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[Illustration: ch. maurice de talleyrand]
REMINISCENCES OF PRINCE TALLEYRAND.
Edited from the Papers of the Late
M. COLMACHE,
Private Secretary to the Prince,
by
Madame Colmache.
In Two Volumes.
VOL. I.
London:
Henry Colburn, Publisher,
Great Marlborough Street.
1848.
PREFACE.
Prince Talleyrand has left a name in Europe perhaps the greatest ever
achieved by any man in France who has devoted himself exclusively to
the civil offices of the state. In the present century, he has become
as great a diplomatic authority as was Machiavelli in the sixteenth;
and hence the Hôtel Talleyrand, in the Rue St. Florentin, has been
regarded by every disciple of state-craft who has visited the French
capital, with perhaps as much veneration as the literary devotee
accords to the more humble abode at Stratford of the great master of
English poetry.
The brilliant career of so public a character as Prince Talleyrand
has necessarily become much canvassed, but up to the present time, no
account has been published of his private history, more particularly
of his early life. This, however, could only be written by some one
peculiarly in the Prince’s confidence, who possessed favourable
opportunities for studying his personal characteristics, and of
becoming acquainted with his first struggles, experiences, and
adventures.
The writer of this work enjoyed such opportunities in an eminent
degree, and was in the habit of noting down Talleyrand’s revelations
and recollections, which were from time to time imparted to him; and
the result, as now laid before the public, it will readily be allowed,
affords a more interesting portrait of this illustrious statesman
than has hitherto been given to the world. Very curious particulars
and scenes in Prince Talleyrand’s own career are combined with
extraordinary anecdotes of his contemporaries, and details are given
of private adventure and domestic habits, which, in a truly remarkable
and novel manner, illustrate the events of that great drama in which he
acted so conspicuous a part.
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Talleyrand at Valençay 1
CHAPTER II.
Conduct of Talleyrand at the Revolution of 1830 46
CHAPTER III.
Seizure and Confinement of the Spanish Princes at Valençay 74
CHAPTER IV.
Cagliostro—Voltaire—The Marquis de J—— 122
CHAPTER V.
Childhood and Juvenile Years of Talleyrand 168
CHAPTER VI.
Mirabeau—The Princess T——.—The Mayor of Valençay 214
CHAPTER VII.
Recollections of Early Life by Prince Talleyrand 260
CHAPTER VIII.
The Countess de la Motte, of Necklace Notoriety 307
REMINISCENCES
OF THE LATE
PRINCE TALLEYRAND.
CHAPTER I.
TALLEYRAND AT VALENÇAY.
It was during the autumn of 18—, that, passing through Paris on my way
to the south of Europe, I ventured to pay my _visite de rigueur_ to
that hallowed shrine—that Mecca of all young diplomatists—the Hôtel
Talleyrand, in the Rue St. Florentin, to obtain, as it were, a blessing
and an imposition of hands from the high-priest of the diplomatic
craft, ere I ventured, novice and without guile as I then was, to put
forth on the unknown sea of politics. Perhaps there lingered in my mind
a latent hope of acquiring some new information concerning the hidden
rocks and shoals, the under-currents, which were not yet marked down
in the very imperfect chart at that time existing in my brain, and by
the aid of which I might, by steering aright, gain more quickly than my
colleagues the glorious port of ambassadorship.
I had once had the good fortune to form part of a company, assembled by
the owner of P—— House, to meet the Prince de Talleyrand, during the
very last Easter vacation which he had spent in England; so that it
was not as a complete stranger that I now ventured, all trembling and
awe-struck, to seek the presence of his excellency.
The hour was somewhat late for a morning visit, when I called at the
hotel; but I had been told by one who knew him well, that his hour
of _confidence_ and kindness, his hour of _benevolence_, in short,
was decidedly the one hour before dinner; and so already, even in the
smallest matter, beginning to move professionally, I had acted entirely
upon the strength of this friendly warning.
I was not disappointed; for I found the veteran diplomatist enjoying
the _otium cum dignitate_, after the fatigues of the day. He was
seated in his easy chair, reclining with that peculiarly easy grace
which, in spite of his lameness, characterized his every attitude and
movement. A bundle of newspapers lay upon the table before him; some
were scattered on the floor around; but he had evidently forgotten,
for the moment, the world and all its fretful politics, and was gazing
with fond affection at the gambols of his fair young niece, who was on
her knees upon the floor by his side, her arm resting upon the elbow of
his chair, teasing and provoking the large English spaniel, Carlo, the
delight of the prince, and his constant companion.
It would be difficult for a painter to imagine a scene more
interesting, or even more poetical, than the one which thus suddenly
presented itself to me. The long golden hair of the child fell forward
in a glittering shower, blending with the silvery masses which, to the
latest hour of his life, shaded in such luxuriant abundance the calm
brow of the prince; and, as he bent down over her, the contrast between
the fair and blooming face, animated as it was by the glow of youth and
the excitement of the game, with that cold, impenetrable countenance,
those fixed and marble features, was rendered yet more striking. It
was the dim immovable Past, seeking to interrogate the busy, smiling
Future; Old Time striving to detain one single rosy hour, and pausing
to gaze while yet the charm endured. There was, indeed, over the whole
scene a shadow of bygone times, which the graceful figure of that fair
girl alone seemed to attach to the Present.
The drawing-room into which I was ushered was noble and lofty, although
an _entresol_, and through the high casements the setting sun of autumn
poured in its rich and glowing beams, seeming to pause in fondness
over that scene, and, forgetting all besides, to linger there. Through
the arched vista of the Tuileries, late so green, but already bared of
foliage, the darkening sky gave token of the near approach of twilight,
and I could not help being struck with the fitness of the emblem.
