TALLEYRAND’S BOUDOIR—PORTRAITS—MADAME DE BRIONNE—MADAME DE
FLAHAUT—A GAMBLING SCENE—THE CHEVALIER DE FENELON—MADAME
GRANDT—PRINCESS TALLEYRAND.
On the morning after the conversation on the art of conversing, which
I have just transcribed, I happened to find myself for some little
time alone with C. in the prince’s dressing-room. I had been summoned
to the sanctum by M. de Talleyrand himself, who had received letters
from England by that day’s post, in answering which my English might,
he thought, be turned to account. I had obeyed the message with the
greatest pleasure, as C. had already informed me that admission to
his boudoir at the hour of his toilet was an honour sought by many,
and accorded but to few. In this exclusion he was most rigid, and he
reserved the admission as a _distinction_, refusing to yield it as a
right even to his most intimate friends. It was perhaps well that he
did so, for, by a singular inconsistency, he who has been so often
reproached with prudence and caution, was at this moment unguarded and
unsuspicious as a child. As I had, according to the etiquette of the
place, forestalled by some little time the precise moment fixed by the
prince for our rendezvous, I profited by the vacant time to examine
attentively the furniture and ornaments of this favourite retreat of
the diplomatist, wherein perhaps the peace or discord of European
states had been at various times planned and promoted.
It was a light and cheerful apartment, looking out into the fosses
surrounding the château, which, at that season of the year, were all
gay with verdure and flowering shrubs; then far away the view extended
over the park, at the end of which the dark forest encircles the
landscape with a belt of sombre hue, and shuts out the distant horizon.
The room contained but little furniture, and that all of the antique
cast, in use at the time of the Empire, hard and angular, stiff and
naked. The large leathern chair for the prince, which stood in the
centre of the room beside an old-fashioned dressing-table, upon which
were already spread the divers utensils for his approaching toilet,
although giving my _English_ prejudices a slight _inquietude_, yet
awoke certain pleasurable reminiscences of the court of Louis Seize
and the _toilette du matin_ of the beaux and _muscadins_ of ’89. Near
these stood a mahogany bureau, upon which his secretary wrote while the
prince dictated the correspondence even amid the elaborate manœuvres
of two valets-de-chambre, which kept him for the moment in a state of
discomfort and subjection.
The walls were hung round with portraits. C. told me that they were,
without exception, those of _friends_, and I examined the collection
with the greatest interest. They were arranged without any attempt at
order, neither by age nor date, merely according to the shape of the
frame, and the size of the panel, and it was curious to observe the
confusion to which such an arrangement had given rise; Alexander the
autocrat and Mirabeau the democrat hung side by side, while Fréron
and Voltaire gazed at each other with that peculiar smirk which has
been so happily denominated the “painter’s smile.” I was struck with
the vast number of female portraits, of all ages and denominations,
which met the eye; there was a beautiful crayon drawing of Madame de
Genlis with her harp, and another of Madame de Staël with her book
and pencil, and a full-length painting of Madame Roland hung opposite
to one of Madame de Lamballe. I glanced over the collection with most
intense interest; it was the romantic chapter of the life of M. de
Talleyrand, one with which diplomacy and politics had nought to do.
“How I should love you to tell me the history of the individuals whose
representations are assembled here,” said I to C., who was watching me
as I walked leisurely round; “what admirable illustrations to your ‘Vie
Anecdotique’ they would furnish!”
“Indeed,” returned my friend, “the ‘Vie Anecdotique’ would scarcely be
complete without them. As I have already told you, M. de Talleyrand,
from his earliest youth, has relied upon the support and patronage of
women. There is scarcely one of these ladies who has not played some
part in the advancement of his fortune. You might follow the epochs
of his life by the title and social position of his patronesses.
You smile; but it is even so. No _English_ mind can ever be made
to comprehend the sort of _liaison_ which sometimes exists between
persons of different sex in France. It is of every kind of friendship
the most pure and disinterested; _love_ is seldom generated by
these attachments; that sentiment would on the one side tend to mar
the devotion, and on the other, render the feeling liable to the
changes and chances of caprice. I could call to mind numberless
examples of this species of allegiance, which, having begun in youth,
have continued unto old age with the same confidence, the same
self-sacrifice. Come hither; you will find an apt illustration of my
meaning.”
