RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LIFE, BY PRINCE TALLEYRAND.
“It is a most extraordinary circumstance,” said I to C., one
evening, as we sat together in the little turret-chamber, “that no
well-authenticated life of the prince has ever been written. It would,
I have no doubt, attract more attention than any work of the kind which
has appeared for years. Why do you not attempt the task? You are better
qualified, from the length of time you have been in his intimacy, from
your very admiration of the man, to undertake the task, than any one
else now living.”
“You flatter me,” said C., smiling; “the undertaking would be far
beyond my power, or, indeed, it would be within the limit of the
capabilities but of one man alone. The sole biographer of Prince
Talleyrand must be Prince Talleyrand himself. Any clever, well-informed
historian might give the facts of the prince’s life, but who but
himself could render to posterity a satisfactory account of the
_motives_ which had led to action, the _consequences_ which have
accrued from the various decisions which he has taken, and which, in
most instances, as he himself is always declaring, have been totally
in opposition to the results foreseen? Such a biography of himself as
_he_ could write, would be a literary monument as lasting as the world
itself. It would be the _secret_ history of every government of Europe
for the last sixty years—the private memoirs of every distinguished
individual would have to be incorporated into such a biography, where,
of necessity, every distinguished individual in Europe _must_ be made
to play a part. I know that M. de Talleyrand has been for years past
compiling his diplomatic memoirs, but, by a singular infatuation, he
has proclaimed his intention of not permitting their publication to the
world until forty years after his death. This determination, _à la_
Voltaire, is singularly in accordance with the character of the man,
who is always repeating so playfully, ‘No one can doubt my powers of
waiting.’
“Some of those most interested in the matter, to whom he has
communicated his malicious decision, rail loudly against such a
determination; whilst others, with perhaps equally good reason, as
loudly applaud; so that it is evident to the unconcerned looker-on,
that whatever may be his secret motive for thus deciding, it is already
justified by the different passions which it has excited. He has in
this, as in everything else, displayed the depth of his reflective
powers, and refused to sacrifice high interests and grave results to
a paltry feeling of _amour propre_. He has reflected that, in those
intervening years, all the loud baying pack of fierce detractors of his
fame will have yelped forth their calumnies—the smaller fry will also
have all expended their puny efforts, and then _he_ will come and call
upon posterity to judge between him and them. Doubt it not—posterity
will answer the appeal. The next generation will be more just than his
own. The fierce passions, the deadly struggles, the political hatreds,
amid which his own existence has been passed, will all have died away,
and men will sit in calm, unbiassed judgment on the various actions
of his life, and will be the better able to pronounce their verdict
when they have beheld the _consequences_ of his counsels; when they
shall have been enabled to compare his adoration of his country, his
indifference to its _rulers_, with the slavish self-interest, the
narrow-minded, mercenary views of those with whom he had so often to
contend.
“Believe me, a man must entertain a tolerably good opinion of his own
discrimination, and have the organ of self-esteem developed in no
mean degree, who could sit down coolly with a pretension of giving to
the world a correct, nay, even a _lucid_ life of Prince Talleyrand.
He has out-lived the greater portion of the comrades of his youth,
of whom even then he lived so far in advance, that it was said of
him, he had ‘comrades and colleagues, but no contemporaries.’ Long
before middle age, he had learned that, in public life, the one thing
needful is discretion; while he it was who first published to mankind
the discovery he had made, that ‘speech was given to man to conceal
his thoughts.’ Therefore, it is not probable that there exists a soul
who could ever have penetrated sufficiently into the wily statesman’s
confidence ever to gain enough knowledge of his aims and views, to
_account_ for the different changes in his principles, with which
he has been so taunted by all parties. There is not a single epoch
of his life which is not, besides, so bound up with anecdotes and
incidents of the ‘times in which he lived,’ that often the most simple
recital of facts, as connected with any adventure in which he may have
been engaged, might give deep offence in other quarters, and cause
recrimination, and perhaps even, in some cases, litigation, on the part
of other high personages, whose names would have to be brought forward.
“No man was ever made the object of so much unjust vituperation as
the Prince de Talleyrand, of calumnies which have been accepted by
the credulous with as much good faith as proofs of holy writ; while
not one single _proof_ of perfidy or baseness has ever been brought
against him—nothing but supposition, for the most part ill-sustained,
and sometimes even completely belied by his subsequent conduct.
Notwithstanding the apparent freedom with which he admitted all his
_entourage_ to his intimates, how little is really known of his private
life! Notwithstanding the greediness with which the public have always
sucked in any stray anecdote, any fugitive _bon mot_, or axiom of this
great man’s, yet how strangely ignorant do they still remain of his
real character—how blind to the real grandeur of soul, which he ever
displayed amid the most trying circumstances—where any other than he
would have clutched at the shadow, he let both the empty substance and
the emptier shadow pass, while he calmly paused for that which was to
follow. The truth is this—the _mind_ is made the judge of the public
character; the _heart_ alone can understand the value of the private
one.
“I have often myself seen him smile at the idea of any one attempting
his biography, and, whenever by chance he found himself compelled to
receive at Valençay any of the petty journalists, the stray collectors
of _bon mots_ and epigrams for the _salons_ of Paris, I have beheld him
take a malicious pleasure in mystifying their credulity by relations
of the most extravagant adventures connected with himself, or with the
great public men with whom he had come in contact. One of his keenest
enjoyments consists in making me read, while he is at his toilet, these
same anecdotes as they appear in the peculiar journal for which the
poor _gobe-mouche_ has been catering. As I have said before, there
is so much that is real, and so much that is false, mixed up with
everything connected with the prince, that the historian who would seek
to be veracious, finds himself completely baffled. On the other hand,
the world of anecdote is our own. He is no niggard, in sooth, of his
rich store of souvenirs, and loves to dispense them to his intimates
with a bounteous hand. The mention of an obscure name, the raising of
the simplest doubt, will draw forth, when he is in the vein, such ample
fund of amusement, that many a thick, closely-printed volume might have
been compiled from this source alone.