I had leisure to contemplate the scene, for the low suppressed laughter
of the child, and the playful growling of old Carlo, had prevented
the announcement of my name from immediately reaching the ear of his
excellency, and it was not till I stood within a step or two of his
chair that he became aware of my presence. He then rose slightly,
leaning on his cane, and gave me that gracious and courtly welcome—a
reminiscence of the old _régime_—which neither his passage through the
revolutionary mire, nor even across the broad Atlantic, had been able
to mar. That bland and polished urbanity was the attribute of a race of
men of which he was the last representative, and of which we shall see
the like no more.
My conference with him was but short, and passed chiefly in inquiry
after the friends I had left; some few questions concerning my future
destination; an observation or two respecting the _chargé d’affaires_
at that time resident at the court to which I was bound; but nothing
further; and I, who had indulged in vague dreams of the treasures of
advice concerning my new career, to be gathered during this interview,
was just on the point of taking my leave, without having dared to
breathe a hint upon the subject which lay uppermost in my thoughts,
when, to my delight, amid the numberless kind things he uttered upon
the subject of my journey, he added, with a bland and courteous smile,
which from the old to the young so greatly enhances the value of the
kind speech, “Vous viendrez nous voir à Valençay?”
And then, as though he had reserved all his urbanity till the last,
acting upon his own principle of “always waiting to the end,” he told
me that he himself was on the point of hastening thither,—that I
should see him no more in Paris,—that the place would not be far out
of my road on my journey southwards; and the kindness of the tone, the
friendly glance with which the words were accompanied, left me no doubt
of their sincerity: so I accepted the invitation with the most joyful
alacrity, and, before we parted, he himself had fixed the day for our
meeting again—at Valençay!
At Valençay! Here, then, was I about to accomplish by a mighty stride,
to overleap by a single bound, many a weary league on the highway of
politics; and moreover, to gain ease for the remainder of the dusty
journey. So, with these pleasant illusions in my mind, it cannot be
wondered at if I rather hastened than retarded my movements. With a
heart beating high with expectation did I set forth on this pilgrimage.
It had been one of my day-dreams, which I was about to convert into
reality. I had so often longed to behold the great statesman in his
retirement, and now I was about to see him in his hours of leisure
and of _laisser-aller_, and to share with his chosen inmates all the
treasures of his rich and varied store of reminiscences!
I had heard that it was his great delight, when at Valençay, to call
up the spirits of the shadowy past, and that here he seemed to live
and breathe amongst them; that here he took no heed of to-day, or of
what might befal on the morrow; that his soul was with the past—his
thoughts were all of days gone by, and lingered not with the present.
By turns abiding amid the courtly saloons of the days previous to the
Revolution, he would tell of Madame de Boufflers and Marie Antoinette,
and of the _folle vie_ led by the young, when he, too, was in his
youth. Then the rude Conventional—the stern Republican—the warlike
figures of the Empire—the pale, dim Silhouettes of the Restoration,
would all arise, and pass in crowded array before his enchanted
audience; with such grace and truth, too, were they all endowed, that
sometimes the listener could believe that he had seen and heard the
like, and that he too had been of them and among them.
Valençay had ever been the favourite residence of the prince. It was
here that he had ever preferred seeking relief from the political
turmoil of the moment,—perhaps to repose after the fatigues of the last
struggle,—perhaps to gain fresh courage and vigour for that which, with
his unerring foresight, he knew to be inevitable. It was here that he
sought the rest which he sometimes needed—it is here that, by his own
desire, he now reposes for ever.
These are the reminiscences which must henceforth render Valençay one
of those few favoured spots, scattered here and there over the surface
of our dull earth, towards which fancy hurries on before, and where
Memory lingers long behind; places that shine out, amid the dulness of
this dreary world, with the bright lustre which the memory of the great
and good has shed around them, and which, to the traveller through the
land where they are found, become hallowed shrines, that it is scorn
and reproach to have visited the country without beholding.
In my case, and young as I then was, it is no wonder if I approached,
with feelings of almost undue reverence, the spot where dwelt the
last great statesman of the age—the last, at least, of that class
of men who, singlehanded and alone, could lead, by the very force
of their spirit, whole nations to think as they thought, and to act
as they directed. Imagination had indeed gone on long before, and
paused to await me at the gates of the Château of Valençay. Nor was
I disappointed on my first approach. It is a noble and stately pile,
well suited to the regal tastes and habits of him who at that time shed
additional lustre over its sumptuous retirement.
The dark forest, through which the road lies for many miles, gives a
grandeur to the scenery, of which this part of France is elsewhere
almost entirely devoid. The broad Moorish towers of the château are
seen for some time, alternately appearing, and then lost to sight,
until finally they form the termination of the splendid avenue de
Gâtines, through which they are beheld at a great distance, gradually
rising in the perspective, and seeming to increase in size as the
traveller draws near, with an effect almost magical. Nothing can be
finer or more original than the appearance of these far-famed towers,
which give to the building an air of oriental grandeur, perfectly
unique. They were built at different periods, the first one having
been added to the edifice, which at the time was already a mixture
of Gothic and _moyen age_ architecture, by M. de Luçay, on his return
from his travels in the East, and their broad shining domes, surmounted
by light gilt weathercocks, bring strangely to mind the mosques and
palaces of the Asiatic cities.
