MIRABEAU—THE PRINCESS T.—THE MAYOR OF VALENÇAY.
We alighted from the carriage, and sat down on one of the blocks of
stone which lay scattered about in all directions, bearing witness
to the gigantic intentions of the projector, and also to the signal
failure of the enterprise. C. looked around with sadness.
“The sight of this place,” said he, “recalls to mind so much both of
pain and pleasure, so many associations for ever lost to Valençay, that
I cannot behold it without a certain feeling of melancholy, which I
little thought it would ever have inspired. And yet, in spite of all
the jesting and merry sarcasm, the bon-mots and epigrams to which the
first discovery of the little monument gave rise, it might serve to
illustrate my favourite argument, when answering those who attack, by
sweeping generalities, the whole life of the prince, and which I frame
thus: ‘No man can be so very worthless who has made such friendships as
he has done, and won attachments so lasting and so true.’
“It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary qualifications of this
great man, and forms a parallel to what is told of the fascinating
influence of Napoleon. His powers of pleasing are so great, that he
can with justice boast of never having failed to captivate, where
he has been willing to do so, even when having to combat enmity and
prejudice. Those who are accustomed to the bland and polished courtesy
of his old age can readily imagine that in youth his influence must
have been all-powerful. With this fascination of manner he must have
also been possessed of the most aristocratic and handsome person, from
the dignity of which, strange to say, the deformity of his foot never
detracted. He was very fair, of most brilliant yet delicate complexion,
with eyes of a soft dark blue, much covered by the lids, which
contributed greatly to the air of quiet _recueillement_, misconstrued
by many into an expression of cunning, which was habitual to him. His
hair has always been considered one of his greatest attractions, being
of the bright golden hue, so uncommon even in the north; and when he
wore it loose over his shoulders, neither discoloured by powder nor
disfigured by the torturing iron of the perruquier, it must have been
most beautiful. Even to this very hour, you cannot fail to remark its
rich luxuriance. It is not yet wholly white, but merely grey, and its
original golden colour still shines bright amid the silver.
“I have seen several portraits of the prince, taken in his youth. There
is one, a miniature, which, set in a bracelet, has met my eye every
day for some years past, upon the arm of the fair Duchess de D., which
never fails to arrest my attention, and to inspire me with the same
interest, the same dreams and illusions of the past, as though, upon
each occasion I behold it, it was for the first time. The likeness may
be strongly traced even now. The features are moulded with a delicacy
peculiar to the race of the Perigords, and the countenance is one
which might certainly have been suspected of having greatly aided
his varied talents and endowments, in the success for which he was
so applauded and so envied. The costume in this picture is of about
the year 1775, when Talleyrand was in the prime of youth, and when he
had not long emerged from St. Sulpice; and yet the portrait is rather
that of a young man of fashion of the time than of a youth vowed to
a life of penance and austerity. The hair, of which he was always
proud, hangs loose and unshorn over his embroidered coat; no sign of
monkish scissors or of priestly tonsure is there. There does not exist
a picture of the prince either as Abbé de Perigord or as Bishop of
Autun. So completely did he ever separate himself from the state of
life into which he had been thrust by the force of circumstances, that
he never would consent to have a palpable record of his profession
brought in after times as a memorial against him. There is a beautiful
portrait of Talleyrand when Prince de Benevent and Vice Grand Elector,
painted by Gerard, and one of the best performances of that artist, now
at Rochecotte, wherein the physiognomist might have _beau jeu_, for
the countenance in this picture bears the most lively and _spirituel_
expression that could possibly be represented by art. The painting
by Scheffer, which has been engraved in London, and published by
Colnaghi, is the best in existence as to the likeness, which is most
striking. The artist has represented, in a manner almost sublime, the
peculiar _mélange_ of melancholy and _finesse_ which the countenance
of the prince always wears when in meditation,—an expression which
sometimes inspires me with a feeling of the deepest sadness; it is the
cheerfulness of the mind contending against physical infirmity and pain.
“You will readily believe that, with all the advantages both of mind
and person which he possessed—with ambition of that quiet kind, which
knows no obstacle in the attainment of its ends, and yet can wait with
calm and bide its time—which is slow to decide, yet quick to move
when the hour is arrived for action—with the courtly manners which
must have been hereditary, joined to the calm dignity which he had
acquired in the _Séminaire_ de St. Sulpice, his first appearance in
the world wherein he was destined to live and move, was hailed with
peculiar triumph and satisfaction. The fame of his skill in argument,
his subtlety in wrangling, had got beyond the walls of the _Séminaire_,
long before he himself had left it for the independence of the
Sorbonne. The _conférences_ which took place weekly in the old hall of
the _Séminaire_ had brought out his powers of persuasion, and his great
quickness of imagination, which displayed itself admirably in pointed
epigram and brilliant repartee.
“There are people living even now who can remember the effect which
some of his controversial arguments produced at the time, among the
audiences who enjoyed the privilege of a seat upon the old oaken
benches of the _Séminaire_, on the days reserved for these public
discussions. They must have been _chefs-d’œuvres_, full of point
and pith, and generally sent the listeners away laughing with him,
and sympathising with his adversary. These discourses were always
read in public from a manuscript _cahier_, and were preserved in the
_archives_ of the _Séminaire_, until the revolution dispersed the
whole of the property of the establishment, and they were lost. It
is a great pity they were not preserved, as they must have contained
much of the vivacity and energy of his youth, which were sadly wanting
in his subsequent speeches; for Talleyrand has never possessed the
qualifications necessary to the success of an orator; his delivery was
lengthened, and his voice too deep and hollow to produce an effect
upon a large assembly. Had it not been for these natural defects, all
the vigour and fire of a Mirabeau would have been reckoned as nought,
compared with the steady wit and cool philosophy of which Talleyrand
was master.
