CHILDHOOD AND JUVENILE YEARS OF TALLEYRAND.
Our drive was delightful over the green turf beneath the arched vista
of the old avenue. The rain-drops glittered on every leaf, and the
turf, moistened by the shower, after the long drought, sent up a
delicious fragrance beneath each pressure of our horses’ feet. The
prince was alone in his carriage, with his dog Carlo. There was but
one person in the whole world whom he ever allowed to take the seat
beside him in his drives, and she was that day absent from Valençay.
There was something touching and poetical in the solitary figure as he
reclined back, leaning on his cane, not gazing on the landscape, but
musing, abstracted and motionless, save that from time to time he would
bend slightly forward, and pat old Carlo fondly on the neck, as if his
train of thought had led him into recollections of the long attachment
of the faithful animal, contrasting it, perhaps, with the treachery and
ingratitude which he had met with in man.
In the poetic fervour of the moment I could not help hazarding
this supposition to my friend, who laughed heartily at my youthful
enthusiasm, but declared that it was never so ill-bestowed, for that
it had been subject of astonishment that the Prince was never known to
give way, after the fashion of age, to any of those loud and bitter
railings against the injustice and ingratitude of mankind, which
sometimes render the society of elderly persons liable to the complaint
of querulousness and discontent, and yet none had ever perhaps better
cause of complaint than he has had.
“The destiny of that man,” said C., musingly, and scarcely conscious
that he was speaking aloud, “has been a most singular and mysterious
one. Each great event of his life might serve as a type of the people
among whom it took place, and illustrative of the times in which it
_could_ have happened. The history of his childhood alone would serve
to paint the epoch. It was one of the latest examples of a style of
morals and manners which the great revolution wholly swept away. He
was born in Paris, in the year 1754. As was usual with families of
distinction at that period, a nurse had been provided, who lodged in
the hotel for some time previously to the birth of the expected babe,
so that, immediately on the arrival of the offensive object, she might
be at hand to carry it away. This arrangement was most agreeable and
convenient. In a little space the mother re-appeared, brilliant and gay
as ever, amid the circles she had deserted but for a moment. She had to
endure at first, on the part of her ‘_essaim d’adorateurs_,’ some few
tender reproaches upon her cruelty in having deprived her friends of
the charm of her society ‘for so many centuries,’ some few _grivois_
remarks upon the _accident_ which had caused this absence, and then the
event was forgotten by all, even by the lady herself, who resumed, with
increased ardour, her gambling and flirtations, while the poor wretched
infant, abandoned by its natural protectors, and condemned to the care
of mercenaries, was left either to vegetate in ignorance and filth, or
to die without even having known a single moment of its mother’s love.
“Such was the fate of Charles Maurice, the eldest son of the Comte de
Talleyrand. Hurried from the paternal home in the very hour of his
birth, he was taken into a distant part of the country by a nurse whose
trade it was to tend and bring up children _tant bien que mal_, as he
himself has often said. Here he remained until he had arrived at the
age of seven years. The nurse was regularly paid—her reports of the
child were always good—he was her ‘_cher coco_’—‘the darling of her
heart,’ ‘the pride of the whole country.’ He was well in health—he
had fresh air and exercise—he wanted neither food nor clothing—what
then could the boy require more than all these? His mother must
have answered this question, if ever she put it to herself, most
satisfactorily; for it is certain she continued the business of her
life—the _petit jeu_, the _grand jeu_, the _petit lever_, the _grand
lever_—with as much energy and ardour as if no child had ever been.
About this time, however, another ‘_fâcheux accident_’ occurred—the
birth of another son. Again was the lady obliged to retire for a while;
again were her sentimental swains in deep distress. The second son
appeared, and, like the first, was full of health and vigour; like
the eldest, cast in the mould of a manly race, with neither spot nor
blemish. Such had been the will of God—but how was his goodly work
perverted!
“The poor little new-comer was, like Charles Maurice, despatched to
the same village where _he_ still dwelt—revelling in village ignorance
and liberty, with no care and no constraint, knowing no master, for he
was the young seigneur; fearing no God, for he himself was the idol of
the whole canton. None of his own family had been to see him during
the whole of those weary years, and the little brother, whose arrival
he now welcomed with such glee, in consideration of sundry boxes of
delicious bon-bons, with which the nurse, according to old French
custom, returned laden, was the only individual, not only of his race,
but also of his own rank and station, whom he had ever seen! The father
was frequently absent with the army for whole years together, in the
pursuit of fame; the mother was entirely absorbed in the duties of the
court, and stirred not further from Paris than Versailles. _She_ was
steady in pursuit of fortune. Did either of them succeed? The one died
young, obscure in the annals of his house; the other died old and
dependent; while the poor neglected child lived to make all Europe ring
with his renown; and to found, by his own exertions, one of the most
splendid fortunes of the Continent! Thus will Fortune mock at the weak
endeavours of poor vain mortals, to work out their own destiny!
“Such was the tender care and nursing that befel Charles Maurice, the
eldest son of the Comte de Talleyrand Perigord, and the circumstances
of his childhood, so far from being remarkable or uncommon, may be
taken as an example of the manner in which the nobles of that day
fulfilled the first and most solemn duty of the whole existence of
man—that of tending and fostering with care the offspring which God
has been pleased to bestow. However, all evil, as well as good, must
cease in time, and Providence has granted for our consolation that,
as the one must have an end, so shall the other not endure for ever;
and thus, about three years after the arrival in the village of the
little Archambault, his brother Charles Maurice did at length behold
the countenance of one of his own kith and kin. The youngest brother of
his father, the Bailli de Talleyrand, capitaine des galères, and knight
of Malta, had just returned from a cruise. He had been absent from
his family for many years, and came with a heart overflowing with love
towards his whole kindred; among whom stood first his brother and his
young children.