The approach to the château is particularly grand and magnificent,
being through an avenue of glorious old chestnut-trees, through
which, at the moment of my arrival, the long rays of the evening sun
were pouring, all aslant, over the green turf, making wide patches
of the soft grass appear all on flame, while the shadows thrown
between appeared black and mysterious from the contrast. The carriage
drove up the noble avenue de Gâtines. The gay postillions, with long
tricoloured ribbons fluttering in the wind, with plaited pigtail and
heavy jack-boots, cracking their whips, with loud halloo, to cheer
forward the wild, scampering, rope-harnessed horses, gave such an _air
de regence_ to the scene, that I could almost fancy myself, as I leaned
eagerly forward in the carriage, to be the hero of one of Marivaux’s
delightful novels, and to be some one of his dear ingenious Counts de
P., about to pay his first visit to some fascinating, rebellious,
unfaithful Marquise de F. or de N. Had such indeed been the case, I do
not think the said hero could have felt more alarmed and embarrassed
than I did during the few moments when the carriage, having turned into
the great gates, drove with stunning _fracas_ round the wide _cour
d’honneur_, and stopped at the princely _perron_ of the vestibule.
It was quite a relief to learn from the domestic, who conducted me,
through an endless labyrinth of staircases and corridors, to my room,
that the large party then assembled at the château had all dispersed
after the usual early dinner, and that the building was at the moment a
complete desert. Nothing could suit me better, for it gave me time to
collect all my scattered ideas, and to establish myself in the great
drawing-room, _receiving_ not _received_; and all timid juveniles know
well the full value of this difference. The view from the windows of
this room was magnificent. An ancient and heavy cloister, forming a
cool, shady piazza during the summer, and a dry and cheerful retreat
in winter, lay immediately without, and through each arch the varied
and rich landscape was enframed. The broad expanse of park, with its
dark belt of forest beyond, and the little town of Valençay, with the
Gothic spire of its church, and the white roofs glittering in the sun,
by turns appeared, as I moved on, like the images in a child’s magic
lantern.
In a short time, the various stragglers began to return from their
walks, and I was delighted when, among the very first persons who
greeted me, I recognised an old acquaintance, whom I had often seen in
society during the prince’s embassy in London. Those who have ever felt
the delight of finding an acquaintance in a strange land, and where we
had anticipated meeting none but strangers, will readily believe my joy
at being greeted in well-remembered accents by C., who became from that
moment a valued and precious friend, more so than many whom I had known
and loved from childhood, but who were now absent, and could afford
me no aid in encountering the mighty leviathan within reach of whose
tremendous jaws I seemed so thoughtlessly to have wandered.
With the kind assistance of this friend, however, I began, in a very
short time, to regain my confidence, and, before the creaking of
carriage-wheels upon the gravel without had announced the return of
the Prince from his evening drive, I had been _mis au courant_ of all
the _habitudes de la maison_, and the station and character of each
individual had been so fully laid down to me, that I now felt armed
with too much foreknowledge to dread any longer the ignorance and
inexperience which had so often been my worst enemies.
The room was wellnigh filled by the time the Prince had descended
from his carriage, and, preceded by old Carlo, barking and yelping,
had slowly traversed the wide vestibule. For such is the courtierlike
propensity of human nature, that, although no warning-bell had summoned
the different stragglers homeward, yet, by marvellous instinct, they
all seemed aware of the very moment of the prince’s return to the
château, and pressed eagerly to the saloon to receive him. There was a
general advance towards the door when the prince entered, leaning on
his gold-headed cane, and then the assembly divided in the midst, to
allow him to pass through, to gain his large fauteuil by the fire. This
movement gave an effect to his _entrée_, of indescribable interest.
Altogether, it was one of the prettiest pieces of small-court ceremony
I ever witnessed.
The conversation was carried on, for some little time, standing, the
company separating in small groups; but, when lights were brought, and
the prince had fairly taken his seat at the whist-table, the _salon_
began, though gradually, to clear. Some of the guests retired to rest,
in order to be abroad betimes on the morrow; some withdrew stealthily
by a side door, and presently the noise of feet and the clattering of
billiard-balls told plainly the reason of their absence; anon, another
group would disappear, and then I was sure that a faint odour of cigars
would blow in from the half-closed window. For me, I bravely resisted
every invitation to move from the seat wherein I had so comfortably
ensconced myself, being sufficiently occupied, this first evening, in
making myself familiar with all the actors in the scene going on around
me; and I was well repaid for my self-denial, for at that very moment
were assembled, in that old courtly saloon, some of the brightest
intellectual luminaries of the kingdom.
“You are fortunate,” exclaimed C., as he kindly came to take his
seat beside me, “in being a guest with some of our most remarkable
illustrations of the ancient _régime_—men who remain, few in number,
to tell the generation of our day what is meant by the ‘wits’ and
_beaux esprits_ of a period which, although not distant, yet seems
driven centuries back by the rapidity with which new eras, new
societies, and new dynasties have succeeded each other. For instance,”
continued he, “there is the Count de M.; I dare not call him the _old_
count, although, were age measured by years alone, he would certainly
be considered to have well earned the title. He is already past the
threescore years and ten fixed by the great Psalmist as the term of
man’s life, and yet here he is, more alive, more pungent, more racy
than ever. I know of no greater contrast than that which exists between
this man and our princely host.
“Look at them as they sit opposite to each other, both intent upon the
chances of the game; the one so calm and dignified, reflecting almost
tediously upon the card he ought to play; then placing it, slowly and
deliberately, upon the table. Watch him for ever so long a time, you
will detect no symptom of impatience, no gesture of disappointment, as
the tricks are carried from the board by his rival. But seldom, even
during a run of decided ill luck, have I seen him bite his pale lip
slightly and in silence. Now, look at the count: see with what bitter
merriment he shoves the cards towards his adversary—how the stinging
gibe, the acid _bon mots_ fall from his lips, each sufficient to ensure
success to a whole act of a modern vaudeville—how he grasps the cards
with impatient glee when they have fallen to his share—his keen eye
lighting up, and his tall, thin figure rising in his chair, while he
pours a burning torrent of witty pun and quolibet into the ear of his
neighbour. There is more life in that man, in spite of his years, and
the hard life he has led, than in a dozen of the poor, stunted _jeunes
Frances_ who surround him.