“The world of fashion, ever on the look-out for novelty, stretched
forth its arms to hug to its bosom the young abbé on his first
appearance within its charmed ring. The reverend title with which he
was invested, so far from being a preventive to his enjoyment of all
the pleasures of the corrupt society of the period, rather served as
an additional pretext for claiming his full share. The youthful Abbé
de Perigord was courted and flattered by all parties; his sayings were
repeated, his sentiments quoted upon all occasions. The world would
now most willingly have spoiled him, and avenged the neglect of his
relations, and the wrongs and insults which had been heaped upon his
childhood. But it was too late: he had already learned to despise
that world to whose mean prejudices he had been made a sacrifice, and
his heart and soul were already devoted to the cause of those whose
struggles were beginning to make the old fabric of society quake and
totter to its very foundations. It was while he was studying at the
Sorbonne that the first shocks of the new era were beginning to be
felt; but young Talleyrand, as yet, took no share in the struggle.
His whole ambition for the moment was devoted to retrieving lost time
in literature, and I have heard him say that the happiest days of his
existence were spent alone, in the gloomy library of the Sorbonne,
seated coiled up on the steps of the library ladder, while his cousin
went abroad to pick up the news, and bring home reports of the progress
of events. The practical knowledge of books which he acquired in this
way was immense, and has served him all through life to season his
conversation with quotation or parody.
“He was soon, however, torn from the enjoyment of this quiet mode of
existence, by being named coadjutor to his uncle, the Archbishop of
Rheims. From that time forward, books were laid aside, and he returned
to them no more. The human heart became his only study, and one in
which he soon became a perfect adept. The history of his life must
prove, to every thinking mind, that at this very period his decision
was thoroughly taken as to the line of conduct he would pursue, and
the party in politics it was his intention to adopt, for he never
gave himself up to the seductions of that world which sought him with
such eagerness. He entered into its enjoyments, and profited by its
indulgence; but there is no record of any strong friendship having been
formed with any of its members. He allied himself at once to the new
party, and among its leaders were his attachments chosen. Sièyes and
Mirabeau were the beacon stars of his youth. The latter, in particular,
was known to entertain the highest opinion of Talleyrand, and has left
ample proof, in his letters and papers, that he considered him the
only man capable of succeeding him as leader of the party he had so
triumphantly created.
“You will scarcely credit the assurance, that not even to this very
hour can the prince speak without emotion of the ‘giant Mirabeau.’ I
verily believe that this affection has never been supplanted in his
bosom. It was not long since he was compelled to break off suddenly, in
the midst of an anecdote which he was telling, wherein were mentioned
the circumstances of Mirabeau’s death. He became all at once silent,
and no one dared request him to renew the thread of his story.”
“Did you ever hear him allude to those circumstances on any other
occasion?”
“Once only,” replied C.; “we were alone together in his study in the
Rue St. Florentin, one fine summer’s evening. I had been reading to him
some pages of Thiers’s ‘History of the Revolution,’ and had just closed
the book, for want of light, at the mention of Petion.
“‘That man,’ said the prince, ‘was the greatest scoundrel this country
ever produced. Mirabeau, whose greatest defect in political conduct was
the extraordinary facility with which he gave himself entirely up to
the first person possessed of the slightest show of talent, who could
take off his own hands any part of the labour, had grown _entiché_
with Petion. For it was extraordinary that Mirabeau, whose mental
vigour could, Atlas-like, have borne the world, was yet possessed of so
much physical indolence that he was seldom known to carry out his own
gigantic designs. Upon how many occasions, when his burning eloquence,
his energy, had roused the angry lion, has he been known to laugh in
pity, to see the _meute_ whom his own fiery zeal had urged into hot
pursuit, rush madly by, while he himself lay down to rest until some
newer game was started. From the moment that such men as Petion,
Brissot, and Condorcet, began to surround Mirabeau, and were admitted
into his privacy, with Cabanis, whom he had chosen as his medical
attendant, I augured ill for the future fate of my friend. Already
were Mirabeau’s views and principles grown too tame, too reasonable,
for these infuriated demagogues, and they had several times received
with ill temper his biting sarcasms at what he called their _exaltation
republicaine_. I remember the effect produced upon one occasion at
a private meeting of his friends, and the gloom and murmurs of rage
with which the concluding words of a speech he had risen to make were
received. ‘_Even supposing, my friends, that royalty were now to be
abolished, it is not a republic that must be established—we are not yet
ripe for this—it must be a commonwealth._’ From that moment, such is
my firm belief, his ruin was decided; but whether he really did meet
his death by unfair means, or whether it was the consequence, as was
proclaimed at the time, of excitement and fever of the blood, brought
on by over-exertion and anxiety, none can tell to this hour. The
circumstances of his death will certainly justify, both to his friends
and to posterity, every suspicion of poison; while, on the other
hand, there were no symptoms which could not be accounted for by the
complaint under which it had from the first been proclaimed that he was
sinking.’
