pilot steering straight for the reefs, and are ready to seize
the tiller as soon as the first shock knocks down the helmsman.”
Talleyrand is still, it will be remembered, Vice-Grand Elector, and
member of the Supreme Council. But after January, 1809, he has little
influence on the fortunes of France, and is continually offending the
Emperor. His personal relation to Napoleon is curious. Michaud says
that on the morning after the storm of January 23rd, he was one of the
first to appear at the levee, and observers could see no trace of the
events of the previous day in his bearing. The Emperor himself said to
Roederer a few days later that “his feelings towards Talleyrand were
unchanged,” and he would “leave him his dignities,” but would not have
him closely associated as Chamberlain. The last letter of Talleyrand
to Napoleon that we have, dated April, 1809, is full of amiability and
ostensible devotion. Three years later, when he loses nearly the whole
of his fortune, he applies to the Emperor through Savary, and receives
two million francs for his hotel. In that year Napoleon even wanted
to recall him to the conduct of affairs. It seems as if the two men
retained, below all their political differences and personal friction,
a softening memory of their joint achievements. But their divergence in
policy was too serious to admit further co-operation. Napoleon saw all
his hated enemies in Paris gather about the Hotel Talleyrand, and set
his spies upon it. Talleyrand saw the Emperor reel fatally towards the
precipice.
In the long and adventurous negotiations with the Pope in 1809 and 1810
Talleyrand had no part. He saw Napoleon as “successor of Charlemagne,”
confiscate the last of the temporal power, and the Ecclesiastical
Council at Paris (November 16th, 1809, to January 11th, 1810) trim and
writhe before Napoleon’s theological queries.[47] He was present when
several of the bishops were summoned to Saint Cloud, after Napoleon
had read an unsatisfactory account of the opening of their second
Council. Napoleon sat in the midst of his Court, drinking coffee poured
out by the Empress, and singled out his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, for
one of his characteristic attacks. But “the Corsair (Fesch had fitted
out more than one privateer in 1793-5) re-appeared at times under the
cassock of the Archbishop.” The reply was as Corsican as the attack.
Napoleon rushed on from blunder to blunder in the historical and
theological matters he was daring to discuss. “You take me for Louis le
Debonnaire,” he roared, “I’m not. I’m Charlemagne.” The negotiations
came to nothing, and the bishops were informed “by the minister of
police” that they might return to their dioceses.
Talleyrand was an idle but disgusted witness of the subsequent
abduction of the Pope, and the final defeat of Napoleon’s aims. In
January, 1810, he was present with all the other great dignitaries and
ministers at the conference on the divorce of Josephine and re-marriage
of the Emperor. Few knew, as Talleyrand did, that there was really no
question of a Russian marriage, when Napoleon put it to them as an open
question. When it came to his turn to speak, he advocated an alliance
with Austria. Napoleon thanked and dismissed them; and a courier was
dispatched to Vienna the same evening. Talleyrand was present at the
marriage in April. He heard the bells of Notre Dame ring out the
ecclesiastical share in the general joy at a time when the Pope was
Napoleon’s prisoner, and listened to Austrian congratulations at a
moment when the fortifications of Vienna were being blown up at the
order of its conqueror. A month or two afterwards he again gave offence
to the Emperor. Fouché had been detected in negotiation with England,
and Napoleon consulted his Council as to the advisability of punishing
him. Most of the members thought Fouché should be deposed, but could
suggest no substitute for that astute chief detective. Talleyrand said
to his neighbour in a stage-whisper: “Fouché has certainly done very
wrong, and I would find a substitute for him—but it would be Fouché
himself.” This led to Napoleon’s last extant letter to him. “Prince
of Benevento, I have received your letter, the contents of which
pained me. During your term of office I voluntarily shut my eyes to
many things. I regret that you should have thought fit to take a step
that revives the memory of what I have endeavoured, and will still
endeavour, to forget.” The air of righteous forbearance is imposing.
In the spring of 1812 the difference between the two seemed to be
bridged for a time. Talleyrand was generously assisted by the Emperor
in a grave financial crisis, of which I will speak presently, and
accepted an appointment from him to a political mission. With the
long story of Napoleon’s rupture with Russia and the opening of a
fresh campaign in 1812 I am not concerned. The friction between the
two Emperors turned largely on the question of Poland, and Napoleon
resolved to send Talleyrand on a secret mission to that country.
Some affirm that he cancelled the appointment when he learned that
Talleyrand had let it become known to Austria by sending to Vienna for
a supply of ducats. It is likely enough that Talleyrand would think an
accidental disclosure of his mission the safest way to avoid incurring
the displeasure of Russia or Austria. Bulwer Lytton, however, says that
Napoleon did not press the appointment because he found it difficult to
adjust with the position of his Foreign Minister, who was to accompany
him on the campaign. However that may be, the Emperor does not seem
to have felt any particular resentment. He set out to face Russia. It
was immediately whispered in Paris that Talleyrand declared it “the
beginning of the end.”