“He was much grieved at the absence of the children, and immediately
declared his intention of proceeding to the village where they had been
placed, in order to embrace them before he set sail again, perhaps
never to return. It was the depth of winter—the snow lay heavy on the
ground—the roads were dangerous, but, ‘_corbleu! morbleu! ventrebleu!_’
what cared he for danger? and what danger should prevent him from
visiting the _petits drôles_, and even from carrying the eldest off
to serve with him on board the Saint Joseph, if he found him, as he
doubted not he should, full of fire and courage, and willing to assist
in rebuilding the fortunes of his family by serving on the seas? He
arrived at the village near nightfall, and alone, for the roads were so
bad that he had been obliged to take horse; and, but one having been
found in a serviceable condition, his servant had been obliged to stay
at the town some miles distant.
“The entrance of the brave bailli into that solitary village must have
caused quite a sensation; and I have heard that the whole scene has
remained graven on the powerful memory of the prince, as though it had
occurred but yesterday. He will sometimes recount it to his intimates,
and laugh at the singularity of the circumstances; but that laugh,
believe me, must be one of bitterness and scorn. No wonder that this
man should have felt such strange contempt for his fellow man—no wonder
that he should at times have acted as though he fancied that he alone
existed in the world.
“Well, just at a turn of the road which led down into the village, the
bailli bethought himself that he knew not the way to the house of the
Mère Rigaut, the nurse to whom he had been directed; and he checked his
steed, to gaze around and see if any one was in view who could assist
him. While he thus paused, there came hobbling up the hill a pale,
delicate-looking boy, with long ringlets of very fair hair, hanging
loose over his shoulders, and an indescribable look of gentility, which
the bailli perceived at once—at least he always said so afterwards. He
carried a bird-trap in his hand, for he was just going out to seek
for larks among the snow. The bailli called to him to come on faster;
but, alas! as he drew near, he perceived that he was very lame, and
that he bore a little crutch, which, however, he did not always use,
but sometimes walking several steps without its aid, would flourish it
before him as if in defiance, until a roughness in the road, or a loose
stone, compelled him to place it again beneath his arm.
“‘Hallo, _mon garçon_!’ shouted the bailli, ‘will you tell me the way
to the house of the Mère Rigaut?’
“‘That I will,’ cried the boy, eyeing the bailli askance and smiling
slyly; ‘and, moreover, I will conduct you thither, if you will give
me——’
“‘Ay, ay,’ said the bailli, ‘never fear; but make haste child—the wind
blows cold and sharp, and you shall have no cause to complain of my
want of generosity.’
“‘Nay, nay,’ replied the boy, colouring, ‘I meant to have asked you but
for a ride on your steed to Mother Rigaut’s door.’
“And as the child spoke, he looked with envy at the rough post-horse,
which, all unkempt and shaggy as he was, appeared far superior to the
rude animals employed in plough or cart—the only ones ever seen in that
distant village.
“‘Is that all?’ said the good-natured bailli, ‘then come
along—mount—quick, my lad—there—jump up in the twinkling of an eye.’
“The boy, lame as he was, sprang into the saddle, but the portly person
of the bailli prevented him from taking a safe seat, so he leaned
his little crutch upon the toe of the bailli’s boot, and grappled
the horse’s mane with a firm grasp, almost standing upright; while
the bailli, heedless of his perilous situation, trotted over the
rough stones of the village pavement, the bells at the horse’s bridle
jingling merrily, and the loud laugh—half fear, half delight—of the
bold urchin echoing far and near. Of course the whole village was
roused in an instant, and the astonishment was great at beholding
Mother Rigaut’s ‘Charlot’ trotting down the street upon a strange
gentleman’s steed, his long fair hair blown about by the wind, and his
face shining and glowing amid the golden masses of silken curls which
fell over it.
“The bailli stopped at Mother Rigaut’s door, but so little was he
prepared to meet the truth, that he bade the boy, with whom he seemed
mightily pleased, hold the horse while he entered the house to speak
to the good woman, who was already standing on the threshold, all
smiles and courtesies, to welcome the strange gentleman. The bailli
entered and closed the door after him. What passed within none can
tell. It must have been an extraordinary scene, for the sound of voices
in high dispute was heard for some minutes—a sound of sobbing and
of wailing, and of loud expostulation; and presently the bailli was
seen bursting from the cottage, and rushing upon the boy, and hugging
and embracing him with transports of affection; then, all pale and
trembling with emotion, he waved back with his riding-whip the advances
of Mère Rigaut, who was pressing forward to clasp the child in her
arms, and, seizing him in a sturdy grasp, he threw him on the saddle,
and sprang up after him. But this time he allowed him room enough to
ride at ease, and bade him sit in comfort, and then he placed his
brawny arm round the boy’s middle with solicitude, to keep him firm
upon the saddle, and, putting spurs to the capering post-horse, he
dashed out of the village without even asking news of any other child,
or suffering the boy to take a last farewell of the Mère Rigaut, who
followed him with shrieks and lamentations until he was lost to sight.
“It was not till they had arrived at the little town, distant about two
leagues from the village wherein Charles Maurice de Talleyrand—Mother
Rigaut’s ‘Charlot’—had passed these first twelve years of his eventful
life, and which he was destined to behold no more—that he was informed
that the strange gentleman who had carried him off so abruptly, and
in such a storm of indignation that he had not even stayed to see the
little Archambaut, was his own uncle, the Bailli de Talleyrand, his
father’s brave and loving brother, whose generous heart had glowed
with such indignation at sight of the unheeded state in which the poor
child had been left, crippled for life through the awkwardness of the
ignorant nurse, that, without hesitation, without permission, he had
torn him from his misery, and, although greatly disappointed in the
hope he had conceived of being able to take him on board the ship he
commanded, in consequence of his infirmity, yet he would not suffer him
to remain a moment longer abandoned to the ignorant kindness of which
he had so long been a victim.