“The prince paused for a moment, and I feared that he was about to fall
into a reverie, as is sometimes the case when he has called up any
touching souvenir of his early days; but presently he resumed:
“‘It was just such an evening as this, warm, glowing, early spring,
when the fiery spirit of Mirabeau was passing away. The whole thing had
been so sudden, so unlooked-for, that we could scarcely believe him in
danger, before we learned that he was gone. It was the 2nd of April,
and but two days before, he had come to fetch me, full of life and
spirit, to dine in the Palais Royal with a party of friends, to talk
over the proposition of a law of succession, which he had had for some
time under consideration, and which it was his intention to present
to the National Assembly. We walked together from my lodgings to the
_restaurateur_ Robert’s, where dinner had been ordered. I thought,
in the conversation concerning his _projet de loi_, that Mirabeau
was somewhat more depressed than usual, and that his words came less
freely and less flowing from his tongue. He certainly did complain of
oppression and pain in his head, and, although the evening was far
from sultry, he walked without his hat. I was particularly struck with
the lassitude and weariness which he seemed to experience when we had
arrived at our destination, and which could not be accounted for by our
short slow walk from the Rue St. Honoré. He flung himself listlessly
upon one of the benches beside the fountain in the middle of the garden
of the Palais Royal, and said, sadly, that he was well pleased that
our friends had not yet arrived at the rendezvous, for he was desirous
of having a few moments’ private conversation with me, not, for once,
about public affairs, but concerning his own. “Is it not strange,” said
he, “that I, who am about to present to the Assembly a law, and to
pronounce a speech, the result of long study, upon wills, should never
during my whole life, have given one single thought to the making of my
own? Do you not think that it’s growing high time to think of _every
possibility_, with such strange proceedings going on around us—eh, my
friend?”
“‘I was surprised at this sudden revolution in Mirabeau, for, of all
men on earth, he had ever been one of the most thoughtless as to the
future, caring little indeed even for the present, living _au jour le
jour_, heeding not if the morrow never came; and I could only attribute
his unwonted _accablement_ to over-exertion and fatigue. He had spoken
much in the Assembly, and had, I well knew, passed many nights of late
in the framing and preparation of other acts and decrees, to be brought
forward before the close of the session.
“‘I tried to cheer him with soothing words, and told him it was likely
that his day for thinking of this sort of thing was yet far off; that
it was a mere fit of depression which caused him to dwell upon such
gloomy possibilities; and I ventured to assure him that a good dinner
and a glass of our friend Robert’s best Chambertin would soon produce a
good effect in calming his sudden misgivings about the future.
“‘He shook his head mournfully: “These are _banal_ phrases, and you
know it,” said he; “they are unworthy of you. I am neither a child nor
a woman, and fear not to listen to the whispering voice of my own soul.
The truth is, I _do_ feel, at this moment, most singularly overcome by
a sadness hitherto unknown—as if my task being, as it were, but just
begun, needed no longer my exertions to finish it.” He laid his hand
upon my knee, and looked in my face, wherein must have been expressed
some anxiety, for I knew not what to think of the mood in which I
beheld him, and added gently, “Should anything happen to me before
long, you will think of what I have been saying.”
“His voice was so altered, and his countenance so drawn, that I became
moved with sympathy, and began to fancy that he really felt very
ill, but, with an _amour propre_, which, however misplaced on such
an occasion, would still have been compatible with his character,
I thought he might have been concealing his state until he could
no longer bear up against it. I now listened, in mingled pity and
interest, while he explained to me many of his intentions regarding
the disposal of his property, in case he should die without a written
testament. The education of his natural son, and the proper disposal of
his papers, were the subjects upon which he displayed the most concern.
He had already taken the precaution to have the greater part of his
documents of importance conveyed to a trusty friend in Holland, and
but few of those which remained in France were in his own house. He
told me where these few were concealed, and bade me to take charge of
them, “In case,” he always would repeat, “that anything _fâcheux_ (that
was his word) should befal him.”
“‘He then spoke long and earnestly about his political career. In the
single hour that we passed thus seated side by side, amid the hurry and
bustle of the crowds who were hastening on all sides to the different
_restaurateurs_ beneath the galleries, did we converse together upon
the splendid past, the exciting present, and the TERRIFIC FUTURE.
We spoke in earnest whispers, pre-occupied and abstracted from all
around, as though we had been conspirators in the bosom of some forest
solitude. The whole scene—the day—the hour, I can conjure up in colours
fresh and vivid, as though they had vanished but one moment ago, and
nothing else had been impressed on the canvas of my memory during all
the long years since!’
“I have seldom, very seldom indeed, beheld Prince Talleyrand give way
to any demonstration of feeling, even when cause sufficient may have
been found in some particular event going on around him. Perhaps,
indeed, I may say that I never saw him betray anything like emotion,
excepting on the occasion of this reminiscence of Mirabeau. But he had
taught himself from his youth up to subdue speedily all outward display
of his inward feeling, and he resumed, in his own subdued manner:
“‘It will surprise you when I tell you that scarcely a day passes, even
now, that I do not call to mind that scene: in fact, it is often forced
upon me by the occurrences which are continually taking place before my
eyes. It was a cunning device of the ancient seers to affirm that the
gift of prophecy might sometimes fall on men about to die. It is not
thus; but the words of those we loved are garnered up, when they who
perhaps had spoken them many times before unheeded, can speak them no
more, and we remember them as something new, although ’tis likely we
may have heard them oft and oft before.