He led me to a portrait placed in the shadow of the chimney. “This was
the first friend of M. de Talleyrand, when he was a youth just let
loose from the _séminaire_, and she whom this picture represents was
a woman already advancing to maturity. Surely we cannot suspect the
existence of love _there_. This lady, whose name was so long associated
with every early success of the prince, when he was still Abbé de
Perigord, was the celebrated Comtesse de Brionne, the mother of the
unfortunate Princess de Lamballe, and grandmother of the present King
of Sardinia. She was the first to distinguish the merit of the young
abbé, and by her influence to maintain him in his position in spite of
the dislike manifested towards him by the court of Marie Antoinette.
Even lately I heard him speak of her in terms of intense gratitude
and affection; and his voice, usually so deep and grave, faltered as
he recounted to me the story of her death. She was among the first
emigrants after the breaking out of the revolution, and retired to the
Austrian dominions, having, by permission of the emperor, assumed the
title of Princess of Lorraine. There she lived in poverty and obscurity
for some years, resisting every effort made by M. de Talleyrand to
obtain forgiveness for what she deemed his _crime_ in having deserted
his caste and renounced his profession, to adopt the principles of the
revolution.
“Among the little circle of devoted friends who had gathered round
her in her exile, the conduct of M. de Talleyrand was frequently the
subject of conversation, and she has been heard to declare that his
defalcation had given her more pain than many sorrows which ought to
have touched her more nearly. In the year 1805, when M. de Talleyrand,
then in the zenith of his favour with Napoleon, accompanied the latter
on his famous tour of ‘mediation’ into Austria, he repaired to the
little town of Linz, where the princess had chosen her retreat,
expressly to obtain an interview, with the hope of soothing her into
forgetfulness of his errors. The letter which he despatched from the
inn where he alighted, was a model of grace and politeness. He had
recalled in its composition all the half-forgotten traditions of
courtesy and high breeding which he had learned in her school. He had
flattered her by every expression of gratitude for former favours,
appealed to the memory of bygone days, and announced his intention of
personally waiting upon her for the answer on the morning following,
unless he received a summons to appear before her that same evening.
“No answer came that night, and accordingly, about twelve on the day
following, the prince set forth from the little inn where he had
alighted, to gain the small château, situated a short league from the
town, where the princess resided, full of doubt, and already somewhat
disappointed at not having received, in reply to his letter, even
so much as a cold permission to present himself before her. He had
attired himself in a costume which should recall to her mind as much
as possible the period of their first acquaintance, having carefully
laid aside every token of the rank which he held at the court of the
usurper, resolving that nothing in his person or demeanour should
shock the taste and feelings of his friend. He has often owned to me
that his heart beat with such violence as he drew near the château
which the guide pointed out to him as that occupied by the princess,
that he felt half inclined to turn back, and to leave his errand
unaccomplished until he had received some token of the oblivion of his
errors, which he had been at so much pains to seek.
“At length, the carriage stopped before the gate of a ruinous-looking
building, which stood on the brow of the hill outside the town. M. de
Talleyrand alighted, and walked up to the iron gate which looked into
the forecourt, for he thought it might appear more discreet and in
better taste to avoid every semblance of state and ceremony. He wished
to bring to her mind the Abbé de Perigord alone, and hoped she might
forget what he had become since then. The whole place wore a wild and
desolate aspect, and the silence alarmed him. Not a soul was stirring
about the premises, and what was still more extraordinary, was the
circumstance of the shutters being all closed, although it was bright
noon-day.
“He pulled the bell with a violent effort, and it sent forth that
hollow, melancholy sound which is so peculiar to a deserted building.
The summons was answered by an old portress, who hobbled to the gate
with lagging pace, and eyes red and swollen with weeping, while, close
at her heels, followed the old dog, whom he recognised on the instant
as old Vaillant, who used to run so joyously down the steps of the
_perron_ to meet him when he entered the courtyard of the hotel of
Madame de Brionne in Paris. But the animal knew him no longer, for he
barked and growled with savage fury at every token of recognition, and
the woman only sobbed the louder in answer to his inquiries.