“I remember that, one evening, by some unaccountable circumstance which
I now forget, we were fated to spend the hours from dinner till bedtime
alone. The ladies of the family had gone to do honour to the bridal
of a rich vassal in the neighbourhood of the château, and had most
especially recommended the prince to retire early, as he was labouring
under severe cold on the chest. You will scarcely believe me when I
tell you that we remained up together until daylight—so absorbed was
he in the remembrance of events of years gone by, and of which some
simple observation on my part had touched, as it were, the galvanic
train, and roused the reminiscences which had slumbered perhaps since
his youth, while I thought not of rest or sleep so long as he talked
on. I could have listened until doomsday. One of the subjects on which
he spoke that evening was the very one upon which I have just been
entertaining you; that of his memoirs. There had been an advertisement
in one of the Paris papers that morning announcing sketches of ‘the
Arch-Diplomatist, from Original Documents.’
“‘This is about the fortieth attempt of the kind within the last dozen
years,’ said he, in answer to my information of the circumstance, ‘and,
what is more astonishing is the fact, as I am told, of their having
all met with more or less success. The public love to be duped, and
seek with eagerness every occasion to be deceived. It is the charlatans
alone whose numbers fail, dupes are never wanting.’
“Had I not been already convinced of the utter impossibility which
must ever exist of any individual of our day being able to do justice
to the ‘Life of Prince Talleyrand,’ that evening’s conversation, in
the old Perrault-looking drawing-room of Valençay, would have amply
proved it. A volume might be filled with the anecdotes he told me
merely relating to the first years of his youth—just at his _début_
in the fashionable world, before the revolution. He began with the
_Séminaire_, recounting with peculiar delight the history of his
intimate associates there—his prodigious memory seeming to grasp
the most trifling details relating to each with as much vigour and
freshness as though he were speaking of yesterday. Many were the
curious customs, the picturesque observances, of the old place, the
very tradition of which has since been lost, obliterated, and trodden
under foot in the mire of the revolution, and of which he alone, in the
whole world, was left the chronicler.
“‘It cannot be denied,’ said he, in speaking of this establishment,
‘that vice and infidelity had crept in there as elsewhere, as how
could it be otherwise, when all the talent and brilliancy which have
dazzled youth in all ages were on the side of doubt and irreligion? And
yet there were still some bright examples, some few specimens of a
higher order of beings, gathered among us, whose light shone out yet
brighter from amid the utter darkness by which they were surrounded.
The histories of some of those young men would better serve as themes
for novel or romance than for book of saintly lore; for the revolution
dispersed them right and left, and sent them forth to the world, some
to battle with their fierce, pent-up passions, others to struggle with
their timid fears.
“‘Not all the romance that ever was written could equal in interest
the plain narration of some of the adventures which, in after life,
befel my fellow-students. Some perished beneath the revolutionary
axe, voluntary martyrs—others were found in the ranks of Napoleon’s
army, wearing the epaulettes and moustaches of his _avant garde_, or
caracoling among his voltigeurs. There still live some few who occupy
posts of honour and of trust, which the government of Louis Dixhuit
bestowed in utter ignorance of antecedents, while many of those who
had mourned their bondage the most bitterly, lived to regret it, with
yearning for the quiet which it yielded, and which they have lost for
ever.
“‘One of the most striking examples of the vanity of human wishes
may be found in the history of Eugène de B——, who had been my fellow
salver-bearer at the visit of the Bishop of Bordeaux to St. Sulpice.
This was considered an office of honour, and bestowed upon the two best
wranglers of the season. My companion was one of the handsomest young
men I ever beheld; tall and dark, with all the fire of the south in
his black eye and swarthy complexion, and the impress of high descent
stamped upon his features. He was the natural son of a nobleman holding
a high office about the court, and might hope through this channel to
rise to the loftiest dignity and honour in the church. It was not known
who his mother was, but it was whispered amongst us that she must have
been either Jewess or Bohemian—a belief to which his singular eye and
chiselled features gave rise. He was of a proud, impassioned character,
violent and indomitable; one with whom his teachers and those in
authority were obliged to pause before they ventured to rush into open
warfare. Neither penitence nor reprimand had ever been able to tame
his violent, irascible nature, and, on more than one occasion, had
it not been for the great honour which his learning and acquirements
conferred on the establishment, he would have been expelled.
“‘His fiery soul revolted at the idea of entering the Church. I have
seen him shudder with disgust as he donned the black serge dress which
denoted his calling, and absolutely refuse to walk in his rank in the
processions, which, at certain festivals, formed part of the ceremonies
of the day. His dreams were all of a military life and military
glory. He told me himself, that, proud as he was, he had _knelt_ to
his father to beg him to suffer him to embrace the profession of
arms. He would have been a Knight of Malta—a volunteer—even a private
soldier—anything, so long as he might be permitted to follow the bent
of his inclination, and join the army; but his father had said coldly,
that his interest in the army was all swallowed up by his other sons,
and, besides, that he disapproved greatly of this clashing of interests
between young men of the same name, who yet bore it under circumstances
so different; that he would not countenance any change of profession;
that he might rely on his protection so long as he continued obedient
to his commands, and that a fortune, such as would satisfy his most
ardent ambition, awaited him on the completion of his studies, if he
would remain content in the calling which his relatives had chosen for
him.