“‘Mirabeau had doubtless many times, as upon this occasion, held forth
to me his fears and doubts, his hopes and his despair, but I remember
it not. I can find place in memory for but this one interview, and I
have treasured up each word and phrase with a jealous vigilance, as
though they had been uttered during the brief visit of a spirit. I had
never been thoroughly inspired with the conviction of the Herculean
powers of the man until this conversation. He seemed to toy with
difficulties; nothing was beyond his grasp; nothing beyond the power of
his will to bend. There is scarcely a single _prévision_ of his which
time has not realized, and often am I startled even now at events,
which, seemingly the consequence of yesterday, had been foretold by
him that evening, beside the fountain in the Palais Royal. He gave
me many kind admonitions and warnings against some who were in our
intimacy, and whom he deemed unworthy of friendship. He counselled me
respecting the path that I should take in case this _quelque chose de
fâcheux_, which seemed to haunt him so strangely, should take place,
while affairs were in such a troubled state. In every case did I follow
this advice, and in every case had I cause to rejoice that I had done
so. Mirabeau was certainly inspired on that evening—he was sublime. I
remember being struck with a saying of his, which I have since found of
the greatest value. After having traced out for me a plan of conduct,
in case public events should take the turn which he was anticipating,
he concluded by saying, solemnly, “But, above all things, my friend,
slight not public opinion. Listen with open ears to the public
clamour—for remember that the voice of the people is the VOICE OF GOD!”
“‘It was thus we conversed for more than an hour, during which I
learned more of Mirabeau than I had done during the many years of
strict friendship in which we had lived together. I should have
regretted him far less, had this confidence never taken place, for I
should less have learned to estimate his stupendous intellect, and
the grandeur of his mighty heart. As you may suppose, I could have
listened, entranced as I was, until midnight, and was angry when
Condorcet, who was of our party, came running gaily up to our bench,
and seated himself beside us, with a loud exclamation of surprise at
the unusual gravity of our demeanour. Of course the spell was broken
at once, and the conversation became general. Soon afterwards, our two
other friends joined us, and we adjourned to Robert’s, at that time the
first _restaurateur_ in Paris, where we found dinner waiting.
“‘The dinner was gay enough. I alone, of all the company, was sad,
and spoke but little. Mirabeau, at first absorbed and pre-occupied,
gradually yielding to the influence which he never could resist, that
of wine and good fellowship, by degrees shook off the recollection of
the colloquy we had had together so short a time before, and became
as usual the light and life of the _réunion_. It would be a hopeless
task to endeavour to recal one tithe of all the brilliant sayings, the
startling epigrams, uttered by Mirabeau during this his last flash of
existence. I had never beheld him so excited, so madly gay. He drank
largely, and the wine seemed to inflame his blood until his excitement
bordered on delirium. He raved—he sang—he spoke in loud harangues—he
laughed fiercely at us all—at the court, at the people, at himself, in
short, at everything; and our companions hailed with loud shouts and
applause every _bon mot_ that he uttered. I alone could not share in
this strange mirth, for I was yet shaken by the solemn foreboding, the
dismal presentiment with which he had inspired me.
“‘At about four o’clock in the morning, the spirit, no longer to be
controlled even by the gigantic physical strength which he possessed,
gave way at last. He complained that his head felt heavy, and said
that the daylight, which was just beginning to peep in from the
window opposite, fatigued his sight. Coffee was then proposed before
we parted, and Mirabeau eagerly took a cup, which he himself poured
out and sweetened. His hand trembled violently as he raised it to his
lips, and he had scarcely replaced the cup upon the table when he fell
forward with his head upon his hands, exclaiming, “My God! what strange
new pain is this?”
“‘He rallied again, however, presently, and bade the waiter fetch
a coach instantly, saying that he foresaw an attack of spasms in
the chest, and that he knew his remedy, which was a hot bath and
fumigations as quickly as possible. He requested me alone to accompany
him, and from that moment until his death I never left his side. We
drove to the public baths on the Boulevard, opposite to the street
where Mirabeau then lived, the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. Here his
sufferings increased to such a frightful degree that I sent for
Cabanis, who, however, did not arrive until the patient had left the
bath, after having taken, against my most earnest desire, a large bowl
of milk and cocoa, of which he was extremely fond. Strange to say,
he was considerably better after this, and left the bath for his own
house, _on foot_. It is this circumstance, I have no doubt, which has
given consistency to the belief that he had been _poisoned_, as it is
averred that, had the mess of milk not been absorbed as _antidote_,
Mirabeau must, in the state in which he was at the time, have died
immediately on taking it. Such sweeping reasoning as this is of course
beneath comment.
“‘It was with some difficulty that he could be prevailed upon to go to
bed. He resisted to the last, declaring that the bright morning sun,
which by this time was streaming in glory through his windows, would
renovate him better than any physician’s advice. Soon after he had lain
down, however, a change, from which he never rallied, came over him,
and he continued to get worse until he died. It was a dreadful sight
to behold his face, all swollen and bloated, and speckled with livid
spots, and the white foam which gathered upon his lips as fast as his
attendants could wipe it away. It certainly should not have been made a
public show, which, before the end of the day, the death-bed of poor
Mirabeau had become. Those foul suspicions of treachery and poison had
their origin, I doubt not, in the extraordinary symptoms which his
disease presented.
“‘Never from the first instant did Mirabeau deceive himself, or shrink
from the decree. It has never been my lot to witness a death so
dignified, so sublime. In the morning, through the day, surrounded by
friends and admirers, all was well; but then came the silent watches of
the night, when his whole heart was bared to me, his only comforter.
Not once did he swerve, neither did he throw back one single look of
regret over the road which he had for so many years been travelling.
Quite the contrary;—he met the grim enemy with a courage and equanimity
of temper, the gift of a philosophy of the highest order.