“The prince and M. are like two schoolboys, hating, dreading each
other, yet each one feeling that the presence of the other is needed
to bring out his own value; they are steel and flint, by turns giving
and receiving blows, and sending up sparks which dazzle the listener
and hold him entranced. The one, cold and reflective, could crush his
tormentor, were he but allowed time and opportunity; while the other,
by his great presence of mind, never at fault, and his brilliant and
pungent satire, will sometimes cause his _friend_ to writhe, even
while he bears the same placid countenance and the same calm smile.
“An instance of the count’s readiness at repartee,” continued
my friend, “occurred this very day at dinner. The prosy old
dowager-duchess down yonder, with the lavender satin and the marabout
head-gear, had been descanting most lengthily upon her genealogy,
during the greater part of the repast. Everybody was yawning most
mournfully, and there were certain symptoms in the brilliant hawk’s-eye
of M., which told to all who knew him that he was waiting with
impatience for a pounce. The opportunity was not long in presenting
itself. The poor old duchess, by dint of twaddling on undisturbed,
had arrived at the period preceding the revolutionary war—‘At which
time,’ said she, ‘some of our family emigrated to Canada, where a
branch remains to this very day. I have a cousin there who writes to me
sometimes. Her name is _Mousseline_—a curious name, is it not, count?”
appealing to M., whose eyes were fixed upon her with foul intent.
“‘Not at all,’ returned he, quickly, ‘_I_ have a cousin called
_Batiste_, _you_ have one called _Mousseline_;—rien de plus simple!’
“Of course, the whole table was convulsed with laughter. The one object
was gained; the prosy old duchess was silenced for the rest of the
dinner, and M., elated by his triumph, was more brilliant and witty
than ever. He has made a bitter enemy; but what cares he so long as the
old proser does not inflict her _ennuyeux bavardage_ upon him while she
remains. Of this there is no fear, for I overheard her servant mention
that her carriage must be ready to depart to-morrow. Life is too short,
according to M.’s declaration, to waste it in listening to other
people’s _mauvaise prose_.’
“The career of the Count M—— has been, like that of most of the men of
note of his own time, checkered with startling gleams of light, with
fearful intervals of darkness; but his ready wit and great tact have
made him float to this very hour upon the surface of politics, while
many of his contemporaries, with infinitely more talent, and certainly
more principle, have sunk to rise no more. The man’s very life has
been, for years past, even to his most intimate friends, a complete
mystery. _They_ only know that he is ruined. He has been beggared more
than once even during the time that I have known him, but has always
risen again, more brilliant and more sparkling than ever. His fire
seems, verily, unquenchable, for it bursts forth from amid the ashes
with which poverty and humiliation would fain seek to smother it, and
burns with a brighter glow after each fruitless endeavour that his
enemies have made to extinguish it altogether.
“‘_Mon pauvre ami!_’ said one of his _roué_ friends to him, after one
of the many tornadoes to which, during his life he had been exposed—an
execution in his house, and his horses all sold—‘_mon pauvre ami—que te
reste-t-il?_’
“‘_Moi!_’ exclaimed the count, as he turned away, with light, buoyant
step and smiling countenance. In less than a year he was again
_remonté_, in full credit and full success; his house, as before, the
resort of all that was gay and brilliant in the metropolis—himself
again the oracle of a wide and fashionable circle. The answer and
the result, display the character of the man better than whole pages
of written biography could do. His faith lies in his own capacity
for turning to account the weakness of others, and never has it been
deceived.”
“Who is the tall, thin adversary of the count?” said I, struck
with the appearance of the person, as he turned and spoke in a low
confidential tone to the prince.
“Oh, that is the Count de F.,” said my friend, “the antiquated beau of
Parisian high life. He is the same gay philanderer, the same favoured
swain, the object of as many fluttering sighs and tender regrets, as
he was thirty years ago, when he was in his prime, or forty years ago,
when he was young. Some people have affixed a nearer relationship
between him and the prince than the latter has ever chosen to avow. Be
this as it may, the count, whether from this cause, or from the number
of years which he has spent in the friendship and society of the Prince
de Talleyrand, has imbibed much of his ready wit and cold, sarcastic
philosophy, and displays them sometimes at the expense of others, with
the same reckless disregard of feelings or _amour propre_. His victims
are numerous, but they too are sometimes fully revenged by the prince,
with whom he cannot vie, in spite of the florid wit and forked satire
in which he will indulge.
“The poor count had well nigh been overwhelmed, sunk for ever, on one
occasion, by a witticism of Talleyrand’s, which spread over Paris in
an incredibly short space, and filled the heart of the poor old dandy
with gall and bitterness. The prince had always rallied the count most
unmercifully upon his absurd pretensions to youth and gallantry, and
yet, in spite of this, so great is the infatuating effect of love, that
the latter was foolish and unguarded enough to mention, with great
mystery, a new conquest which he had made, and upon which he piqued
himself not a little. This time it was a lady of talent, rank, and
fashion, and he wished most particularly to _keep_ his conquest, now
that he had so fairly won it. It was just at the period of the new
year, and _étrennes_ were flying in every direction.
“‘I should like to give the lady of my heart something that would
please her,’ said the count; ‘do assist me, prince; what can I procure
that would be most rare—something unique of its kind—something that is
but seldom seen, and of which the like could not be brought to her from
anybody else.’
“The prince appeared to reflect for a moment, and the count waited
impatiently for the answer.
“‘I have it—I have it,’ at length exclaimed the prince, joyfully.
“‘What? tell me quickly, I will go this moment and procure it.’
“‘No need to stir,’ returned the prince, drily; ‘give her one of the
hairs of your head—if you can;—it must indeed be a thing unique of its
kind, and of which none could bring her the fellow.’