“‘From such reasoning there was no appeal, and poor Eugène remained at
the _Séminaire_, cursing his fate, and nursing his bitterness against
the existing order of things, which thus left him helpless and without
defence, the slave of another’s will, to follow the very calling he so
much despised. You will readily believe that, with these sentiments, he
was one of those who yielded the most readily to the influence of the
new doctrines which the philosophers of that day had begun to preach
with so much success. He had frequently been severely reprimanded, and
sometimes even harshly punished for his undisguised approval of the
new tenets, for among his class-fellows, he sought not to conceal his
sentiments, but proclaimed aloud his contempt of the aristocracy, his
hatred of the oppressors of the people, his opinion that the king would
one day be taken to task for his weak administration; and, above all,
his tongue waged loudest war against the queen, poor Marie Antoinette,
‘_Autrichienne_,’ _l’étrangère_, the ‘cruel she-wolf,’ the heartless
dissipator of the _deniers du peuple_.
“‘He left the _Séminaire_ with these feelings still existing; he was
much younger than myself, and I lost sight of him for some time; I
only heard accidentally that he had been appointed to serve one of the
chapels of Notre Dame, merely while awaiting a vacancy to occur in
some rich prebend or fat abbaye, to which his father might have credit
to get him appointed. Meanwhile, the revolution broke out, and Eugène
stood free to take the path from which he had been forcibly driven
while dependent on his father’s will. Of course, after what I knew
of his character, it did not in the least surprise me to learn that
he had thrown his frock _aux orties_, or that he had chosen to enter
the army; but what really did surprise me to a great degree was the
astounding information which was given me by his brother, the Marquis
de B——, that he had attached himself to the broken remnants of the
_gardes-du-corps_; that he had followed them most pertinaciously as a
volunteer; that he had twice been severely wounded in defending the
queen from the fury of the mob; and that he was the individual who had
carried the dauphin, at the very risk and peril of his life, across the
Allée des Feuillans, on the day of the memorable attack!
“‘And what became of him after this?’ inquired I of his brother,
already in my own mind anticipating the answer, for there were but few
of those who had made themselves the least conspicuous in the like
manner who escaped.
“‘Why, he was of course arrested,’ replied the marquis, ‘and thrown
into prison, but was discharged on suspicion of madness, although
he was no more mad than I am. He remained in Paris without seeking
concealment during the hottest period of the _terreur_, and by a most
extraordinary chance, was suffered to go unharmed, doubtless protected
by the same suspicion of insanity. My father and myself had joined the
_armée de Condé_, and would then have been glad of the acquisition of
such a bold, brave spirit, to the cause. With the view of his passing
the frontier, we succeeded, by dint of the greatest privations, in
raising a sum of money which we had conveyed to him. He thanked us
sincerely, but said _he could not desert his post nor join us till
his task was fulfilled_! With alarm we heard of him again at the
execution of the queen, when he made himself remarkable by his conduct
at the scaffold. It appears that he threw himself beneath the wheels
of the cart in which that unfortunate princess was transported to
her doom, and narrowly escaped being torn to pieces by the infuriated
_poissardes_ for his loud and outrageous vituperations at their
cruelty. He escaped, however, by his extreme good fortune once again,
and we were once more appealed to for money to “procure him a passage
out of this horrid country,” wrote he, “where neither innocence nor
beauty could find favour in the sight of men more savage and cruel
than the beasts of the field.” He refused to tell us in what manner
he had disposed of the immense sum we had already, at great risk and
inconvenience, sent him for the same purpose. Nevertheless, so great
was our anxiety for his safety, and so great the desire that was
felt throughout the whole _armée de Condé_ for the acquisition of so
valuable a member to its ranks, that a subscription was raised among
us, poor as we were, and once more was the sum required despatched to
this _enfant prodigue_, while we awaited in terror his safe arrival.’
“The marquis paused in his narrative, and then added, ‘And, from that
hour to this, I have never beheld him, although he was living, until
lately, not far from my own château in Bretagne.’
“‘Why, then, came he not to join you?’ said I. ‘Did he escape from the
country?’
“‘He did.’
“‘And what became of him after this?’
“‘He became a MONK!’ replied the marquis, ‘with the money we had raised
at so much toil and pains; he left the country and went to Italy, where
he entered a convent of Camuldules; but, after the Restoration, finding
the rules of this order not severe enough, he returned to France, and
entered the monastery of La Trappe. It is but a few months ago that I
received a letter from the superior of the convent, informing me of
my brother’s death, and mentioning that, although it was against the
regulations of the order to admit of the bequeathing of any legacy to
the laity, yet, in consideration of the marvellous piety of brother
Eugène, he was willing to forward to me, according to his dying wish,
the bequest which he had made me. This letter was accompanied by a
small sealed packet, which contained about a yard of narrow black
ribbon, and a receipt in due form for a sum of money which I instantly
remembered was the exact amount despatched in the first instance to
my brother from the _armée de Condé_! The writing was in the hand of
_Henri Samson, the executioner_, signed by him, and bearing witness
that the money had been received on delivery to the citizen Eugène B——
of the black ribbon which had bound the forehead and held back the hair
of the _citoyenne_ Capet on the morning of her execution.
“‘It was all stained, and stiff with drops of blood. There were a
few lines hurriedly written on the back of this paper by the hand of
Eugène, wherein he said that he wished not to leave behind him the
suspicion that he had disposed in an unworthy manner of the money which
we had had so much difficulty in raising, and that he desired that I
should become possessor of this relic, and that if possible, it should
be preserved in the family from generation to generation. He then
merely added that he felt sure, from the knowledge of my sentiments,
that I should cast no reproach upon his memory for having spent the sum
in the acquisition of this treasure—this memorial of one, who, from
having been a martyr upon earth, was now a saint in heaven.’
“‘The marquis told me that he had immediately despatched the ribbon to
Gratz, deeming that the relic would be most appreciated by the royal
lady who sits there in desolate grandeur to mourn the fate of all whom
she has loved in this world. He showed me, however, the receipt, which
is, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary _pièces justificatives_,
which could possibly be produced, and would, I doubt not, readily find
a purchaser at a higher price than that for which it was given in
acknowledgment.