Since his deposition from the chamberlainship in 1809 Talleyrand had
spent a large proportion of his time in the country. He had never been
a saving man. He liked to surround himself with things of great beauty,
to entertain lavishly, and to be extremely generous to servants and
friends. Until 1809 he had granted a pension of 60,000 a year to his
mother,[48] and greatly helped other members of his family. He had now
only the income from his savings, and his salary as Vice-Grand Elector.
His establishment in Paris, the huge Hotel Monaco, was very exacting;
Valençay was maintained by the Emperor for his Spanish “guests.” Savary
tells us that Talleyrand’s affairs were somewhat straitened from 1810
onwards, and he had often to appeal for the payments for Valençay.
In the general depression of 1812 a house failed in which he was
interested, and he lost fourteen million francs. Savary says that he
appealed through him to the Emperor, who sent his architect to value
the Hotel Monaco with all its furniture, and paid him 2,100,000 francs
for it. The act was a very generous one in the circumstances, though
it is perhaps not ungracious to recall that Napoleon’s plans were
responsible for the deep commercial depression of the time. Talleyrand
happened to have a debt owing from the former Spanish ambassador, and
he now accepted that nobleman’s mansion, the Hotel St. Florentin, in
discharge of it.[49] This hotel now became the centre of discontent,
while the salon of the Duchess de Bassano was the centre of Napoleonism.
The following year, 1813, saw considerable movement in the political
barometers at Paris. Napoleon had returned from Moscow about the middle
of December, and the remnants of the grand army were beginning to
reach France when he called a special council in January to discuss
the situation. He told those present—chiefly the heads of the foreign
office and retired foreign ministers—that he desired peace, but was
in a position still to wage successful war. Should he await overtures
from Russia, or open negotiations himself, either directly or through
Austria? Maret, the actual Foreign Minister, even less competent
than Champagny, advocated negotiations through Austria. Talleyrand
knew that Austria was seeking to detach itself from Napoleon, and to
pose as armed mediator. He therefore gave the loyal counsel to open
serious negotiations for peace directly with Russia. To do this with
any profit, however, it would be necessary now to sacrifice some of
France’s outlying conquests, and Napoleon would not give up even the
duchy of Warsaw, and would not withdraw from Spain unless England
withdrew from Sicily. As Talleyrand happily expressed it a little
later, the only hope of safety for Napoleon was for him “to become
King of France.” This was impossible for him. Talleyrand retired to his
hotel, to play whist with Louis, Dalberg, and de Pradt, and to keep his
eyes open.
[Illustration: TALLEYRAND
(In middle age).]
Within a few weeks the whist-players hear that the people of Prussia
have arisen and forced their ruler to take up the war against Napoleon,
and that Austria had concluded a truce with Russia and withdrawn its
troops. In April they see Napoleon set out for Metz, with no word from
his Austrian ally. In May the Napoleonists illuminate—somewhat hastily.
The Emperor has won Lutzen and Bautzen, at a terrible cost, and
concluded a forty days’ armistice. In June the Bassano Hotel darkens
again, when the news comes that England has allied itself with Sweden,
Russia, and Prussia, and that Wellington is sweeping the French out of
the Peninsula. In August it is reported that Napoleon has rejected the
terms offered by Austria as armed mediator, and she has joined with the
continent against France. There is a momentary flutter when a victory
is claimed for the Emperor at Dresden, but before the end of October
comes the news of Leipzig, and the tea-tables and whist-tables buzz
with excited whispers. For the second time in twelve months the Emperor
is flying towards France with the remnant of a grand army.
Napoleon arrived in Paris on November 9th. His spies and supporters
could bring no allegation against Talleyrand, who had become a very
quiet spectator. Though Napoleon’s outlying empire was virtually lost,
the allies disclaimed any intention of deposing him. If he had been
content to retire within the natural frontiers of France, the Alps, the
Rhine, and the Pyrenees, the divisions amongst the allies would have
at this juncture sufficed to give him peace. Sick of the mediocrity
of Champagny and Maret, he now offered the foreign ministry again to
Talleyrand, who refused it, saying later to Savary that he “did not
care to bury himself in ruins.” As he writes in his memoirs, Napoleon
was only ruined in the sense that he could not forego his conquests
and become “King of France.” Talleyrand had no intention of flattering
his hope that a fresh co-operation of the two would again break up
the coalition and restore the empire. It must be firmly remembered
that there was at this time no question of restoring the Bourbons.
Talleyrand was well in the counsels of Austria and Russia, and knew
that the declaration of the Allies was sincere. His refusal meant
a fresh protest against the incurable megalomania of the Emperor.