“As he was compelled to delay his return to Paris for some little
time, he immediately wrote to the count, to inform him of the
circumstances in which he had found his nephew, Charles Maurice, and
his intention of bringing him at once to Paris. The letter reached its
destination some days before the worthy bailli, accompanied by his
young charge, drove into the courtyard of the hotel where the Comte de
Talleyrand resided. Here, to his great mortification, he found that the
count was absent with the _armée de Flandre_; the countess was also
absent on duty at the palace, it being her _semaine de service_, and
not for worlds would she neglect her duty. She had, however, with an
affectionate _prévoyance_, worthy of the greatest praise, appointed a
gentleman to receive the boy from the hands of the bailli—a professor,
who was to be his tutor at the College Louis le Grand, whither he was
immediately to conduct his pupil, arrangements having already been made
for his reception. The bailli sighed as he consigned the lad to the
care of another stranger, and, taking an affectionate farewell, which
was his last, immediately set off for Toulon, where he embarked, and
was drowned at sea some few months afterwards.
“Had the worthy bailli lived, the destiny of Charles Maurice would
have been far different, and the fate of Europe have been changed.
He would have found protection and support in his own family—in one
of its members at least—and they would not have dared to wreak upon
his head that deadly wrong, which changed the whole current of his
existence, and compelled him to struggle and to toil for that which was
by right his own. However, bad as matters were, they certainly might
have been worse; for the gentleman to whose care Charles Maurice was
confided, was at all events a kind and liberal person, and soon became
greatly attached to his pupil. I have frequently seen him at the Hotel
Talleyrand, even so lately as the year 1828. He was but a very few
years older than the prince, and it was like a dream of other days to
hear the ancient pupil and his more ancient tutor discourse for hours
together of those early times, so long gone by, and of their friends
and companions, all, with very few exceptions, long since in the grave.
I have often thought that it must have been to the society and counsels
of this most excellent man that the prince chiefly owed the softness
and humanity of his character, which even his enemies, amid all their
absurd accusations, have never been able to deny.
“I have heard the prince, even very lately, speak of _ce cher_ Père
Langlois, as one of the most benevolent and pure-minded of men, and
his friendship and affection for him knew no change, through all the
vicissitudes of fortune, or the changes in politics. The prince, I
believe, allowed him a very handsome income up to the day of his death;
but this circumstance did not prevent him from sometimes indulging his
quondam pupil with a few gentle remonstrances and _réprésentations_,
whenever, by any misplaced word, or ill-timed reflection, he wounded
the old professor’s prejudices; and it was a most curious sight to
witness the deference with which his observations would be received
by the prince, who, so strong was the power of old association, bowed
his mighty intellect, and submitted to the reprimands of the obscure
and dependent professor. I have often been present at his visits, and
always took most especial delight in witnessing the kindly feeling,
the true affection, which existed between the pair. M. Langlois still
wore, in 1828, the costume he had worn before the revolution, when,
as professor of rhetoric at the college of Louis le Grand, he had
undertaken the care and education of the poor neglected boy from the
distant village in Perigord—a long-skirted black coat, without a
collar, and buttoned up to the chin, black knee breeches and silk
stockings, with large shoes and bright plated knee-buckles. His
coiffure was in _ailes de pigeon_, with a long and goodly queue, well
powdered; the large, flat snuff-box which he drew from the vasty deep
of his ample pocket, and the brown checquered handkerchief which he
used with a flourish and a loud report, brought back to memory at once
the whole herd of _savans crasseux_ of the eighteenth century.
“Well, to return to my tale. At the college, Charles Maurice devoted
himself most manfully to study. This is proved by the fact of his
having obtained, the second year of his admission, the first prize of
his class, although competition must have been hard with boys who had
been in the college for many years, while he had been running wild and
barefoot on the plains of Perigord. Three years passed away cheerily
enough at the college. His life of study had, however, but little
variety, for he was during that time one of the unfavoured few who were
compelled by the arrangements of their parents to remain at the college
during the short vacation. His mother came but seldom to visit him,
and never came alone. She was mostly accompanied by an eminent surgeon
of Paris, who examined the boy’s leg, and bandaged it and pulled it
out to force it to match in length with the other, and burnt and
cauterized the offending nerve until the poor fellow learned to dread
with extreme terror the summons to the _parloir_, and the announcement
that _madame sa mère_ was awaiting him there. I have often heard him
tell of the agony of these visits, and of the disappointment which he
experienced on seeing all his playmates depart to their various homes
for the holidays, but I never heard him utter a single complaint or
condemnation of his mother’s conduct.
“It was at this time that his father died from the consequences of
an old wound received in a skirmish some years before, and Charles
Maurice was now the Comte de Talleyrand, and head of that branch of the
family to which he belonged. Meanwhile, the younger son, Archambaut,
had likewise returned from his most refined and tender nursing; but
_he_ had had the better chance; _his_ limbs were sound and well
developed, as God had made them. No dire accident, the consequence
of foul neglect, had marred his shape or tarnished his comeliness.
So, one fine day, and as a natural consequence, mark you, of this
fortunate circumstance, when Charles Maurice, the _eldest_ son, had
finished his course of study at Louis le Grand, having passed through
his classes with great _éclat_, there came a tall, sallow, black-robed
priest, and took him away from the midst of friends to the grim old
_seminaire_ of St. Sulpice, and it was there that he received the
astounding intimation, from the lips of the superior himself, that, by
the decision of a _conseil de famille_, from which there was no appeal,
his birthright had been taken from him, and transferred to his younger
brother.