“‘Such was the history of my fellow salver-bearer. After a youth
spent in burning vows, in oaths and protestations of what would be
his achievements, should he ever be freed from that sombre habit and
that slavish tonsure—with a heart beating high with courage, a soul
burning for honour and distinction, no sooner had he obtained the
freedom for which he had so long sighed, than he hastened to bury all
hope, ambition, and liberty beneath the cowl and lowly gabardine of the
Trappist. It is evident that his boiling imagination and ardent fancy
had been struck with the charms and matchless grace of Marie Antoinette
as soon as he had beheld her; he had nursed this passion through years
of sorrow and despair, and, when all was over, had sought this solitude
but to dwell undisturbed with the memory of her whom he had loved so
long, and with devotion so true and yet so hopeless.
“‘What a pity,’ said the prince, with a malicious smile, as he
concluded his story, ‘that your favourite, Alexandre Dumas, or Eugène
Sue, should not have been apprised of the existence of my poor comrade!
What a fine five-act melodrama or eight-volumed romance would have
been drawn from such materials, could either of them but have procured
an hour’s interview with him, even through the famous hole in the
garden-wall at Meilleraye, by which I am told much knowledge of the
interior arrangements of the Trappists gets abroad into the world.’
“M. de Talleyrand never will lose an opportunity of giving a playful
_coup de patte_ to the _romantiques_, whom, like all the followers of
the school of Voltaire, he holds in most especial aversion; and many
are the amicable battles which he and I are in the habit of fighting
together upon this subject.”
“Do you ever meet any of the prince’s fellow-students of Saint Sulpice
at the Hôtel Talleyrand?”
“There is but one who frequents it,” replied C.; “for in general it is
they who rather shun the recollections which the _ci-devant_ Abbé de
Perigord must bear with him. _His_ intercourse with them has ever been
frank and free. As he never played the part of a hypocrite with them,
so has he never had to fear detection, or to dread an encounter with
those who could tell of his early life.
“There is something touching in the candour and simplicity with which
the prince will sometimes converse of Saint Sulpice with the individual
to whom I now allude: the only one of his class-fellows with whom he
has maintained any degree of intimacy, and whom he has bound to himself
by ties of the deepest gratitude. He is the Curé of Saint Thomas,
one of the most simple-hearted and virtuous of men, and one whom, I
think, it would much surprise were he to be told that the Prince de
Talleyrand, in spite of his apostasy, had ever been taxed with foul
falsehood and black treason, and all the other crimes which have been
laid to his charge by the hackneyed writers of the day. In the eyes of
the good man (and if ever there was a saint upon earth, it is he),
M. de Talleyrand has never been guilty but of one fault, which he
qualifies by naming it a _tort_, when, in a misguided moment, he left
the Church for the allurements of the world; but nothing, however, can
persuade the worthy curé that the prince would not have returned, had
he not been prevented by his marriage. I know nothing more delightful
than to listen to the conversation of these two old friends, most
particularly when relating to the olden days, and to the _Séminaire_.
The prince is really much attached to M. D——; and I remember his being
highly incensed upon taking up a volume of some of the modern spurious
memoirs, wherein the old curé was mentioned with ridicule, on account
of his extreme simplicity. He told me the true story of the good man,
which was there related in a garbled form, and which he, who was at
Saint Sulpice at the time the adventure occurred, of course remembered
well, and told _con gusto_.
“It appears that the good curé, who all his life has been remarkable
for his childlike simplicity and credulity, was known at the
_Séminaire_ by the sobriquet of ‘_Providence_,’ which he had acquired
from his readiness to believe in the intervention of Heaven, whenever
the cause was a worthy one, however trifling it might appear, to vain,
weak mortals like ourselves. He had risen one cold, snowy morning in
December, to attend early matins at some church in the neighbourhood,
and had dressed himself stealthily and in darkness, fearing to disturb
his chum, M. de Sèze, who, worldling as he was, snored on, heedless
that it was one of the most solemn festivals in all the year, the feast
of St. Nicolas. Meanwhile, the good youth stole shivering down the
stairs and through the gloomy streets, clasping his breviary beneath
his arm, and repeating all the way most eloquent invocations to Our
Lady of the Burning Brand, the patroness of charcoal burners, for a
little of that warmth which she bestows so liberally upon her votaries,
to enable him even to feel the beads of his rosary as he passed them
through his stiffened fingers.
“On arriving at the church-door, he was assailed, or rather waylaid,
by a poor woman, an old pensioner of his, who rushed forward and fell
at his feet the moment he appeared, declaring that she was a lost
creature unless he came to her help; that she had passed the whole
night wandering in the streets; that her landlord refused to give
her admittance to her lodging to take away her few paltry rags,
unless she paid him what was owing for the rent, which she had no
means of doing unless through his bounty. Now it so happened that the
young _Séminariste_, never overburdened with the good things of this
world, found himself at that peculiar moment entirely _à sec_, and
was awaiting his monthly allowance of pocket-money before he could
venture to make his appearance among his poor pensioners, so boundless
were his charities, so great his nervous dread of being compelled to
refuse himself the pleasure of bestowing relief upon the needy—the
only pleasure, indeed, which he ever allowed himself to enjoy—the only
way in which he suffered himself to expend the scanty pittance which
his aged mother could spare from her poor income for procuring, as she
imagined, some few luxuries for her son.
“It was in vain, however, that the young abbé endeavoured to assure
the poor woman of his utter inability to assist her this once. In vain
he endeavoured to shake her off—she clung to his knees—she bathed his
feet with her tears—she called on the Lord to bless him, her tender
benefactor—she _knew_ that he would relieve her—that he would not
have the heart to see her four poor fatherless children turned into
the streets to starve. What was a miserable sum of three small crowns
(_petits écus_) to such a noble gentleman? Why, he would not miss such
a paltry sum at night, were his pocket picked of it before he returned
home.