“‘If popularity could have satisfied the soul of Mirabeau, he surely
must have died content. His house was besieged, and, from the moment he
was declared to be in danger, the very street became impassable from
the crowd of messengers who thronged his door. High and low, rich and
poor, felt alike an interest in the fate of the great man who was to
protect them between monarchy and anarchy, which it is certain the
mighty intellect of Mirabeau would have made an easy task.
“‘He lingered thus in pain and agony during the whole of this day and
night, and died in my arms on the following morning at eight o’clock,
having preserved his firmness of intellect until the very last moment.
It _is_ true (for there were some absurd stories afloat) that, about
five minutes before he actually expired, he wrote on a piece of paper
(for speech was already gone) these words: “_It is far easier to die
than to sleep!_” The movement which he made to place the paper in
my hand was his last. He never stirred afterwards. I have kept that
precious scrap of writing through every change of fortune; and in the
hope of keeping it to my dying day, have taken measures to have it
preserved when I shall be no more. During his illness, he frequently
reverted to the conversation which had passed between us on the bench
at the Palais Royal. He told me that he then already _knew_ that his
fate was sealed, and dared me to maintain a conviction of the contrary.
Throughout my whole life, I have ever resisted superstitious feeling,
but there certainly does seem something strange and unaccountable in
this gloomy foreboding of Mirabeau, that gives the lie direct to all
one’s predetermined disbelief in the doctrine of “presentiments.”
“‘The generation of to-day, contrary to anticipation, has learnt to
undervalue Mirabeau; but I think a re-action may come even in your
time, because he was not a mere orator, whose fame must die when his
powers of speech are gone, but he was also the greatest thinker of
his age. How would the face of the country have been changed had he
lived but a few months, nay, even a few weeks longer! This has been
so strongly felt by all parties, that there were many who blindly
_rejoiced_ at his death, even among those who had known and loved him;
while those who had most cause to mourn, declared, in their terror,
that he must have been poisoned.
“‘I have told you all the facts connected with his illness and his
death, and with me you will cease to feel astonishment that the
suspicion of such a crime should have gone abroad, when you consider
the suddenness of his illness, its short duration, and the dreadful
sufferings amid which his life was closed. These must have been
terrific; for, about an hour before his death, he turned angrily round
to Cabanis, and said, ‘A physician who is a true friend to the patient
would not hesitate at giving a dose of opium strong enough to quiet
such pain as this for ever.’ And yet, so powerful was the _morale_ of
the man, that even when thus writhing in agony, he could not refrain
from laughing most heartily at some popular _lazzis_ which were
bandying between a screaming _ecaillière_ and the lackey of some person
of quality, who were contending for the first hearing of the bulletin
of the past night, and which reached his ear through the open window
looking on the court-yard below.
“‘The public grief at the death of Mirabeau told more for his worth
and greatness than whole volumes of written eulogium could now do.
Perhaps there never before was an example of a _chef de parti_ having
been mourned as sincerely by the adverse party as by his own. The court
was in consternation; the queen concealed not her despair, for she
foresaw the dread consequence; the last barrier between the furious
people and the angry _noblesse_ was down, and the bitter tide would,
ere long, rush in through the breach which the falling of this goodly
corner-stone had made. I myself was so overcome by regret at the
sudden loss which I had sustained, that I retired for some little time
to Auteuil, scarcely daring to look at the future, or to speculate for
an instant upon what was next to happen.’
“Such,” said C., “is the account given of the death of Mirabeau, by one
who was with him from the moment of his first being seized with illness
to that when the troublous scene closed for ever. The history contains,
perhaps, as fine a moral lesson as ever was preached from pulpit-desk
or read in school.
“The sentiment which subsisted between Sièyes and the prince was of a
different nature. There might have existed, in the origin, some little
feeling of jealousy between them; it is certain they never were free
from the _esprit de critique_ indicative of rivalry, either secret or
avowed. On no one subject did they differ more than on the subject of
Mirabeau, Sièyes refusing him the mighty powers that the prince loved
to allow him; and I have been witness to long and severe discussions on
this one topic alone.
The prince was fond of telling a story _à propos_ of Sièyes,
illustrative of the theory of great results from little causes. He was
one day walking with him through the Tuileries, when, just opposite to
the gate in the Place de la Concorde, a little beggar girl, leading an
old woman on crutches, came up to solicit alms. Sièyes gave her a sou,
which, in her hurry to seize, she let fall, and the coin rolled under
the hoofs of the charger mounted by the _garde du corps_ on duty at
the gate. The child pressed forward to pick it up, but each time that
she stooped, almost at the risk of her life, the soldier, apparently
glad to divert the _ennui_ of sentry by an event of this kind, spurred
the animal to one side, and the wretched little girl, to avoid being
crushed to death, was compelled to withdraw, to renew her endeavours
again as soon as the beast stood still, but each time with as little
success as before. The whole scene—the terror of the child—the
overboiling wrath of the old cripple, and the insolent and cruel
mirth of the _garde du corps_, presented altogether a most exciting
spectacle, and, combined with the angry passions of the crowd, who were
not slow to take the part of the child, formed a picture not easily
forgotten.
“Sièyes, finding that the people were growing angry, thought it best
to put an end to the scene at once; so, giving the girl a double sou,
he bade her begone, which injunction she immediately obeyed, and
the crowd forthwith dispersed. But Sièyes remained thoughtful and
pre-occupied during the whole evening; and, when he parted with his
friend, he said, ‘I have been thinking over the occurrence we witnessed
together this morning. Something must be done for the people. _When
they have an army of their own_, they will not run the risk of being
insulted by hired mercenaries.’