“This allusion to the baldness of the antiquated Adonis was
irresistible; the _bon mot_ was sure to be remembered wherever he
appeared, and for a long time it drove him from the society of those
who had heard it. It was only when he had _proved_ the reality of his
pretensions, by the splendid marriage which he made soon afterwards,
that he regained confidence, and once more appeared as you now behold
him, more soft and Cupid-like, more captivating, and more _papillonant_
than ever.
“The guest, who sits opposite to him, his partner in the game, is the
celebrated Royer Collard, perhaps, saving our host, the best specimen
of the _ancien régime_ now existing in the country. As Talleyrand may
be taken as type of the old French nobleman, so may Royer Collard be
admitted as specimen of the ancient French gentleman. It is a pleasure
to look upon that man, and behold in his calm, open eye, and his
broad expanse of forehead, denoting at once the union of genius and
benevolence, a perfect corroboration of all the good which one has
heard from all parties concerning him. Throughout every change and form
of government under which he has been called into action, he has been
remarkable for his inflexible integrity. No swerving—no deviation—no
compromise—but straight-forward has he marched, without flinching,
in the path which he had chosen. It was he who applied to Guizot the
epithet which it is said so diverted the king. ‘_Austère intrigant!_’
exclaimed he, when he heard that Guizot had again accepted office,
after his expressed determination not to act with the then existing
government. The _mot_ flew from mouth to mouth, and, whether correct or
not, was at least _successful_, which is everything in Paris.
“I firmly believe Royer Collard to be a true and disinterested friend
of the prince. In Paris, they live much together; scarcely a single
day being suffered to pass without his paying his visit at the Hôtel
Talleyrand. Perhaps he is the only person amid the crowd by whom the
prince is surrounded, in whom the latter places perfect reliance,
because, with his keen judgment and great knowledge of human nature,
he knows well enough that he is the only one with whom interest will
yield to friendship.
“Of course,” proceeded my friend C., “the château is sometimes visited,
like every other château in the kingdom, by all the ‘_fâcheux_’ and the
‘_importuns_’ of the country round, and the prince, being in a more
elevated position than his neighbours, has also more than their share
of hospitality to bestow. Just observe yonder old gentleman with the
powdered head, looking over M.’s cards, with a knowing air. That is
a near neighbour of the prince, to whom he is compelled by policy to
do the honours of the house. It is impossible to behold a better type
of the ‘Berrichon,’ whom their own George Sand has so aptly described
as ‘_moitié ours, moitié mouton_.’ His estate joins that of Valençay;
part of it can be seen from the windows of the gallery of the château,
and, on looking thence the other day, he exclaimed to the Count de M.,
who was admiring it, ‘_Mon Dieu, comte!_ just think: if I had only had
the misfortune to lose my father last year, I might have bought all
the land right away to the left, and made the place worth having!’
A whole written volume could not paint the Berrichon character more
clearly than this single speech. It is verily believed, that were the
thing permitted by law, the Berrichon would throw his own children into
the balance, if it were necessary to complete a good bargain in the
disposal of his sheep.
“You would be much diverted were you to witness all the intriguing
and manœuvring that is going forward among the _propriétaires_ and
_gentilâtres_ of this part of the country, to gain admission here. This
château is looked upon with wonder and awe, and its broad bastions and
Moorish towers are fabled through the province to contain more dark
secrets and more hidden mysteries than ever were confided to the grim
keeping of the Bastile or the Seven Towers. A short time ago, the Mayor
of C., a large town of this province, at some little distance from
this, was invited by the prince to dine at the château, and, as the
roads were bad, and the nights without moon, he was courteously asked
to delay his return home until the following morning. You may imagine
the sudden increase of importance, the sudden puffing of pride, with
which the worthy mayor accepted the invitation, and also the parting
injunctions of _madame son épouse_, to bring back to her and her
daughters the long history of all the wondrous deeds which were going
forward inside those aristocratic walls—a sealed mystery which, from
their own experience, they knew that they could never hope to solve.
“It so happened that, on the very morning of the day so rife with
expectation to the poor mayor, Comte Molé had arrived at Valençay.
Nothing could be more propitious, and the worthy official rubbed his
hands with glee, at the thought of the immense information he should
gain, by listening to the conversation of two such distinguished
politicians—of the awful importance of his position with regard to his
colleagues at the _conseil_ at home—of the delight and pride of his
ambitious wife, while she listened to the detail of all her husband had
heard concerning the secret affairs of the nation; in short, the honest
_bourgeois_ felt, from the very moment of his arrival, that tremulous,
uncertain kind of emotion (one hardly knows whether to call it pain or
pleasure), which precedes in most minds the realization of some dream
which has long been nursed and fostered with great care.
“Dinner passed away; the honest functionary, all eyes and ears to what
was going forward, listened intently on every side to catch the least
significant observation which should fall, either from the lips of his
host or of the illustrious guest. But it was in vain he strained his
hearing, listening so intently that his neighbour was once or twice
compelled to remind him of the dish before him; not a word of politics
was breathed during the whole repast; and when once, during a short
silence which occurred, he ventured, in a timid voice, to ask the
prince if he thought the Belgian monarchy would be of long duration,
he was merely answered by a request to take more champagne, and the
conversation once more resumed its light and frivolous tone. Wit there
was in abundance; sparkling showers, and bold satire, and learning too;
but the ‘_maire de son endroit_’ cared not for all the good things
which were flying past him from one end of the table to the other, and
convulsing every listener with bursts of hearty laughter; he smiled
not, poor man, but rather sat lost in painful wonder, that the great
ones of the earth should thus lose the precious hours in idle bantering
and unseemly mirth! But he hoped that, once in the _salon_, the
conversation might at length fall into a more serious and profitable
vein, and he had already taken his place close to the prince,
determined to catch each syllable that fell from his lips when Count
Molé approached. This he felt sure would happen; of course it could not
chance otherwise. At length, Count Molé approached, and leant over the
back of the prince’s chair. He spoke, in the very ear of the prince, a
confidential whisper, which the mayor heard, however, distinctly, so
close had he drawn to the illustrious friends.