“‘But my good woman,’ said he, completely overcome by her importunity,
‘rich as you think me, I have not at this moment a single _sou_ in my
possession.’
“‘Nay, nay, feel in your pockets, monseigneur; you will surely find
enough to save me and my helpless babes from starving. It is not much,
my lord bishop (for you will surely become one day a bishop), only
three poor crowns!’
“‘But on my word, _ma bonne amie_, I have it not—were you to search my
pockets through, I tell you again, you would not find a single _sou_.’
“‘Ay, that is ever the way,’ screamed the woman, clinging to the skirt
of his _soutane_, which she held fast in her grasp; ‘that is ever the
way with rich and noble gentlemen whose pockets are lined with gold and
silver—they never have a coin so small as a single _sou_—but search, in
Heaven’s name, and you will surely find my three poor crowns, which
are all that stand between me and perdition.’
“‘Nay, then, if you believe me not—see rather if I tell not truth,’
said the poor lad, completely at his wit’s end; and, as he said the
words, he turned the pockets of his _soutane_ inside out—when, what
was his surprise (oh, miracle!) out rolled upon the ground three bran
new silver small crowns, which seemed to jingle with most heavenly
music as they fell at the feet of the poor mendicant, who, with a
shriek of joy, gathered them up, and rushed from the church, before
the thunderstruck abbé had as yet recovered from the awe and wonder
into which the occurrence had thrown him. He remained for some moments
riveted to the spot in a sort of beatified trance, unable to imagine
it possible that so great a miracle could have been vouchsafed to so
unworthy a sinner as himself. Once more he plunged his hands eagerly
into the pockets of his _soutane_—but no other coin was forthcoming.
Yes—it was evident—Providence had vouchsafed this miracle by way of
encouragement to his weak endeavours. He put up an inward prayer for
protection against the sin of self-conceit, as the thought overtook
him, and, presently recovering himself, he rushed to the altar of the
Virgin, and breathed forth his gratitude at her feet. So great was his
emotion, that he resolved at once to spend the whole day in the church,
in fasting and in prayer, that no earthly sentiment might mingle with
the heavenly feeling thus awakened within him.
“The poor abbé was, indeed, so elevated with the adventure, that he
felt neither cold nor hunger, but remained the whole day praying at
the different altars; nor did he suffer a morsel to pass his lips
until set of sun. He then returned to the _Séminaire_ full of humility
and gratitude, determined not to tell his adventure to any of his
comrades, in dread of their unbelieving mockery. They were, however,
all abroad—for was it not the feast of St. Nicolas, the gayest holiday
in the year, the festival of the patron saint of all the youths and
unmarried men in France; when even the poor _Séminaristes_ were allowed
to spend the evening outside the walls of Saint Sulpice—and they had,
of course, all taken advantage of the permission, excepting M. de Sèze,
who rushed down the stairs in a perfect fury, as soon as the step of
poor ‘Providence’ was heard; and, without a word of explanation, began
to kick and cuff him most unmercifully, loading him with reproaches,
until he was forced to pause for want of breath; and then the unhappy
object of all this wrath was told that he deserved to be thrown
from the window of the seventh story, for having deprived, by his
carelessness, an old chum and comrade of his day’s holiday, by taking
his new _soutane_ in the dark, and leaving his old rusty one in its
place; and, worse than all, depriving him of the means of diverting his
_ennui_, by robbing him of his money, three bran new crowns which he
had put aside for this very occasion, and which he would find in the
left-hand pocket!
“The miracle was then explained! The poor abbé, crest-fallen and
discomfited, slunk away, forced to confess the truth, and his utter
inability to make good the sum at that moment. The good-natured
M. de Sèze was, however, so diverted at the adventure, that he
thought himself amply revenged for the annoyance he had suffered,
by the mortification which poor ‘Providence’ had to endure and the
disappointment he expressed at finding that, after all, he had not been
made the object of a _miracle_.
“‘It is most extraordinary,’ said the prince, who had been telling
me this anecdote of M. D——, one day after he had just left us, ‘that
this adventure did not in any degree lessen his confidence in the
interposition of Providence in his affairs, notwithstanding all the
mockery and derision of which he had been made the object after this
misadventure. On the contrary, he gave himself up with the greatest
confidence to the decrees of that Providence which had never deceived
him, and which certainly bore him through the most perilous and
troublous times without harm or molestation. He never emigrated during
the revolution; he remained at his post; and, whether he was deemed too
insignificant for annoyance, or whether, in consequence of the great
love which was borne him by his parishioners, it was thought prudent
to overlook the fact of his remaining in the country, I know not; but
it is certain that, without defiance, and yet without servility, he
remained, and was unharmed—perhaps the only instance throughout the
whole of France.
“‘Another specimen of his trust in Providence is worth recording, as
it may give you an insight into the state of feeling at the time, and
of the enthusiasm which existed, even in remote country districts,
at the period of the breaking up of the old system. After leaving the
_Séminaire_, M. D—— was appointed to a small cure in the neighbourhood
of Rambouillet, which yielded him not more than about twelve hundred
francs per annum. You may readily suppose that, with a knowledge of
this fact, I was much surprised to find, on paying him a visit at his
_Presbytère_, that throughout the whole country round his name was
mentioned with prayers and blessings by the poor: not for his attention
to their ghostly comforts, not for his guidance in spiritual matters;
but for his munificent charities, his assistance in all their pecuniary
difficulties, wherein he always came to their aid, with even more
readiness than the inhabitants of the _château_ themselves. Meanwhile,
as far as his own personal indulgences were concerned, the poorest
peasant in his parish lived more sumptuously than he.