“‘Why so?’ faltered the boy, unable to conceal his emotion.
“‘He is not a cripple,’ was the stern and cruel answer.
“It must have been that hour—nay, that very instant—the echo of those
heartless words—which made the Prince de Talleyrand what he is even
to this very day. Who shall tell the bitter throes of that bold,
strong-hearted youth, as he heard the unjust sentence? Was it defiance
and despair, the gift of hell, or resignation, the blessed boon of
Heaven, which caused him to suffer the coarse, black robe to be thrown
at once above his college uniform, without a cry, without a murmur?
None will ever be able to divine what his feelings were, for this one
incident is always passed over by the prince. He never refers to it,
even when in familiar conversation with his most loved intimates. It is
certain, therefore, that the single hour of which I speak, bore with it
a whole life of bitterness and agony.
“It is evident, as usual with him throughout his whole life, that his
decision, however, was taken on the instant. He murmured not—he sued
not for commutation of the hateful sentence. He knew that it would be
in vain. He even sought at once to conform, outwardly at least, to all
the tedium of the endless rules and regulations by which the house
was governed; but his whole character was changed—his very nature
was warped and blasted. Whatever historians may write, and credulous
readers choose to believe, he was _not_ a ‘silent, solitary boy, loving
to muse while his comrades played around him,’ as I have seen it
written in a recent account of his life. Just the contrary. While at
Louis le Grand, he was remarkable for his skill and dexterity at all
kinds of games requiring either fleetness of foot or strength of limb;
which fact was so extraordinary, from his infirmity, that the tradition
has been preserved in the college. He was strong and hardy, in spite
of his lameness. This he owed to the fresh air and free exercise he
had enjoyed in his early childhood. His temper was mild and tractable,
and, when attacked, his only weapon of defence was his tongue. His
sharp, quick speech became, indeed, the terror of his comrades. Even
then he had learned that the art of governing others consisted merely
in self-command. What a pity that some of his juvenile _bon mots_ have
not been preserved; they must have been delightful; the very sap and
freshness of his mental vigour.
“At Louis le Grand he had been surrounded by the bold, ambitious
spirits of the rising generation of that day, boys of all classes of
society, all animated with the same eager desire for distinction, and,
each in his degree, with the same thirst for glory. Even these children
were awaking to the conviction that a new light was about to break
upon the world, that the triumph of mind over matter was nigh at hand,
and that the power of brute force must yield at length to the mightier
power of intellect. A discontented spirit had gone forth, and even
walked abroad into the very nurseries throughout the land. The days
were past when the boys of noble blood sat down to table first and were
served by the urchin _roturiers_, their fellow-students. At board, in
class, or at play, the sons of the noble and the lowly, of the wealthy
and the poor, were now jostled together. The high-born dunce, who was
at college merely to while away the useless years between the epoch of
actual childhood and that of his admission (still a child) into the
army, no longer took precedence of the plebeian boy who was toiling
and striving to acquire knowledge, even though it might have been the
credit of the former which obtained the admission of the latter into
the college.
“In this struggle, the talents and quickness of young Talleyrand had
shone conspicuously. His position on his first entrance into the
college had been most undefined and false. He had arrived from Perigord
wild and untutored, ignorant of the simplest social tradition of the
_noblesse_; therefore had he no place or influence among the nobles;
while, without wealth, or any of the dazzling appurtenances of his
rank at command, he could scarcely be expected to have sway with the
_roturiers_; and yet, before the first half year had passed away, he
was found to be the prime mover and counsel of both factions by the
power of his intellect alone. These are facts which still live in the
memory of some few of the prince’s old associates, and show how early
that grasping mind, which was destined to govern those who governed the
world itself, began to assert its dominion and to exercise its powers.
“I have dwelt thus lengthily upon the childhood of the Prince de
Talleyrand, because, in the events by which it was marked, you may find
both cause and excuse for many things that took place in after years.
Such had been his life at Louis le Grand. Now, at the Seminaire, he
was thrown at once among a set of creatures of a far different stamp
from the bold and independent beings he had left. His new companions
were mostly, like himself sons of the poor _noblesse_; but, unlike
himself, they were either the _younger_ or the _bastard_ sons. Not one
of these had been deprived, as he had been, of his name and birthright,
therefore none could have sympathy with all the bitterness that must
have lain so heavy on his heart. Instead of the variety which gave
such interest to his college life, and such constant food to his
perceptive powers, he was surrounded in his new abode by beings all
actuated by one single motive, and who had therefore been moulded by
the same views into the same character. The sleepy dream of life at
St. Sulpice centred wholly in ecclesiastical distinction and honour,
and merely resolved itself into either riches or dignities, according
to the temper of the dreamer. The ready wit, the lively perceptions of
young Talleyrand, could not be appreciated in a community where hope
was deadened, and imagination dulled, by the certainty that robbed the
Future of the dim veil with which it is hidden from the great mass of
mankind, and which, according to the morals of the period, rendered
the after years of the younger son of the poor noble, or the bastard
child of the rich one, as easily to be defined, and as easy to unravel
as a record of the past. So must have thought that little congregation
of the Seminaire of Saint Sulpice, who were gathered there in 1770,
the year of the admission of Charles Maurice. But God had ordained it
otherwise; and, could some few of the fortunes of those lads be told
at this day, we should perhaps find as great diversity of adventure,
and many a tale of interest as wild and fearful, as those which could
be furnished by the youthful denizens of the Royal College of Louis le
Grand at the same period.