“‘Prince,’ said the count, ‘have you forgotten old times and all our
fierce encounters? Come, and renew our skill at billiards in the next
room; it will make us both all the younger by twenty years!’
“Billiards! the Prince de Talleyrand play at billiards! it could not
be; he should have imagined that his lameness would have saved him
from _that_. Yet so it was; the Prince de Talleyrand _did_ play at
billiards; and, in spite of his lameness, was considered one of the
most expert players of his day; and so the poor mayor sat the long
evening through, discomfited and unhappy, with nothing to tell his
wife, and nothing to report to the town council when next it should
meet. The disappointment was almost too bitter to be borne.
“Hope, however, did not desert him. He well knew that the prince
and his noble guest could not play at billiards the whole night, so
he sat awhile waiting with patience, until they should grow tired of
the game, and return to the fireside. And they _did_ return as he had
foreseen, and they _did_ seat themselves comfortably, one on each
side of the chimney. ‘Now will they discuss their latest protocols,’
thought the little mayor, as he rubbed his hands in glee. No; the
prince was in high spirits, for he had won at billiards. The count was
in high spirits too, for he declared he had _let_ him win; and the
whole conversation was engrossed by the discussion—eternal thrust and
parry—attack and _repartee_—which had so worried the mayor at dinner,
and of which he could not at all see the wit—not he.
“‘At last he was growing quite beside himself, when the prince arose;
which action was the signal that the _soirée_ was concluded, and that
the different guests were free to retire. Yet he had not heard one
single word of politics! What would he have to say at the _conseil_?
What could he tell his wife? _She_ would greet him with reproaches on
his return home, and would say that such introductions to the great
were of little use, unless he knew better how to profit by them; for
he felt that, were he to talk till doomsday, he never should be able
to persuade her that he had heard not one word of politics. She would
accuse him of having napped, as he always did, and always would do,
despite her admonition.
“Well; the guests all withdrew, our excellent mayor among the number;
but, as he passed the screen down yonder at the door, upon turning back
to take a wistful glance at the blazing hearth, he perceived the count
reseat himself in the great arm-chair which he had quitted but for an
instant, and the prince ensconced once more in the one he had occupied
all the evening; he saw the latter draw forward a little _gueridon_
which stood near, place upon it a roll of papers which he took from his
pocket, and pointing to them, he heard him say to the count—‘You see we
have _besogne_ enough before us. I hope you are not sleepy?’
“The curiosity, the ambition, the _amour propre_ of the poor mayor were
all roused, and, forgetting the risk he was about to incur—in short,
forgetting all but the opportunity of retrieving lost time—he slid
himself into a chair which stood most invitingly near the door, in the
shadow of the screen, and prepared to listen with due attention. There
was a pause, however, during which the prince rose slightly in his
chair, to reach down one of the flambeaux from the mantel-piece. The
mayor stretched forward eagerly, when his horror may be guessed; for
instead of unrolling the mysterious budget, the prince turned to the
count, and said, ‘Before we begin upon this business, let us conclude
the affair we were speaking of before dinner. I am sorry that you have
reason to suspect the disaffection of the municipal council of our
town; if so, I think your are quite right to have it remodelled. Whom
did you say you would like to replace the mayor?’
“The functionary started, and uttered a deep groan, which no doubt
prevented him from hearing the count’s answer; but the prince again
spoke, and asked his friend what he thought of the present one. Of
course, the answer was most humiliating for the poor victim, telling
of apparent inaptitude for the office, of his impertinent familiarity,
and of his eager, inconvenient curiosity—until the unfortunate actually
writhed with the pain each word inflicted.
“When the unwelcome harangue was concluded, the prince arose to take
a caraffe of water from the console. The poor mayor was in an awful
fright, for the action brought the prince immediately opposite to where
he sat, trembling and perspiring from head to foot. The prince poured
the water into a tumbler and drank it off, and was about retiring to
his seat, when his eye fell upon the figure of the poor little mayor,
who would gladly at that moment have been a hundred feet below the
earth.
“‘Ah! Monsieur L.!’ exclaimed he, ‘why, in the name of Heaven, have
you been thus neglected? Ring, M. de Molé, here is our worthy friend
L. actually freezing behind the screen, while waiting for some one to
conduct him to his chamber. _Mille pardons_, Monsieur L., for this
extraordinary neglect on the part of the servants.’
“The valet-de-chambre appeared.
“‘Conduct Monsieur L., immediately to his chamber,’ said the prince,
significantly, ‘and see that the like forgetfulness never happens again
with any of the visitors to this house. _Bon soir_, M. le Maire, _bonne
nuit, et dormez bien_!’
“The trembling culprit hurried off without uttering a word, so great
was his confusion, and departed the next morning at daybreak for his
own home.
“It is needless to say that the story of his removal from office was
a hoax. The prince, in rising to reach the light from the chimney,
had descried, in the looking glass, the shadow of a figure on the
opposite wall. His quick perceptions enabled him at once to guess to
whom it belonged, from remembrance of the mayor’s uneasy curiosity,
and indiscreet listening to all that passed during dinner, and he felt
determined to punish the mean and cowardly listener. A wink at the
count was sufficient; _he_ was not one to refuse a hint, and together
they thus fooled the victim to their heart’s content. The story got
abroad, and created great laughter throughout the whole country, and,
as might be expected, the little Mayor of C. was ere long caricatured,
pamphleted, and paragraphed into resigning, and it was only then that
he was allowed to live in peace, and to forget his fatal visit to
Valençay.”