“‘I found him in a ruinous old parsonage-house, with scarcely the
smallest of the comforts of life; and yet full of the most splendid
dreams of all the happiness he meant to confer by his administration
in the district to which he had been appointed pastor. There was to
be no more misery, no more want—the golden age was to be revived—in
short, his visions were much of the same nature, only partaking of more
simplicity, as those of your idol, Fourier. I could not help smiling,
as we sat down to our repast of two hard-boiled eggs, and water _à
discrétion_, to hear him declare his resolution of enabling his
parishioners to have each one, according to the vow of Henri Quatre, a
fat fowl to boil for his Sunday dinner.
“‘But, my good friend, how will you be enabled to procure for them all
these luxuries?’
“‘Oh, I have hit upon a plan,’ replied he, chuckling with glee, ‘which
is a much better financial scheme, than any ever devised by either
Calonne or Necker. So simple too—to be understood by the meanest
capacity;’ as he spoke, he went to a small cupboard in the wall, and
drew from thence a long string of old and dirty playing cards. ‘This is
my coin,’ exclaimed he, triumphantly, waving the greasy mass before my
eyes; ‘with these simple pieces, which my poor pensioners deliver to
the various tradespeople, they can procure in the village, food, fire,
and clothing—with these old cards, begged from my evening games of
piquet with the old Marquise de Beaugency, I can purchase for them the
comforts, without which they cannot live.’
“‘But in the name of Heaven, who will pay the providers?’
“‘Oh, I must trust to Providence for that!’
“‘I must confess that I left my worthy friend with a mind full of
uneasiness, notwithstanding his trust—the more so, when I found, upon
inquiry, that he was deeply indebted in every direction for the very
provisions which he continued to distribute with such lavish hand. But
so great was the respect his name inspired—so great the confidence felt
by his flock in his honour and integrity, that no alarm was experienced
respecting the payment, it being imagined generally, that he was the
agent of some rich and charitable person, for the distribution of these
alms, and that they would be paid as soon as he himself received the
money. After having given him for his poor what I could spare—a mere
drop in the ocean, when viewed with reference to the heaviness of
the debts which he had incurred—I took my departure, full of anxiety
respecting the future consequences of this thoughtless expenditure on
the part of one, whose whole stock of worldly goods would not have
satisfied the demands of even one of his numerous creditors.
“‘However, other more serious events coming, meanwhile, to occupy my
attention, I lost sight of my old friend, or if ever I _did_ think of
him, it was with a faint terror, lest, never having heard of him since
my visit to Rambouillet, he might have been reported to the bishop
of his diocese, and have incurred imprisonment and disgrace for his
imprudent practices. The great encounter between the people and their
rulers had commenced, and all France was summoned to assist at the
first parley, before hostilities began—the assembling of the _états
généraux_ at Versailles.
“‘I arrived at Versailles the day before the procession from the
Palace to St. Louis, and was walking arm and arm with Sièyes upon
the _tapis vert_, gazing with curiosity on the scene. The day was
heavenly, (it sometimes seems to me as though we have no such weather
now, as we had then,) the _tapis vert_ was crowded—courtiers in their
court costume—officers in uniform—the _haut clergé_ attired with the
brilliant tokens of the rank each held in the Church—were all gathered
in groups, either sauntering beneath the shade of the _charmille_
hedge, where the first tender buds of May were just sufficient to
screen the promenaders from the rays of the spring-tide sun—or else
seated on the stone benches along the alleys, conversing with the
ladies, who, all adorned in the gayest colours, and wearing the
brightest smiles, seemed bent on rendering the holiday as brilliant as
it was possible it could be.
“‘On the other side, (the truth _may_ be told now without mischief,)
avoided by the rest, as though they bore the seeds of pestilence within
them, the members of the _tiers état_ conversed in busy, whispering
knots; no merry laughter was heard from _them_, no pleasant trifling
or mirthful jesting was seen lighting up _their_ discourse. All was
dark and gloomy, care sat on every brow, and that their converse was
of weighty matters, was evident, by the tone of mystery in which it
was carried on, and the sudden silence which took place among them
whenever any stray member of the _noblesse_ happened to pass by to join
the glittering throng on the other side. Their very costume contrasted
strongly with that of their contemptuous superiors; they all wore,
and contrary to anticipation, were _proud_ to wear the dress to which
they had been condemned—the black hose and surtout, and short black
cloak, which, by the antique sumptuary law, denoted the vile, base-born
_roturier_.
“‘It was altogether a scene such as I shall never forget while memory
has power to act. I never remember in my whole life to have been
inspired with so profound a sentiment of melancholy as at that hour.
I could scarcely refrain from shedding tears, at perceiving, by what
was already taking place, what must of necessity come to pass before
long. As we drew near to the palace, the long windows of the suite
of apartments looking towards the _Pièce d’Apollon_, and then known
as the _Appartements du Dauphin_, were thrown open, and out rushed,
like a flight of butterflies, the whole bevy of court beauties, all in
high glee, in towering spirits, elated at the prospect of the morrow’s
pageant, which they evidently looked upon but as a show wherein they
were to see much that would amuse, and wherein they should be seen to
the very best advantage, as, fortunately, the _Salle des Menus_ was
lighted from _above_, which was so much more favourable to the effect
of rouge and _mouches_ than the broad, glaring, side light of the
_grande galerie_.