“However, it does not appear that the young candidate for church
preferment was guilty, for a single moment, of deception, with regard
to those who had thus fashioned out his destiny. He wore no mask of
hypocrisy at that time certainly, made no false pretence of fasting or
of penance; but openly and freely shared in all the amusements which
were within his reach, perhaps buoyed up with the presentiment that the
time was drawing nigh when the cowled monk and the stoled priest would
be bound by no obligation to keep the vow which had been breathed from
terror or necessity.
“It is pleasant to listen to his quiet and even mirthful tales of the
life he led when staying at the _succursale_ of the establishment,
which was situated at Vaugirard, near which place (at Issy) the Duchess
of Orleans, mother of our present King Louis Philippe, possessed a most
splendid château. Here she used to assemble all the _élite_ of the
society of Paris, and on the boards of the little theatre belonging
to the château were first produced some of the dramatic pieces which
afterwards had the greatest vogue in the capital. To be present
at these representations was an honour, of course, far beyond the
pretensions of the poor seminaristes, whose ears were tantalized during
the long summer nights by the rattling of carriage-wheels, and the
hallooing of livered attendants, as all the rank and beauty of Paris
flew by the old gray convent, where the priestly inhabitants should
have been slumbering in holy calm. But young Talleyrand slumbered not.
He would remain gazing for hours through the narrow apertures of the
jalousies,—which the watchful eye of the _surveillant_ caused always
to be closed,—and, with straining eyes and yearning heart, seek to
picture to his fancy the faces and the forms of the fair occupants
of the carriages which passed in rapid succession, until the desire
to join the happy groups he beheld thus fleeting before him became
irresistible, and he resolved _coûte que coûte_ to gratify it. No
sooner was the resolution formed than he hastened to its execution.
“Accordingly, one bright balmy night in August, he flung his black
serge frock _aux orties_, and, without assistance and without a
confidant (he never asked or took advice), he climbed the old
crumbling wall of the garden, and jumped up behind one of the gay
carriages which had so excited his envy. He will sometimes smile even
now at the self-confidence with which he planted himself, all terrified
and blushing, however, at the heels of the party who alighted at the
_perron_ of the château. He was fairly astonished at his own impudence,
when he found himself comfortably seated in the parterre of the
theatre, with an officer of the Gardes Françaises on one side, and a
little masked and mincing _abbé petit-maître_ on the other; nor could
he believe, as he raised his eyes and gazed around on that bright and
brilliant company, that he was not in reality where he ought at that
moment to have been, stretched on his lowly pallet, and dreaming of
paradise.
“When the curtain rose, and the play began, his admiration and delight
became almost painful. The piece was Racine’s ‘Phèdre,’ and the famous
Mademoiselle Contat, who performed the part of the wretched wife and
mother, was in more senses than one the heroine of the evening. She
had just been released from the prison of Fort l’Evêque, where she
had been confined for some time, in consequence of having refused to
apologize to the Paris parterre, for treating its opinion and authority
with contempt. Enthusiasm was at its height on her account. Party
spirit had run so high, that duels had been fought between old friends,
and _liaisons_ of long standing been broken off, in consequence of
differences of opinion with regard to her conduct in this matter.
Madame de L——, a great patroness of the drama, had not hesitated at
making herself the public talk, by taking to prison, in her open
carriage in broad day, and in the face of all Paris, seated on her
lap, with dishevelled hair and streaming eyes, the fair and injured
Emilie! The new perfume, _larmes de Contat_, had become indispensable.
Better go without a pocket-handkerchief at all than produce one which
was not redolent of the complicated fragrance. There had been but a
single incident to divert from tears and sobs in this adventure. The
police-officer, who had been charged with the arrest of Mademoiselle
Contat, had found her in the tragic mood, lofty and sullen. ‘Take all!’
she had exclaimed, with theatrical grandeur; ‘you are welcome to take
all—my liberty—my very life itself—but you cannot take my honour!’
‘Fear not, mademoiselle,’ replied the man; ‘_où il n’y a rien, le roi
perd ses droits_.’
“Some had laughed at the witticism—others had felt it most deeply, as
the unkindest cut of all. In short, her punishment and its cause had
created a species of frenzy in the public mind, which had occasioned
all minor troubles, whether of politics or finance, to be forgotten
for a while. You may judge, then, of the effect produced by the
appearance of Mdlle. Contat on the stage of this little _théâtre de
bonne compagnie_, before an audience of whom she was the idol, and
who had taken her imprisonment as the deepest personal offence to
themselves. Every individual in the house rose and greeted her with
transport. There was loud clapping of hands, and stamping of feet; and
some wept salt tears, and embraced their neighbours lovingly, so great
was the common joy, so universal the gratification afforded by the
release of the great Contat! Charles Maurice alone remained impassible
amid all the clamour, for he knew not what it meant, until the Garde
Française gave him a cuff, and bade him shout, or he would pink him,
and the perfumed abbé fell upon his neck, and with sobs begged him,
for Heaven’s sake, to clap his hands, that he might be quite sure he
was not seated next to a corpse, for nothing else could thus long have
borne the presence of a beauty so divine without some demonstration of
delight.
“It was when the clamour had ceased, and the play was allowed to
proceed, that the real delight of young Talleyrand commenced. I have
often heard him say, that never, during the lengthened years of his
brilliant life, does he remember to have experienced an admiration so
glowing, so intense, as on that memorable evening. During the whole
of the performance, he had remained in a perfect trance, and, when it
was concluded, he almost wept at the thought that he might possibly
behold it no more. The play was followed by a supper, again followed
by dancing, which doubtless lasted till the dawn, but our seminariste
deemed it prudent to hasten homeward before matins, for fear of
detection. This he accomplished on foot, and with celerity, and he was
just comfortably settled in his bed when the odious clang of the chapel
bell roused him ere he had yet fallen asleep. And it was long, indeed,
before he again slept calmly as he had done before. That night’s
entrancement had opened to his sight visions of forbidden things, of
which till then he had never dreamed, and the possibility of returning
again with composure to the dull life of the seminaire was gone for
ever! His passion for Mademoiselle Contat grew to be the one sole
thought which occupied his mind, and he soon found means to indulge it.