“‘The princess was _gone_!’ she said. ‘She had departed but a few
hours before. She had left the château with all her retinue, and she
feared that her highness would never return!’ M. de Talleyrand has
described the pang of that moment as being one of the most bitter that
he has ever experienced throughout his whole life; and he remained
for an instant silent from emotion. The woman drew from her pocket a
letter which she said was to be delivered to the gentleman who had
written from Linz on the evening before, and who was to call for the
answer. The prince took it in silence, not daring even to gaze upon its
contents until alone. He re-entered the carriage, and drove towards
the town, and it was not until the château was lost to sight, and the
barking of old Vaillant was heard no more, that he mustered courage
sufficient to break the seal and open the envelope.
“It contained nought but his own letter—not a word, not a syllable in
explanation. He turned to the superscription, and then no longer felt
astonishment. It was addressed to the ‘_Prince de Benevent, Ministre
de Napoleon, Empereur des Français_.’ Every word was underlined; the
meaning was clear. Such a person was unknown to the Princesse de
Lorraine! In spite of her advanced age and feeble health—in spite of
the assurance of protection which Napoleon had vouchsafed to her on
his approach, she had fled from the place rather than meet him who had
deceived all her hopes, and fallen so low (to use her own expression)
as ‘to serve as footstool to enable the usurper to sit more at his ease
upon the throne of the Bourbons.’ She returned no more to Linz even
after the departure of Napoleon, but fixed her residence at Presburg;
and when M. de Talleyrand repaired to Vienna to assist at the famous
Congress of 1814, his friendship made him forget his former repulse,
and once more did he solicit more humbly, more passionately than
before, for pardon and reconciliation. This time the appeal was not in
vain; he had returned to the good and righteous cause; he had once more
re-entered the _voie sacrée_, and she answered him in her own hand, and
by return of courier, bidding him use all despatch, as ‘the moments now
were numbered.’
“No sooner did the missive reach him, than he set out from Vienna
without a moment’s delay, travelling night and day, until he reached
Presburg. It was just at the grey peep of dawn when he traversed the
streets of that ancient city, but yet he resolved to drive at once,
prompted by one of those singular presentiments to which through life
he has always listened, to the old palace which the princess now
inhabited.
“How different was his reception from that he had experienced at Linz!
Even at this early hour, servants were standing round the gate; and
as soon as his carriage, with the broad rattling wheels and jingling
bells, had turned the corner of the street, the gates were thrown open
wide, and the carriage entered at once, without impediment. It was
evident that he had been expected with impatience, for he was received
in silence, as if there had been no time to waste in idle greeting. The
old servants whom he remembered did not speak out their welcome, but
merely bowed in acknowledgment of his kindly recognition, and hurried
him without announcement and without ceremony to the chamber of their
mistress.
“It was not until he stood upon the threshold of that silent chamber
and viewed the scene within, that the truth flashed upon his mind—then
the reason of the expectation and the silent greeting, of the haste in
which he had been ushered into her presence, became evident at once,
and he tottered forward to the bed, and fell upon his knees by the
side of the priest, whose muttered prayer filled the room with a low
mysterious murmur. Madame de Brionne was dying; her eyes were already
closed, and her fingers were already relaxing their grasp of the rosary
which lay outside the bed. It seemed as if the repose of death had
already stolen over her, when suddenly, as if a supernatural instinct
had warned her of the entrance of M. de Talleyrand, she started
up, and gazed at him fixedly; then said, with a sweet, sad smile of
affection, as she stretched forth her hand towards him, ‘Ah, Monsieur
de Perigord, _you alone_ can tell how dearly I have loved you!’ She
sighed deeply, sank back upon the pillow, and before his lips had
ceased their pressure upon her outstretched hand, it lay powerless and
dead within his own! She had died while the words of tenderness with
which she had greeted him were yet upon her lips, and while that smile
of recognition yet lingered on her placid countenance. And when M. de
Talleyrand rose from that bedside, her form was already straightened
beneath the coverlet; the tapers were already lighted round the bed,
and the sheet was thrown over her face, concealing it from view, so
that he beheld it no more!