“This was the very first idea which had ever entered human brain
respecting the formation of a national guard. Once started, the idea
found favour with all the disaffected. Sièyes himself planned and
invented the _projet_, and, by dint of perseverance, got it accepted
some long time afterwards. Little did the proud _Garde Nationale_,
when they marched to the frontier—when they dictated laws to the
country—when they barricaded Paris—dream that they owed their existence
and creation to a halfpenny which a starving beggar wench found it hard
to pick out of the gutter!
“_Apropos_ of this story, there is an addition to it which the prince
always gives us, and which you, who are come of a superstitious race,
and plead guilty to the accusation of superstition yourself, will
perhaps like to hear. M. de Talleyrand had taken peculiar notice of the
soldier who bestrode the charger. He was a remarkably handsome youth,
quite an exquisite, an _incroyable_, with coal-black moustaches and
_royale_, and snow-white powdered hair,—a combination that certainly
gives a piquant expression to the countenance, which all the fine
chestnut hair or raven locks in the world, however redundant, however
silky, can never impart. Besides, it suited so well with the costume
of the period, that it would seem as if the one had been invented on
purpose to show off the other. However, to my story. You may well
imagine that the old cripple had not left the spot, however well
satisfied she might be with the unexpected generosity of Sièyes,
without loading the air with curses upon the head of the young _garde
du corps_. She was a filthy hag, blear-eyed, and lame; and it was
fearful to hear her, as she tossed her rags aloft upon the wind, utter
such awful maledictions, in a screaming, discordant voice, that the
blood ran cold to listen. The soldier sat in calm defiance on his
saddle, in the prettiest attitude imaginable. Stiff, starched, on duty,
without moving a muscle, with his hat on one side, and his hand bent,
and resting on his thigh, he looked straight at the woman, for fear of
being suspected of wishing to shun her gaze; but he betrayed no heed of
her words, save by a slight smile, which curled his lip, whereon rested
a green leaf (as was the fashion among the bucks of that day), to keep
it moist, and prevent its cracking by exposure to the sun.
“The old witch, enraged at finding that her words produced no greater
effect, at length raised her crutch in the young man’s face, and
shrieked a fearful malison. ‘Proud as you are, jackanapes, I shall live
to see your soul in h—, and your body devoured by the dogs!’ With this,
she hobbled away, and we also turned aside in disgust, while the young
man remained immovable and unconcerned, as though the words had not
been addressed to him at all.
“The event I have been relating took place before the breaking out of
the revolution. Now rejoice, and listen, thou northern believer in
prophecy and witches. The very day after the return of the king and
queen from Versailles, when traversing the Place Louis Quinze, M. de
Talleyrand was attracted by a crowd gathered round one of the deep
fossés, by which the place is intersected, and, on going up, there
beheld the body of the unhappy _garde-du-corps_, lying all mangled
and bloody at the bottom. Some men belonging to the police were
endeavouring to catch at the corpse with hooks, in order to drag it to
the surface; and, as they did so, it was discovered that a great part
of the throat and breast had been gnawed away by starving dogs during
the night. The poor lad had been doubtless murdered by some unknown
hand during the bustle and confusion of the previous day, and thrown
into this convenient place, and thus was the prophecy fulfilled.”
C. rose as he finished his story, and gazing around, said, laughingly,
“See you now the misfortune of having to do with professed
story-tellers? We began with the history of this unfinished hunting
seat, and have paused at the beginning of the French Revolution!”
“I need not lose by the delay, however,” said I; “you can tell me the
tale of this ruin as we go home.”
“I remember,” replied C., “the sight of the building brought to mind
the subject, which has formed a study of mine ever since I have been
with the prince—his powerful and varied influence with all who
approach him—and it was thus that I was led into this long digression.
This building, which you now see so ruined and degraded, was intended
to have been one of the most remarkable objects of the whole country
round. It was planned and designed by the late Princess T——, as a
surprise and _galanterie_ for the prince, who had once, when taking a
drive in her company, expressed an opinion that this would be a good
site for a _maison de plaisance_. The princess said nothing in reply,
but immediately on her return to the château, despatched a courier with
letters to Chateauroux, containing orders for architects, surveyors,
masons, and all the _attirail_ of building, to be sent immediately to
the spot; and, in less time than you can well imagine, the foundations
of a goodly-sized building, with courts and _dépendances_, befitting
the residence of a repose-seeking prince, were erected. Expense was to
be considered nought—despatch everything—workmen were to be employed
night and day until the edifice was completed. All this was, moreover,
to be kept a profound secret until the building was quite ready to
inhabit, when the princess proposed leading the company at the château
through the wood to the spot, and then, enjoying their surprise, to
request their attendance at a ball and collation of her own providing,
in the _maison de plaisance_, ‘which she had built as a present to the
Prince de Talleyrand.’
“Meanwhile the prince, being again abroad with the princess on another
fine day—in quite an opposite direction, almost drove her mad, by
suddenly stopping to admire another view. ‘Of all places in the wood,
this is the exact spot I should choose, were I consulted, to erect a
_maison de plaisance_!’ said he.
“The princess was glad to hear this in time, although it gave her great
trouble and caused immense outlay; however, she consoled herself with
the hope that she should succeed at last in delighting the prince. She
immediately gave orders for the transport of the workmen and materials
to this new ‘Folie,’ and once more did the hammer and saw resound
through the silent wood, and again did the grinding cart-wheels disturb
another solitude. Scarcely, however, were the foundations of this
second pavilion laid, when the prince again disconcerted all the plans
of the poor princess, by exclaiming one day after dinner, ‘I drove
this morning by the river side—what a beautiful _point-de-vue_ there
is down by the Willows; most assuredly if I ever built a _maison de
plaisance_, that is the spot I should choose.’