Lytton, who proves that Talleyrand was at the time trying to inspire
the Emperor with thoughts of peace and moderation (and we know from
Pasquier that he even sent word to Napoleon of the impending desertion
of Bavaria), says that the foreign ministry was offered to him on
condition that he gave up his other office and its salary. This, he
points out, would have made him entirely dependent on a co-operation
with Napoleon’s policy.
From another and well-informed source, Mme. de Rémusat, we learn that
Talleyrand and Napoleon were discussing the Spanish situation in a
friendly way. “You consult me as if we were not on bad terms,” said
Talleyrand. “Circumstances, circumstances,” replied the Emperor; “let
us leave the past and the future and come to the present.” “Very well,”
said Talleyrand, “you have no choice. You have made a mistake, and
you must say so, and, as far as possible, say it with dignity.” He
advised the Emperor to declare that his object had been “to free the
Spanish people from the yoke of a detested minister,” and that he was
now willing to restore the dynasty and withdraw his troops. The tone
of the conversation, as given in Mme. Rémusat, is quite inconsistent
with the notion that Talleyrand had urged the invasion of Spain. The
Duc de Bassano (Maret) declares that he persuaded the Emperor to
make Ferdinand’s return conditional on the consent of the Spanish
Regency, and so delayed the return for some months, and threw away
the Emperor’s chance of peace. We must remember how Maret had smarted
under Talleyrand’s criticisms. “I never saw a greater donkey than
Maret—unless it was the Duc de Bassano,” he once said. We know from a
private letter to the Duchess of Courland that Talleyrand foresaw and
forewarned Napoleon of the reluctance of the Regency. We also know
from Roederer that he urged in December the unconditional return of
Ferdinand to Spain. Napoleon wanted to release his armies from the
Peninsula, but at the same time to keep the English from passing on
to France. It was his own vacillation between his hopes and fears
that prevented him from making definite terms. Over and over again at
this period he falls back on Talleyrand’s advice, a month or so after
the situation has changed against him, and the Allies will no longer
entertain it[50].
The Spanish princes left Valençay on March 3rd. Castellane says that
there was not a piece of furniture or china intact in the chateau after
their six years’ stay. They left a memorial in the shape of their
medieval chariot, which declined to move towards its ancestral home,
and was long exhibited at Valençay. Talleyrand writes a singularly
bitter passage on the English in describing Ferdinand’s return. He
complains that, while they boasted of being “the saviours of Spain,”
they failed to secure proper guarantees that the unamiable Ferdinand
should not abuse his power on returning. “They only hate tyranny abroad
when, as under Napoleon, it threatens their existence, and they love to
make the subjection of peoples turn to the profit of their pride and
their prosperity.” One would like to know the state of his health when
he wrote this very exceptional sentence.
The last interview with Napoleon was tempestuous. In January (1814), a
few days before he rejoined the army, the Emperor again chose a public
occasion to abuse him, and threatened to punish him severely on the
first complaint. “You are a coward, a traitor, a thief. You don’t even
believe in God. You have betrayed and deceived everybody. You would
sell your own father.” Talleyrand stood quietly by the fire; not a
muscle of his face or body was seen to move. One of the witnesses told
Lytton that he seemed to be the last person in the room interested in
what the Emperor said. His critics enlarge here again on his “lack
of self-respect.” There could not be a more perverse and malevolent
interpretation of an admirable bearing. On this occasion, however,
Talleyrand immediately wrote to the Emperor offering to resign his
place on the Council. It was not accepted. Napoleon had told him some
time before that if anything happened to himself he would see that
Talleyrand did not survive him. Within a few months he used language
which almost implied a regret that he had not had Talleyrand shot. They
never saw each other again. In less than three months the Empire was at
an end.
In a private letter written immediately after this incident Talleyrand
spoke of it with great moderation and sadness. His correspondent was
the Duchess of Courland, who now appears, almost for the first time, in
the story of his life. There is no other woman who has been addressed
by him with such passionate and devoted language as this beautiful
Russo-German princess. After the death of her husband in 1801 she lived
chiefly at Mittau, but paid an occasional visit to Paris. It must have
been during one of these visits that Talleyrand first met her. We do
not know the year, but it cannot have been long before he sought the
hand of her daughter for his nephew in 1808. She would then be in her
forty-seventh year, and her daughter, Dorothy, in her fifteenth. The
romanticists (strongly reinforced in this instance by the fertile
imagination of George Sand) have, of course, given a sensual character
to the attachment, and have thrown out ludicrous hints that Dorothy
(born years before we have any reason to think he had met the duchess
at all), who succeeded the mother in his affections, was his daughter.
All this is pure wantonness. We can understand without their aid the
ardent friendship that we find in 1814 between the refined statesman
of sixty and the graceful and gracious lady of fifty-three. She was
a woman of great charm, many accomplishments, high intelligence and
character, and no mean political faculty. “No woman in the world was
more worthy of adoration,” said Talleyrand long afterwards. The score
of short letters he wrote her during 1814 are full of such expressions
as “my angel.”