Night after night would he escape from his prison, and walk to Paris
(after her return to the Théâtre Royal), in order to witness the least
fragment of her acting. Sometimes, on the vigils of great festivals,
when prayers had continued late at the chapel, or the superior had
indulged his flock with an over-long story at the supper-table, the
poor youth could not set out on his perilous journey until it was too
late; and many a time has he had the mortification of arriving at the
theatre, after an expensive ride or a fatiguing walk from Vaugirard,
just as the curtain was about to fall, and shut out the goddess from
his sight. He often recalls those few short months of peril and
excitement, as among the happiest of his life.
“It was just about this time that he met with a romantic adventure,
which he cannot even now relate without emotion, and which has all the
character of the events which compose the most pure and healthy of the
novels of the period. He was one day returning from the _Bibliothèque_
of the Sorbonne to the Seminaire Saint Sulpice, laden with books and
papers, when a violent storm of rain coming on, he was forced to seek
shelter beneath a gateway in the Rue du Pot de Fer. The neighbourhood
at that time was full of convents and ecclesiastical establishments—the
Benedictines—the Carmelites—the Frères Minimes—the Cordeliers—all had
houses or _succursales_, about the Place Saint Sulpice; so that you
might have walked down whole streets of dark gloomy wall, without
finding a single refuge from the rain—the convent doors being kept
inhospitably closed, and the small space beneath the eaves being
even more drenched than the middle of the street, from the dripping
gutters which poured down upon the miserable wayfarer one continued
sheet of water, certainly not so pure as that which fell straight
from heaven. There was but a single space in the whole street where
the passenger could hope for a dry footing, and young Talleyrand knew
it well; a little archway, leading to the back-door of a convent of
Benedictines—the name of which I forget—whose principal entrance was in
the Rue de Vaugirard.
“It was a long, narrow passage, so dark that it was impossible to
perceive any one concealed there, and might have served admirably as
a place of ambush for any lurking thief or assassin, who might have
chosen to harbour in its gloomy recess. Here the youth had stood some
time watching the rain—which continued to fall in torrents—still laden
with his books, yet not daring to open one of them, fearful that the
rest might fall into the mud—of course devoured with _ennui_, and
stamping with impatience,—just, in fact, on the point of launching
forth once more—if it were merely for the sake of changing his station
for another more amusing,—when suddenly he became conscious of the
presence of another person in the passage. He says that he was rather
startled at first, but it did not belong either to his age or character
to pass without investigation any circumstance which had arrested his
attention: so clearing his throat with a successful effort, he called
out manfully, ‘_Qui vive?_’
“The exclamation was answered by a faint and stifled cry, issuing
from the very furthermost corner of the obscure passage. The young
man ventured forward without hesitation, and discovered a dark and
shapeless form huddled up in one corner of the threshold of the
convent-door, whose outline, so dark was the place, was invisible, even
at arm’s length. He was conscious that the form was that of a female,
and he stretched out his hand, and said kindly,—‘What fear you?—are you
in trouble?—why are you hidden thus? Let me assist you, if you are in
pain.’
“As he spoke these words, the figure slowly rose—a slight, frail,
delicate form, that of a girl scarcely beyond the age of childhood,
attired in the loose black dress of serge and large capuchon of the
convent beneath the gateway of which they were standing. He took her
gently by the hand and led her forward to the light. The poor girl
was so terrified, that she offered no resistance, and, conducting her
to the entrance of the passage, he gently withdrew the capuchon, with
which she had covered her face, bidding her take comfort, for that he
would do her no harm. The girl looked up into his countenance with an
expression of anxiety and doubt, but the gentle kindness which she saw
written there must have relieved her instantly, for she exclaimed, in
a whisper, ‘Oh no—I _know_ you will not betray me—but how _can_ you
assist me? I am lost for ever!’ and then she buried her face in her
hands, and sobbed aloud.
“The youth remained gazing upon the girl, in mingled admiration and
surprise. Never, to this very hour, he has often said, has he beheld
a face of greater beauty than that which stood thus revealed to him
in the dim light. It was a small and exquisitely delicate cast of
countenance, with large wild eyes and arched eyebrows, and a calm,
snow-white forehead, which a painter might have given to the Madonna
standing at Saint Anne’s knee. Her hair was hanging loose about her
face, in dripping masses, from the rain through which she had passed,
and the steam of the capuchon. Her small chiselled mouth was parted,
and disclosed two rows of pearly teeth. But Talleyrand was most struck
by the singular beauty of her complexion, which, although she evidently
had been terrified, was not pale, but of the most vivid bloom, like
the petals of the damask rose; while her eyes almost dazzled him, so
bright and flashing was their lustre. By his patience and his kindly
manner, he soon succeeded in winning the little maiden’s confidence;
and, although still in great agitation, she told him the story of her
troubles, which was a singular one, and most affecting.