As my friend concluded his story, the whist-table broke up, and the
prince rising, moved towards the fire, where we were seated, and took
the arm-chair which was always reserved for him. I must confess that
at that identical moment I could enter into the feelings of the worthy
Mayor of C., for I, too, longed for the moment when he would expand,
and share with us some of the varied riches of anecdote with which his
mind was stored.
It needed but a single spark to fire the train: the prince was _en
verve_ that evening, and I verily believe a whole volume might be
filled with the bare leaves and cuttings of the “Flowers of Rhetoric,”
with which he charmed us. If he did not possess, like the antique poet
of Dante’s vision, the power of carrying us into the nether regions,
his charm was greater still; for with a beck he conjured up the shadows
he wished us to behold, and made them pass in long array before us.
One or two of the anecdotes I will relate, for the benefit of my
readers, but they must not expect to find one jot of the _manner_ of
the narrator—the piquancy, the _verve_, the irresistible charm which
made the Prince de Talleyrand avowedly the first story-teller of his
day. If I can give but a faint idea of the style of conversation which
enlivened the long evenings of autumn beneath the princely domes of
Valençay, it will be as much as I can hope to accomplish, for the
very warmth and vivacity of the prince’s manner of relating renders
it impossible to repeat his words, and memory fails to retrace the
fairy chain by which imagination was so sportively held captive and
enthralled.
The conversation had turned upon bonnie Scotland, and the prince, amid
many regrets at his inability to visit the land where dwelt so many of
his best friends, expressed much curiosity respecting divers usages and
customs of the Scotch, some of which are so unlike those of any other
nation on the face of the globe. Among other things, he said he had
ever felt an eager desire to witness an example of second sight, and
asked me many questions concerning this extraordinary gift; to which
I was happily enabled to answer in a satisfactory manner, from having
heard in my own family of many illustrations of this peculiarity,
all witnessed and backed by the evidence of sundry old nurses and
attendants, who had been for ages in the family, and of course believed
without inquiry. My poor anecdotes, rough and uncouth as they were,
seemed to interest the company—this kind of superstition being a thing
unknown among the French, who, if they are gifted with the most florid
wit, have certainly the driest imaginations of any people in Europe.
“Somnambulism, and the waking sleep, might account for the origin of
such a wild belief,” said one of the company.
“Or the faculty of fixing the mind with straining energy on one point,”
said another.
“Or, perhaps the sudden light—the quick, vivid flash, which reveals to
some strong and powerful minds the POSSIBLE, the TRUE,” said the prince.
“I remember,” continued he, “upon one occasion having been gifted for
one single instant, with this unknown and nameless power. I know not to
this moment whence it came; it has never once returned; and yet, upon
that one occasion it saved my life; without that sudden and mysterious
inspiration, I should not now be here to tell the tale. I had freighted
a ship in concert with my friend Beaumetz. He was a good fellow,
Beaumetz, with whom I had ever lived on the most intimate terms; and,
in those stormy times, when it needed not only friendship to bind men
together, but almost godlike courage to dare to show that friendship, I
could not but prize most highly all his bold and loyal demonstrations
of kindness and attachment to me. I had not a single reason to doubt
his friendship; on the contrary, he had given me on several occasions
most positive proofs of his sincere devotion to my interests and
well-being. We had fled from France together, we had arrived at New
York together, and together we had lived in perfect harmony during
our stay there. So, after having resolved upon improving the little
money that was left us by speculation, it was still in partnership and
together that we freighted a small vessel for India, trusting all to
the goodly chance which had befriended us in our escape from danger and
from death, to venture once more _together_ to brave the storms and
perils of a yet longer and more adventurous voyage.
“Everything was embarked for our departure; bills were all paid and
farewells all taken, and we were waiting for a fair wind with most
eager expectation—being prepared to embark at any hour of the day
or night, in obedience to the warning of the captain. This state of
uncertainty seemed to irritate the temper of poor Beaumetz to an
extraordinary degree, and, unable to remain quietly at home, he hurried
to and from the city, with an eager, restless activity which at times
excited my astonishment, for he had ever been remarkable for great
calmness and placidity of temper.
“One day, he entered our lodging, evidently labouring under great
excitement, although commanding himself to appear calm. I was engaged
at the moment, writing letters to Europe, and, looking over my
shoulder, he said with forced gaiety, ‘What need to waste time in
penning those letters? they will never reach their destination. Come
with me, and let us take a turn on the Battery; perhaps the wind may be
chopping round; we may be nearer our departure than we imagine.’
“The day was very fine, although the wind was blowing hard, and I
suffered myself to be persuaded. Beaumetz, I remembered afterwards,
displayed an unusual officiousness in aiding me to close my desk and
put away my papers, handing me, with hurried eagerness, my hat and
cane, and doing other little services to quicken my departure, which at
the time I attributed to the restless desire for change, the love of
activity, with which he seemed to have been devoured during the whole
period of our delay.
“We walked through the crowded streets, to the Battery. He had seized
my arm, and hurried me along, seemingly in eager haste to advance.
When we had arrived on the broad esplanade, the glory then, as now, of
the city of New York, Beaumetz quickened his step yet more, until we
arrived close to the water’s edge. He talked loud and quickly, admiring
in energetic terms the beauty of the scenery, the Brooklyn Heights,
the shady groves of the island, the ships riding at anchor, and the
busy scene on the peopled wharf; when suddenly he paused in his mad,
incoherent discourse, for I had freed my arm from his grasp, and stood
immovable before him. Staying his wild and rapid steps, I fixed my
eyes upon his face. _He turned aside, cowed and dismayed._ ‘Beaumetz,’
I shouted, ‘_you mean to murder me_—you intend to throw me from the
height into the sea below. Deny it, monster, if you can!’