“This was too much. The princess was completely overcome. She burst
into tears, and left the table, much to the astonishment of the
company. Nothing could persuade her that the allusion was not wilful on
the part of the prince, and she was in actual despair of being able to
please him. She regretted not the large sums which she had expended,
and which had already grown serious, but only the misfortune under
which she had laboured in not having chosen the right spot. The prince
laughed heartily at the joke, and, during the whole of that season,
his favourite promenade was to the hill upon which the magnificent,
unfinished Folie Princesse remains a memento of the devotion of her
highness, and of her inability to give satisfaction.
“This lady was one of the ‘_illustrations_’ of Valençay, and her
death has caused an immense vacuum in our circle. Both by birth and
marriage allied to many of the sovereign families of Europe—with a
colossal fortune—with the tradition and remains of great beauty—she
gave up even her own identity, to become a mere part and parcel of the
_apanage_ of the Prince de Talleyrand, content to live in his shadow,
and to borrow her importance from him alone. There was a great deal
that was touching, from its total disinterestedness, amid all the
absurdity of this romantic devotion.
“The prince was often annoyed by the extent to which she carried this
_culte_, but, _en homme d’esprit_, he generally succeeded in throwing
back the ridicule, which he felt was likely to attach to him, upon
herself, and scrupled not to enliven the dulness of the evening circle
by drawing her out; while she, poor soul, too happy to occupy his
attention even for an instant, consented willingly to become his butt;
and thus it often happened that the Princess T——, daughter, widow, and
sister of princes and heroes, was employed to divert the _ennui_ of
many a little _gentilhomme campagnard_, or _hobereau de province_, who
might, as matter of form and neighbourly feeling, chance to be invited
to dine at the château. But, as I tell you, although perfectly aware of
this—for she was by no means wanting in penetration—she cared not so
that ‘_ce cher prince_’ found amusement; indeed, I think she even felt
honoured by the preference accorded to her above the other guests.
“However, she failed not upon other occasions to avenge herself upon
these witnesses of her discomfiture, and in her turn crushed without
pity every one around her who was not the ‘prince,’ or allied in some
way with him, or one whom he delighted to honour. With others, never
was there a more _rogue et fière Allemande_, and in spite of her good
nature and generosity, she had more enemies than many who sought less
applause.
“She was the most eccentric person I ever met with; the last of a race
of which it will be impossible, from the change in human ideas, ever
to behold another specimen. In her youth she had been most beautiful,
and still retained, saving the loss of an eye, traces of loveliness
even in advanced age. She could not be called either clever or witty,
but was the cause of such interminable wit in others, of such endless
good sayings on the part of the prince, that Valençay, to those who
were accustomed to her society, seemed dull _à périr_ when she was not
there. She had the greatest fund of originality and natural vivacity
that could be possessed by any human being. Her ideas could not be
made, by any force of reasoning or persuasion, to follow the tide of
improvement of the times, and she could never be taught to believe that
the revolution had wrought any change in the relative positions of the
aristocracy and the people, but continued, to the latest period of her
life, to treat all plebeians and _roturiers_ as though they had still
been serfs and vassals, subject at her will and pleasure to _détresse_
and _corvée_. She was an invaluable specimen of the old insolent
noblesse; and after a day spent in her company, you might retire to
rest, no longer wondering at the horrors of the great revolution, nor
yet at the hatred by which they had been instigated.
On one occasion, she had nearly set the whole province in an uproar
by an unseasonable display of what the prince was wont to call her
_impertinence Régence_. A large party had been invited to dinner at the
château, a party in honour of the arrival of some high and illustrious
visitor at Valençay; I think there were even scions of royalty among
the guests. In short, it was one of the gaudy days of the castle, when
the flaming yellow liveries, and the antique silver, and the royal
gifts, were all displayed. Of course the _préfet_ of the department,
the _maire_ of Valençay, the _curé_, and, in short, all the authorities
of the place had been invited, and with true provincial punctuality had
arrived at the exact hour named in the invitation, which, as usual in
modern times, was long before the princely host expected to receive his
guests; and, when they were ushered into the drawing-room, they found
that none of the family had as yet appeared, and that they would be
consequently compelled to amuse themselves as they best could until the
ringing of the bell, which would gather together the stray members of
the household.
“In a short time, however, the great doors of the drawing-room were
thrown back with a loud _fracas_, and in sailed, in all the majesty of
stiffened silks and fluttering plumes, her highness the Princess T——.
The troubled provincials immediately with one accord turned from the
chimney, where they had been talking in mysterious murmurs concerning
the mighty individuals whom they were to meet at dinner, and moved
in a body with sundry low bows, and a great display of gymnastic
prostrations, towards the fair princess. The latter stood for a moment,
and gazed as they advanced, then turning suddenly round to the grinning
domestic, who had remained standing at the door:
“‘Fool!’ exclaimed she, indignantly, ‘did I not bid you ascertain if
anybody had arrived, before I troubled myself to come down to the
_salon_?’
“‘Yes, princesse, and I came myself to see,’ answered the servant,
looking rather puzzled and embarrassed, first at his mistress, then at
the guests, who stood wondering where the questioning would lead to,
‘and when I found these gentlemen here, I——’
“‘Idiot!’ interrupted the princess, ‘not to know your business better;
remember that such as these are not anybody, but NOBODY.’