“She said that she was a novice of the convent of the Benedictine
ladies, of the Rue de Vaugirard, and that the passage where they were
standing formed part of the premises belonging to the building. She
had been in that house ever since the age of four years—she was now
fifteen—and during all that time she had never once been allowed to go
beyond those walls. She had often yearned most intensely, she said,
to see the world, which the other novices and the _pensionnaires_
had described to her as being so very beautiful. She had sometimes
begged very earnestly, too, to be permitted to accompany one of the
lay sisters, who went sometimes into the country, to see a sick nun of
the order, who was staying there for the recovery of her health; but
she had been told that out of kindness she must be refused; for, as it
was her destiny to pass her whole life in that old convent, it would
be much better that she should behold no other place, and those who
had more experience than herself could tell what regret and misery she
would avoid by her ignorance of other scenes. She was to have renewed
her vows of novitiate on the Thursday before, but she had been so ill,
that the ceremony had been deferred until the week following, and then
she should enter into the last year of novitiate, and when that had
passed away, she should take the black veil and be cloistered for the
rest of her life. Her name, she added, was Constance de V., but she
knew not of any friends or kindred which she had. A notary had always
remitted to the abbess the sums necessary for the expenses of her board
and education, and the dower money also was already lodged in the
lady’s hands, so that there was no hope—none—none—that she should ever
realize her dream of beholding ever so small a portion of the world,
of whose beauty she had heard so much. She said this with such a deep
sigh, and such a yearning look towards the gloomy street where the rain
still plashed in torrents, that the listener was moved almost to tears.
“‘But how came you here, mademoiselle?’ said he, ‘and in this state,
too?’ pointing to her dress, which was wet through, and clung to her
form in damp and streaming folds.
“‘Oh, I have not told you all,’ replied she, hesitatingly. ‘I know
that I have done wrong, but my punishment is great as my offence:’
and she looked down the dark passage towards the door with a shudder
of affright. ‘But thus it was. I had been ill in bed for more than a
week, and had grown so weary of my little cell—and last night I could
not sleep for thinking of all the brightness of the world I never was
to see. I prayed to the Holy Virgin to take away these wicked thoughts
from my mind, but she did not think fit to give me grace, for towards
morning my desire to go abroad became even more intense; and so, when
sister Marthe, who watches me, left me, still thinking that I was
asleep, to go to matins, I rose from my bed and came down, to walk for
a few moments beneath the cloisters of the outer court, in the hope
that the air of the place, confined as it was, might help to cool the
fever of the past night. I have long been forbidden to go into the
garden; they say it is too cold and damp, and that my cough will be
worse than ever if I stay beneath the trees. Well, I turned round and
round the court, listening to the chimes of Saint Sulpice, and thinking
of what our Lady Abbess tells me I should never think of—the delight of
lying in some cool green meadow, on the grass, beneath the overhanging
branches of some old tree—when the tempter, who, as Sister Marthe has
often told me, already half possesses my lost soul (alas! she _must_
speak truth), led me this way—into the cloister which leads to yonder
door. It was ajar—Mother Jeanne, the _femme de peine_, had just been
cleaning it with broom and pail, and had opened it to sweep the rubbish
into this dark passage. How she could have left it open thus I cannot
tell—yes, Sister Marthe is right—it _must_ have been the tempter’s
work! My heart beat violently at sight of that open door. I thought to
have fled, but I yielded to temptation, and peeped through the long
dark passage into the street beyond. Scarcely had I thus gazed for an
instant, when I was seized with a desire so burning, so intense, to
see the _Place_, which I had been told was at the end of this little
street, that, without a moment’s reflection, I rushed down the passage
and was free. I meant to have merely cast one look upon the _Place_,
and have returned immediately. I thought it might be possible that in
this illness I might die, and it was very hard that I should leave
a world, which they tell me God has made so full of beauty, without
having beheld aught besides this dull old pile; so I stepped out into
the street with more delight than I ought to have done, considering
that I was doing what was wrong. I buried my head in my capuchon,
and turned boldly down the street to the left; but I had not gone far
before I perceived that I must have taken the wrong direction, for as
I drew near to the end, I saw not the fine open square which I had
been promised, but another street more dirty and more dull than the
one I had just traversed. During the walk, I did not meet a soul, or I
think I should have fainted, for it was not till I thus stood for the
first time alone and unaided that I remembered that my dress must at
once betray me. I was resolved to return immediately, but, in the mean
time, this storm of rain came suddenly beating down with such intense
fury that my dress was wet through in an instant. I ran with all the
swiftness of which I was capable, to regain this dark passage; but
judge of the agony of affright that I experienced on beholding the door
which I had closed, and of which I had taken the key, fastened on the
inside! Mother Jeanne must have perceived the absence of the key, and
have bolted it within. Oh, I am lost! She has doubtless already been to
tell our lady mother. They will all know ’tis I who am the guilty one,
for everybody else will be at matins!’
“As the poor girl concluded her story, she again burst into a paroxysm
of grief. The young seminariste endeavoured to soothe her, and offered
to go round to the great gate to try and obtain admittance there, but
the trembling girl clung to him with such energy, that he could not
tear himself away.
“‘No, no; do not leave me now,’ exclaimed she. ‘I dare not be left thus
alone. What shall I say when they come and find me here? They will
come, I know, directly, and bear me back with hootings and with shame.’
“As she spoke, so great was her terror, that she shook like the aspen
leaf, and her companion was obliged to support her by placing his arm
gently round her waist, or she would have fallen. He then perceived,
with great distress, that this violent trembling was the spasmodic
shuddering of fever; and, as she placed her hand upon her bosom to
still the convulsive throe, he beheld with yet greater horror that
she wore nothing beneath her robe but the night dress which she had
on when she left her bed. His heart was wrung at the thought of that
delicate creature abroad thus, burnt with fever, and wet to the skin.