I cannot tell you how the sound of that joyous laughter grated on my
ear, as it caused both Sièyes and myself to pause while we watched
those light forms, as they playfully chased each other on the terrace
among the flowers. The queen was with them there; and I think I see
her now, as she stood leaning for support against the pedestal of the
statue of Silenus, opposite to the marble staircase, so greatly was she
overcome by the fit of laughter into which she had been thrown by some
absurd mistake on the part of the Countess de Provence, for her ringing
voice and childlike accent reached our ears as we stood close below the
balustrade, as she exclaimed, pointing to her sister-in-law, “_Cette
chère Sœur_ will _never_ learn to speak French!” That radiant face
and beaming eye could not at such a moment be seen without exciting a
feeling of _pity_, and this I know was shared by Sièyes, for, without
uttering a word, he pressed my arm significantly, and led me from the
spot towards a group of the _tiers-état_ who were standing at the
entrance of the _bosquets_. As we drew near, I descried the Abbé Maury,
who was, as usual, declaiming with all his might, although in a low
tone, to an eager crowd of listeners. Just as we came up, he concluded
some section of his discourse with this question, ‘Eh bien, Messieurs,
if the noblesse treat us so, what are we to do?’
“‘_Why, trust to Providence!_’ was the answer, from one of those
standing near. The voice made me start, so little was I prepared to
hear it in such a place. I turned to the speaker—it was indeed my own
dear D——!
“‘Of course my inquiries and his replies followed each other in rapid
succession, and I was almost led to believe that his philosophy was
the best that had ever been devised, when he informed me that he had
come to Versailles as representative of the clergy, deputed by his
_commune_, the electors being of course in this, as in every other
case, compelled to disburden him of his debts before he could leave
the canton. ‘It was quite unexpected,’ said the good man, ‘almost a
miracle; for how could I dream even a short month ago of deputies,
and notables, and gatherings at Versailles. You see I was right in
trusting to Heaven for relief. However, it _did_ astonish the worthy
_bourgeois_ a little, when they discovered how dearly they would have
to pay for their choice; and they might perhaps have cancelled it had
such a proceeding been allowed. _Mais, c’est égal!_—summer is coming
on, harvest time will soon draw near, and the poor of my parish have,
meanwhile, been clothed and fed!’
“‘It would perhaps be difficult to meet with a more beautiful
realization of the spirit of Scripture than is to be found in this
anecdote. He has met with his reward, for “_mes pauvres_,” as he
always called his little flock, protected him through the dangers
and persecutions which he subsequently had to undergo; and, at the
Restoration, he was appointed to the cure of St. Thomas, one of the
best _bénéfices_ of Paris, which he still holds, and where, until these
very few years, when, from old age, he has become incapacitated for
preaching, he was wont to deliver many and many a pithy sermon upon the
wonderful “bounty of Providence.”’
“There is scarcely a visitor at the Hotel Talleyrand,” resumed C.,
“who does not, as in the case of the _curé_ of St. Thomas, elicit some
quaint history, some _piquant_ anecdote of days gone by, on the part
of the prince. His memory is so wonderful, that he can scarcely relate
the simplest trait of his own life without being led into many other
stories illustrative of the times in which the incidents happened, and
to which he knows better than any living being how to give a charm,
an interest, which will sometimes render the smallest circumstance
of value, and which is a gift so highly esteemed by our nation,
that _l’art de raconter_ has ever been placed far above any other
accomplishment in the qualifications requisite to form an agreeable
member of society. You will in general find the prince _indulgent_ when
relating anecdotes even of persons from whom it may be a well-known
fact that he has differed all his life. I have often heard him say that
‘experience teaches us indulgence,’ and that ‘the wisest man is he
who doubts his own judgment with regard to the motives which actuate
his fellow-men.’ I have sometimes heard him entertain his intimate
circle, during a long evening, with a vast number of amusing traits and
anecdotes relating to his ‘fellow-labourers in the vineyard,’ without
once having recourse to scandal or ridicule; which I consider the very
perfection of the story-teller’s science. The only person with whose
name he likes, even now, sometimes, to disport himself in his _moments
de malice_ is Madame Necker, whom he never could tolerate, and with
whom, even in her most palmy days, he scrupled not to declare himself
openly at war. He really _felt_ with regard to her what he so happily
expressed, ‘She has every virtue and but one fault, and that is, she
is insupportable!’ The good lady never forgave his comparing her to
a ‘frigate riding at anchor, and receiving a salute from a friendly
power,’ when she stood upon her own hearth-rug at the Hôtel Necker,
upon the occasion of her weekly receptions; her ample proportions
obscuring the light of the fire, as, with pinched-up features and
prudish smile, she listened to the compliments of the Academicians,
whom she assembled but for this purpose. The ‘strait-laced Genevese,’
as he calls her, has furnished him, I verily believe, with more witty
_bon mots_, with more stinging epigrams, than even his most bitter
enemy.
“His feeling towards her daughter, Madame de Staël, has much of
the same nature. To this hour, his _amour propre_ is wounded by
the obligation he owes her for having obtained, through her credit
with Barras, his recall from exile, and thus, in reality, laid the
foundation of his fortune. This unwillingness to own a debt may savour
somewhat of ingratitude; but the prince will be excused when it is
remembered that Madame de Staël possessed, in common with all persons
of a nervous, irritable temperament, an excess of that susceptibility
which phrenologists have denominated ‘approbativeness,’ which made her
over-value her success, and never cease bringing it to the memory of
the person obliged. This, to a proud, sarcastic temper like that of the
prince, must have been peculiarly annoying, the more so as Napoleon,
with the gross, soldier-like want of tact which he would sometimes
display, loved to remind him both of the immensity of the service, and
by whom it had been rendered, and then would laugh coarsely to see
him wince under the reproach, which all his wonted philosophy did not
enable him to bear with calmness.