“I have always considered this event as one of the most touching
episodes in M. de Talleyrand’s life. I have heard him speak of Madame
de Brionne in terms of the highest veneration, as a woman of the most
exalted virtue, and one of the grandest souls he had ever met with,
well fitted by nature to be that which fortune had made her—the sister
and mother of kings and princes—and there is, perhaps, a little
remorse mingled with the regret with which he laments the loss of her
society during so many years. Her advice had guided and sustained his
youth; it might, perhaps, have aided him in his maturer age; and, while
he was at the height of his power and influence during the empire, he
has often surprised, in his own mind, a slight feeling of uneasiness
respecting the sentiment with which Madame de Brionne would peruse the
journals wherein his name was mentioned in connexion with that of the
emperor. I think that the tie which bound him to Madame de Brionne
must have been the only one by which he suffered his soul to be held
captive. In other cases, he withstood the influence; in this one alone
did he submit to it, perhaps, in fact, scarcely conscious of his
slavery.
“The next link in these voluntary bonds was that woven by beauty
and talent combined. Young as he was, he was already too old to be
captivated by wit _alone_. The _liaison_ to which I now refer has made
much noise in the world, and were I attempting to represent the prince,
not as he really is, but as I should wish to find him, I might gloss
over the one spot of this kind which has darkened his career, or
endeavour to wipe off the reproach which he has incurred; but I will
give you the facts as they really were, leaving you to make your own
comments.
“It would appear that, contrary to the usual theory, the fascination
entered neither by the eye nor by the ear; it was the result of
fanatical admiration of his great powers of mind. This lady was
married, at the age of fifteen, to the Count de Flahaut, who was
fifty-eight. With the steady, uncompromising morality of your English
principles, you will, perhaps, be startled at the coolness with which
I mention this; but surely there is some excuse in this unjustifiable
union, and the unstability of principle at the time, and it is unfair
to separate crime and error from the institutions from which they have
arisen. It was not till after the death of her husband, who perished on
the scaffold in ’92, that she became acquainted with M. de Talleyrand,
having been in active correspondence with him during the whole period
of his exile, and having saved him, by her timely information of the
state of feelings and parties in Paris, from acting with precipitation,
and from yielding to the treacherous invitations of false friends, who
advised his return to certain destruction. He had received, for many
months, regular intimation of all that was passing in the capital. At
first he had paid but small attention to these anonymous epistles, but,
by degrees, as he beheld the realization of all the previsions put
forth by the unknown writer, he took confidence, and resolved to abide
by the counsels expressed in the mysterious letters, and so blindly
did he rely upon the correctness of the information contained therein,
that, being twice upon the point of re-crossing the channel, he twice
deferred the step in obedience to the advice of his anonymous friend,
and each time had cause of rejoicing that he had thus acted.
“Madame Champion, at that time, like himself, an exile in London, was
his only confidante in this affair, and to her alone did he communicate
his embarrassment touching the author of the correspondence. I have
spoken to you before about the singular fatality which has sometimes
attended upon the steps of M. de Talleyrand, and which must be
attributable to his surprising memory and great powers of observation.
In this instance did he once more experience its influence, and by its
aid alone, I have often heard him declare, did he discover the name
and station of his benefactor.
“He had one day been speaking with Madame Champion upon the subject,
and in his perplexity was enumerating the relations whose affection
could be likely thus to render them vigilant and clear-sighted; she
had called over successively every degree of relationship—aunt,
uncle, cousin, brother. But to every new suggestion, M. de Talleyrand
discovered some well-founded objection, until, at last, Madame Champion
cried, laughingly, ‘Well, it is evident, then, you have, as in the good
old fairy tales, some wise and powerful _Marraine_.’ M. de Talleyrand
shook his head. ‘Alas, Madame, neither _Marraine_ nor _Filleul_,’
returned he, quoting from Beaumarchais’s ‘Figaro,’ and the subject
dropped.