It must be death to so fragile a being. Something, however, must be
done. He durst not leave her. She was in that state of mind that she
might have fallen senseless to the earth if she had been left alone;
neither could he drag her with him the whole length of the street
through the pouring rain, in order to arrive at the great gate of the
convent. The scandal would have been terrific, had they been seen
together in the costume which they each wore. In the midst of this
painful embarrassment, like the drowning man who clings to a straw, he
went up to the door and turned the key. There was no impediment in the
lock. He shook the door violently, then pushed it with all his might.
Oh, God of mercy, it yields! It is _not_ bolted, for daylight may be
seen through the opening. Once more he brings all his strength to bear
against the iron-studded door. The drops of sweat stand like beads upon
his forehead, with the anxiety of the moment and the violence of his
exertions. But he is presently rewarded by the grating noise caused by
the removal of the obstacle within, and the faint shriek of joy which
escaped the lips of the sweet Constance. She sees it all now! Mother
Jeanne, in her rage for cleaning, had moved the old oaken bench from
the archway of the cloister, and had placed it crosswise before the
door, where it had resisted all her own puny efforts, as though it had
been a wall of iron; and now her laugh of delight is so convulsive
that it is more painful than were her tears and sobs. Meanwhile, young
Talleyrand had pushed open a space sufficient for her passage into the
cloister, and he assisted her to mount the bench and pass through.
The hand which she gave him, and which but a little while before had
startled him by its burning touch, was now as cold as marble. He
imprinted one pure and holy kiss upon it before he closed the door for
ever; and when he found that she withdrew it not, but thanked him, and
blessed him fervently, and called him her deliverer, and said ‘_that
he had saved her life_,’ he shut the door abruptly, for he could bear
no more. He stood for a moment listening at the keyhole for the sound
of her retreating step. It must have been very light, however, for he
heard it not. He then walked slowly home to the _seminaire_, insensible
now to either wind or rain.
“The books which the young student had brought from the Sorbonne
were unperused that day. His mind was too much absorbed with the
memory of that beauteous maiden, and with the undefined terror which
he experienced for her sake. On the morrow, he walked several times
completely round the convent walls, but he saw not an evidence that the
building was inhabited by a single human being. On the third day, he
could not control his impatience, and bestowed a silver crown on the
_commissionaire_ to go and ask, as if despatched by some great lady,
whose name he was to forget, for news of the health of Mademoiselle
Constance de V. The answer he brought back was that ‘Mademoiselle
Constance de V., in an attack of fever, being for a few moments
unwatched, had risen from her bed and gone down into the cloisters,
no doubt feeling grievously ill, and in search of assistance. It was
supposed that she had wandered for some time in the quadrangle, for she
was found lying drenched with wet upon the oaken bench, by the _porte
de service_ of the outer court. She was without sense or motion when
taken up, and it was certain that she had already been dead for some
time (this was the private opinion of the _tourière_), although the
superior would insist on having the viaticum administered all the same.
She had been buried that very morning at daybreak, and Mademoiselle
de Breteuil, the favourite _pensionnaire_ of the abbess, had got the
promise of her cell to keep her birds in, until the arrival of another
_pensionnaire_ to occupy it. The abbess was very angry with sister
Marthe for having left the bedside of Mademoiselle de V., but could not
punish her, it having been proved that she had only gone to matins.
“Such had been the fate of that beauteous girl! The earth already
covered her, before she had even seen the light. That stealthy walk
along the dreary street, amid the cold and pelting rain, was all the
experience she had earned to the grave, of the world she had longed so
ardently to see; and, when the _seminariste_ thought on the story of
her life, and compared it with his own, he felt that he no longer had
a right to complain. He had spent his childhood at least amid fresh
air and free exercise wholesome to the body, and also amid the rude
kindness and overwhelming affection wholesome to the mind; while the
poor child whose dying grasp he almost fancied that he could still
feel, had never been allowed to roam beyond the gloomy precincts of her
prison-house. With her innocence and loveliness, she had been suffered
to grow like some rank weed which springs amid the crevice of the
pavement stone of the foul jail-yard, and struggles but in vain to
catch a gleam of sunshine or a breath of air, until, wearied with the
effort, it sinks back dead into the crevice from which it sprung.
“This event made a great impression upon M. de Talleyrand, and
sobered him for some time after its occurrence. He took to studying
more diligently than hitherto, and shone among his competitors as
brilliantly as he had already done at Louis le Grand. His speeches at
the conferences which were held every month at Saint Sulpice, were
judged to be masterpieces of reasoning and logic, and were thought
worthy of being preserved among the records of the _seminaire_—an
immense honour for so young a man. He was now seventeen: it was judged
advisable that he should go to finish his theological studies ‘_en
Sorbonne_,’ and it was during the short interval which elapsed between
leaving the _seminaire_ and entering the _Sorbonne_, that he first
lodged at home. Note this when ye talk of the ‘good old times:’—the
Prince de Talleyrand was seventeen years of age _before he had slept
a single night beneath his father’s roof_! Well might Jean Jacques
thunder forth his maledictions upon the fine ladies, the ‘_marâtres
sans entrailles_’ of his day!”
My friend here paused, to my great sorrow, with all the
self-complacency of a professed lion exhibitor, to descant upon
the beauty of the landscape as seen from the point at which we had
arrived. Of course there were the well-known wonders familiar to all
natural-beauty-hunters ever since the world began—the seeing into so
many departments—the commanding a view of so many parishes, but which
always worry me to death.
“What is that ruin?” said I, pointing to a pile of rubbish which lay
close at hand.
“Ah, that is no ruin,” replied C., laughing, “it is just the contrary,
for it is an unfinished building. The history of that ‘ruin’ would
amuse you, more than all the history of the person whose work it was.
The prince calls it the ‘_Folie Princesse_,’ and you shall have the
story as we go home.”