“The maniac stared at me for a moment, but I took especial care not
to avert my gaze from his countenance, and he quailed beneath it. He
stammered a few incoherent words, and strove to pass me, but I barred
his passage with extended arms. He looked vacantly right and left, and
then flung himself upon my neck and burst into tears. ‘’Tis true—’tis
true, my friend. The thought has haunted me day and night, like a flash
from the lurid fire of hell. It was for this I brought you here. Look,
you stand within a foot of the edge of the parapet—in another instant,
the work would have been done!’
“The demon had left him; his eye was still unsettled, and the white
foam stood in bubbles on his parched lips; but he was no longer tossed
by the same mad excitement under which he had been labouring so long,
for he suffered me to lead him home without a single word. A few days’
repose and silence, bleeding and abstinence, completely restored him to
his former self, and, what is most extraordinary, the circumstance was
never mentioned between us. My FATE was at work. It was during those
few days of watching by the bedside of poor Beaumetz, that I received
the letters from France which announced to me the revocation of the
decree which had sent me a wanderer to America. The _Directoire_ had
relented, and I was invited to return with all speed. I sought not to
resist the appeal, and at once decided on leaving Beaumetz to prosecute
our speculation alone, and on returning to Paris immediately.
“The blow was cruel to poor Beaumetz, who was fully persuaded, I have
no doubt, that it was in dread of another attack on his part that
I had now the wish to leave him. No argument I could make use of,
no assurances of unchanged friendship, could shake his opinion, and
our parting was a most stormy and painful one. I made over to him my
interest in the ship which we had freighted together, and he departed
for India, while I bent my course once more towards my _belle France_.
“Once more in a position to assist my friends, my first thought was
of Beaumetz, and one of my first acts was the cancelling of his
death-warrant. I wrote to him to announce the joyful news, addressing
my letter to the merchant at Calcutta to whom he had been recommended.
In due time, receiving no answer, I wrote again; but my letters were
returned, with the information that the ship, which had sailed from
New York some months before, and of which M. Beaumetz was supercargo,
had not arrived, that no tidings had been received of its fate, and
that great fears were entertained of its total loss. The apprehension
was justified, _for from that day to this no tidings have ever been
received of the ship, nor, alas! of my poor friend Beaumetz!_”
The prince paused a moment, seeming to collect his sad remembrances of
Beaumetz, and I could not but admire the singular good fortune which
had caused him to abandon his voyage to India. How different might
have been the fate of France, nay, of Europe, had he sailed in that
ship! Well may he have gained among his friends the title of “Fortune’s
master!”
“But what was really the motive of your first suspicion of the
murderous intent of Beaumetz?” said one of the company.
“I know not to this very hour,” replied the Prince de Talleyrand;
“it was not his eye, for I was not looking at him at the moment, I
was gazing at the sublime view which he himself was pointing out to
my notice;—it was not in the tone of his voice either, in which lay
the warning of my danger; it was a sudden and mysterious impulse for
which I have never been able to account—one of those startling and
fearful mysteries which even the strongest minds are contented to
accept without inquiry, being satisfied that such things are, and never
daring to ask wherefore. Many persons, the _Illuminés_ for example, who
ruled the _monde philosophique_ for so long a period, have ascribed
this sudden revelation of the hidden TRUTH entirely to the effects
of magnetism, and there are instances well known, wherein the great
masters of the art have been able to produce the same effect at
pleasure. Cagliostro, to whom I once mentioned the circumstance, had
often obtained the same results by his wonderful powers of magnetism.”
“What, _mon prince_, have you ever seen Cagliostro?” exclaimed the fair
Duchess de V., raising her head from her tapestry frame, and gazing
into the prince’s face, with an amusing expression of wonder and of awe.
“Ay, that have I,” returned the prince, gravely; “often have I seen
him, fair lady, and am not of those who condemn him at once, without
examination, unthinkingly, as an impostor; for the man _believed_
himself: no wonder, then, that he could so easily persuade others.”
“Oh, now, do tell us something about this Cagliostro!” exclaimed the
young duchess, shaking back her fair ringlets, as she leant eagerly
forward, and laid her white and jewelled hand upon the elbow of the
prince’s chair; “do tell us all about your interview with the famous
magician; but mind, tell us the truth. Where did he live?—how did he
look?—what did he wear?”
“Nay,” returned the prince, smiling, “were I to tell all I know
concerning him, my story would not be done till to-morrow night, at
this same hour.”
We all involuntarily followed the direction of his gaze towards the
clock upon the mantelpiece. Alas! the hand was wearing round, and stood
within a very few minutes of the hour of one.
“We must defer the story of Cagliostro’s wonders till another time,”
said he, “but you shall not lose by waiting. _Vous n’y perdrez rien,
madame._ But you shall sleep _this_ night at least in peace; which you
might never do again should you happen to _believe_! So, messieurs,
_bonne nuit—à demain_.”
He arose. Of course the whole assembly followed the movement, and in a
few moments each one had retired.
My chamber was in one of the turrets which form the corner towers of
the château, and, by a most singular piece of good fortune, I found
that it was close to that of my friend. We lingered some few minutes,
taper in hand, upon the threshold, and, with his usual kindness, C.
proposed to me, as he took his leave for the night, to conduct me
through the château and grounds on the morrow.
“We are all independent here,” said he; “you must not feel surprised
if you are left to cater for your own amusement until dinner, for
each one does what is right in his own eyes, and the morrow’s plans
are determined on before night; so that interlopers must necessarily
be excluded, for the first day at least. But you shall not be quite
abandoned; I will be with you betimes in the morning, and we shall have
ample occupation for a long day, in wandering over the beauties of this
place, which must some day become one of the most celebrated spots in
our country.”
He left me, and I soon sank to sleep, dreaming of all I had seen and
heard, and with anticipations, too, of what more I was to see and hear
before I took my departure from Valençay.