“With these words she tossed out of the room, pointing with her fan
over her shoulder at the poor stupified provincials, whose rage and
mortification defy description. They were not slow to spread the tale
of her insolence and haughtiness throughout the country round, and the
circumstance caused the princess to be viewed with no very friendly
eye, as you may well imagine.
“Soon after this occurrence, having occasion to visit Paris, she
left Valençay in her carriage, drawn by four horses, and driven by
the postmaster himself. Her highness was always in a most tremendous
hurry, and loved to be driven at a tremendous rate. This the postmaster
knew well, as he had been in the habit of driving her for years. He
accordingly took much pains upon the occasion to which I refer, to go
as slowly as possible, in order to vex and worry the princess, whose
temper was not long in breaking forth, and she presently began by
calling after the driver in the most imperious manner to hasten his
speed. This injunction not being attended to with as much alacrity
as she could have wished, she began to pour forth volleys of abuse,
seasoned with sundry fierce sounding exclamations and oaths in the
Polish language, to which, upon great occasions like the present,
she was wont to give utterance, (according to her own account, quite
unconsciously.) The man bore this for some little time, perhaps rather
more diverted than otherwise at the thought of the trick he was playing
one of those ‘infernal aristocrats;’ until at length, no longer able to
contain her indignation, the princess seized the footstool which was at
the bottom of the carriage, and hurled it at the postillion, with such
unsteady aim however, that the missile flew far above his head. ‘Dolt!’
shouted she, standing upright in the carriage, and gesticulating
fiercely, ‘do you imagine you are carrying a load of manure to market?’
‘_Ma foi!_’ exclaimed the postmaster, coolly dismounting from the
saddle, ‘many’s the load of manure I’ve taken which has fetched at
market twenty times more than you would have done there!’ With these
words, he deliberately set about unharnessing the horses from the
carriage, and bidding the other postillion do likewise, he turned
back towards Valençay, leaving the carriage standing alone in the
midst of the long solitary road, with not a human habitation in sight
and night coming on. The shrieks and menaces of the lady were all in
vain; the man having paused to light his pipe, with the greatest _sang
froid_, jogged by the carriage window, cracking his whip with fiendish
enjoyment of her terror, until he got to the very bottom of the hill,
and was lost sight of. The princess could never be prevailed upon to
tell the sequel of the story, nor of the means by which she had been
extricated from her most mortifying situation; and, as neither of her
tall valets nor her talkative maids could ever be induced to betray the
secret, it was thought that she had compelled them all four to turn out
into the road and drag the carriage to some wayside ale-house, where
she could rest till horses arrived. I know not if this was the case,
but she certainly was quite capable of doing it.
“A goodly volume might be filled with her _naïvetés_ and unconscious
witticisms; for it was her total indifference to the good things that
she uttered, and her contempt for the effect which they produced, that
constituted their greatest charm.
“I shall never forget the effect produced in the _salon_ one evening
by an event which occurred a short time before the prince’s embassy to
London, and which served to _égayer_ the society for some time. Among
other ancient traditions of the courtly life of former days which she
loved to keep up, and one, too, which completely coincided with her
tastes and habits, was the custom of the _petit billet_, a usage which
has been completely lost since the time of the great revolution, and
which might be taken as a specimen of the time-killing, fiddle-faddle
occupations in which the _noblesse_ of that day passed their lives.
“This custom of the _petit billet_ still exists in many of the old
families wherein courtesy and etiquette are still maintained, at least
among the elder members. It consisted in writing a short note of
inquiry every morning to the person beloved, who answered it likewise
in writing, for no verbal message would have been received. Of course
the contents of the note could not be much varied. There could be
nothing to say but day after day the same ‘good morrow,’ with inquiries
how the night had been passed, and other questions of small interest,
which the present generation, who live deep and fast, expending their
sentiments and energies on greater things, have no time to make. I
myself know a married couple of the old school who, like all married
couples of the old (French) school, have been separated _de corps et de
biens_ for the last forty years, and who have never missed once during
the whole of that time sending the _petit billet de matin_. I was once
thoughtless enough to rally the lady upon this constancy, when she
replied, angrily, ‘Monsieur, although Monsieur le Comte and myself may
not choose to live together, yet our mutual position, and the rank we
both hold in society, prevent our enjoying the privilege of dispensing
with the common customs and formalities of the circles in which we have
both been bred. In renouncing all idea of love for each other, we have
not renounced good breeding.’
“Well, the princess, who was, as I tell you, _à cheval_ upon etiquette
with regard to the prince, never appeared in the morning without
having been preceded by her _petit billet_, although the prince never
thought fit to encourage her absurdity by sending a written answer.
One evening, she had retired earlier than usual, and, shortly after,
just as the company was breaking up, a note was handed to the prince
by the princess’s valet. We were all rather alarmed at first, fearing
that she might have been seized with illness; but presently the billet
was handed about amid roars of laughter; there was nought to fear;
it ran thus: ‘Cher prince. How are you this morning? I myself am far
from well, having passed a wretched night, although when I _did_
sleep, I dreamed of you, which was some little consolation amid all
my agitation and restlessness.’ The note bore the morrow’s date, and
had been given by the careless servant some twelve or fourteen hours
too soon! Upon inquiry, it proved to be the habit of the princess to
write these little billets over night, to avoid being disturbed in
the morning; they were laid on her toilet table, whence the valet had
taken the one in question, without inquiry and without reflection. Of
course the prince was merciless; the Princess de T—— furnished the
standing joke of the season, and was never left in peace until some new
absurdity caused the story of her ‘precautionary measure’ to fade in
the background.”