“He had never the same high opinion of Madame de Staël which the world
professed. He thought her style pedantic and _guindé_, and would
complain, when any of her compositions were read to him, of their
total want of nature and _coloris_. I have often heard him say, that
those who read the writings might fairly boast of knowing the writer,
for that nothing could more resemble Madame de Staël herself than
the false, exaggerated sentiments and superficial erudition of her
compositions. I have seldom seen him enjoy more keenly a story than
the one he will sometimes tell of an adventure which befel Madame
de Staël at a party where he himself was present. I think it was at
a _fête champêtre_ given by Madame Helvetius at her pretty little
château at Auteuil. The garden was full of all the talent of Europe and
America combined, for it was just at the height of the American mania,
and the fête, indeed, was given to the great champion of liberty, the
regenerator of his race—_l’homme de la nature_—the immortal Franklin. I
could tell you, by the bye, some curious circumstances connected with
the great patriot, which you, as an Englishman, would be glad to hear,
and which I am sure the prince would be equally glad to communicate,
for he has but small esteem for the _faux bonhomme_, as he called him.
“Madame Helvetius was one of the most charming women that the world
ever produced. The style and type of such beings seem lost ever since
the revolution. Without being strictly handsome, she always succeeded,
without effort, in obtaining more admiration than the professed
beauties who might be in the same company with her. There was a charm,
a grace in every action, in every word she uttered, which has never
been surpassed. Although she herself possessed no literary talent,
there was not a celebrity in Europe who was not proud of her notice;
and her assemblies in Paris, and her fêtes at Auteuil are not forgotten
to this day. Upon the occasion to which I refer, Madame de Staël was
making her _début_ in the Parisian literary world, and calculating upon
even more success than she obtained, although, had she been a person of
moderate pretensions, she would have been more than satisfied. She had
just arrived in Paris; she herself and all those connected with her,
had been bright particular stars in the somewhat dim and cloudy horizon
of Geneva.
“On her first appearance at the réunion, Madame Helvetius had, of
course, with well-bred courtesy, paid her most particular attention,
but having other guests to welcome, had left her after a while, to
superintend the distribution of the amusements about the grounds. Once
or twice she had passed Madame de Staël sitting gloomily on the bench
where she had left her, and at last sent M. de Talleyrand to keep her
company; but M. de Talleyrand had tact enough to know that, being
himself no literary lion, he was no company for Madame de Staël, and so
immediately went in quest of society more congenial to her taste. He
soon returned, in company with the Abbé Monti, whose poems were at that
time the rage all over Europe, and whose coming put the fair authoress
into the best of humours. M. de Talleyrand sate down on the bench
beside them, in silence, feeling himself quite extinguished by so much
talent, and remained a passive listener, anxious for improvement. The
conversation was overwhelming with erudition, and then the compliments
were poured forth like rain from an April sky,—the Abbé ‘had never
reckoned upon so great an honour as that of meeting the first writer of
the age;’ madame ‘little dreamed when she arose that morning, that the
day would be marked by so auspicious an event as the meeting with the
Abbé.’
“‘I have devoured every word that has escaped from Sappho’s pen,’ said
the abbé.
“‘I cannot sleep until I read the charming odes from the Italian
“Tyrtæus,”’ said the lady.
“‘Have you seen my last endeavour?’ said the abbé.
“‘Alas! not yet,’ sighed the lady, ‘although report speaks of it more
highly than of any which have preceded it.’
“‘I have it here!’ exclaimed the abbé, eagerly drawing a small volume
from his pocket. ‘Allow me to present it to you, madame; a poor homage,
indeed, to so much genius, but it may prove interesting to one who has
had so much success in heroic poetry.’
“‘Thanks, thanks,’ cried Madame de Staël, seizing the little volume
with every demonstration of overpowering gratitude. ‘This is indeed a
treasure, and will be prized by me far beyond gold or jewels.’
“She turned over the leaves slowly, while the delighted abbé watched
her with a charming self-complacency—then suddenly dropping it into her
lap, she exclaimed, turning on the abbé a languid glance, ‘You were
talking of heroic poetry, dear abbé; have you seen my last attempt—a
dramatic scene, “l’Exilé”—a slight and poor imitation of some of your
own?’
“‘I have not been so blessed as to obtain a copy,’ replied the abbé.
“‘How fortunate that I should have one in my reticule!’ said madame,
hurriedly seizing the strings of the bag suspended from her arm, and
drawing forth a thin volume in boards. The abbé bent low over it as she
presented it, and kissing it with reverence, placed it by his side,
and the conversation—that is to say, the complimenting—was continued
with redoubled vigour.
“M. de Talleyrand then departed, and did not return till the company
broke up, when he found that they had both left the bench whereon they
had been seated so long together, leaving, however, the ‘precious
treasures,’ which they had received from each other with so much
gratitude, behind them! M. de Talleyrand seized upon them with
inexpressible delight, thinking that they would furnish matter for
innocent _persiflage_, when the loss came to be remembered by either
party. But the thing was complete—_they were never sought and never
asked for_, and he has them now in his library, and loves to show them
as he tells the story of their coming into his possession.
“It is in this manner,” said C., as he pulled out his watch, surprised
at the lateness of the hour, “that M. de Talleyrand will sometimes
entertain us with familiar histories of many whom the world has set
upon pedestals of its own erecting, and from which he is fain to bring
them down, although without scorn or malice, in order that we may see
them more closely and know them better. You will now understand the
reason why it must be so difficult to write a good ‘Life of Prince
Talleyrand;’ there would be so little of himself, compared to what must
be told of other people—the work would be so full of digressions, that
it would become as bulky as a cyclopædia. Besides, a single person
could not do the whole. It would require writers of different talent,
of different character, of different nations—I was almost going to say
of different ages—to do justice to the varied scenes wherein he himself
displayed such variety of talents.”
“Then why do you not, my dear friend, seize upon the branch which you
have at your own disposal, and give the world the _Vie Anecdotique_ of
the prince?” said I. “Supposing you were to begin and try your skill by
relating to me by way of practice before you publish?”
“Well, well, the idea is not a bad one,” said C., laughing heartily;
“it is certainly not the _matériel_ that would be wanting, and when we
have time and solitude it may amuse us both. _One_ talent at least is
secure, for you are undoubtedly a capital listener.”