“It was soon after this that the unknown friend advised his return to
Paris, and, as he had hitherto found benefit in following the counsels
thus conveyed, he hesitated not in this instance. Upon his arrival in
the capital, he found everything in the state in which he had been
led to expect it, and his greeting was such as to make him rejoice
that he had not lingered in the execution of the step suggested by
his well-wisher. After this, he was indefatigable in his researches.
He kept the adventure no secret, but told it in every circle he
frequented; hoping thereby to obtain some clue to the discovery of his
benefactor. He felt sure that the letters were written by a female, not
from the handwriting, nor from any peculiar refinement of style, but
from the singular mixture of boldness and timidity which was evident
in every line. The deep interest expressed for his safety, and yet the
kind of awkward fear lest this interest should be exaggerated in the
mind of the reader; in short, whether it was that the conviction of
M. de Talleyrand led him to believe that such disinterested sentiment
could emanate from none but a woman, I know not, but it is certain that
never did his suspicion light on an individual of the other sex, while,
from the very moment of his return to Paris, did he begin to look
around among the women of his acquaintance, and to fix suspicion upon
each, until further research displayed the futility of his surmises.
“He had already been for some time at Paris without being able to
obtain a clue whereby to form any probable conjectures upon the
subject, when, one evening, being by chance at a _soirée_ given by
Barras, his attention was attracted to a young lady whom he had at
first observed with that languid indifference with which one is too
apt to survey a stranger, where there is nothing in particular to
arrest the attention. M. de Talleyrand had been standing, half hid by
a curtain, in a recess of one of the windows, talking to Count Réal,
and the lady had left her seat at the further end of the room, to
take one close beside him. He had paid but slight attention to this
circumstance, and after the departure of Réal, went to join the group
of talkers assembled in the doorway.
“He had not been here many moments, before he observed the same pale
lady in deep black move stealthily from the place which she had
occupied, and where she had been listening with glistening eyes and
heaving bosom to the various questions of interest which he had been
debating, and again seat herself close to his side. M. de Talleyrand,
struck with the pertinacity with which she seemed to follow his
movements, was naturally led to examine her with more attention. She
was of small stature, and delicate in feature, with eyes of most
peculiar lustre, and the sable weeds in which she was attired added to
the interest inspired by her youth and pallid countenance. ‘Who is that
lady?’ asked M. de Talleyrand, abruptly, of the person with whom he was
conversing. The lady blushed deep as scarlet. It was evident that she
had heard the question. ‘She is the widow of the Count de Flahaut,’
was the reply; but it conveyed no association to the memory of M. de
Talleyrand, and he shook his head, endeavouring to recall to mind the
name at the old court, when suddenly his informant continued, ‘You
surely must remember her marriage? It is not so very long ago. She was
a Demoiselle _Filleul_, a name of no importance—second-rate provincial
_hobereaux_.’
“The word acted like magic upon the whole nervous system of M. de
Talleyrand. By some unaccountable chain of thought, the laughing
observation of Madame Champion recurred to his mind, and he inquired
more fully concerning the lady. Everything he heard tended to confirm
the idea which had so strangely taken possession of his mind with
regard to her identity with his unknown protector. His first step, of
course, was to get himself presented to her. And how could he, with
his tact and observation, fail to perceive the strong emotion visible
in her manner of acknowledging his attentions, and the faltering,
unsteady voice in which she answered his seemingly careless, though
strictly polite address? He steadfastly avoided, however, in this first
interview, any allusion to his journey to London or to his return—he
was fearful of creating embarrassment—fearful of exciting alarm or
suspicion of his real motive for seeking her acquaintance, and he was
aware of the necessity for prudence and discretion. He despatched a
note the next morning to inquire at what hour he might be permitted to
present himself at the lady’s house. This was done designedly.
“The handwriting of the few lines of cold politeness which he received
in answer, confirmed at once the bold hope he had entertained; and
he hurried to the appointment, with what feelings of tenderness and
gratitude may well be imagined. In all the conversations which I have
held with him upon the subject, he has never been led into betraying
the particulars of this interview—no one can tell how he first broke to
the lady the discovery he had made, nor how she received his warm and
trembling thanks; but from that hour her spirit had found its master,
and bowed to his own, held captive and enslaved.
“The faith and devotion of the fair young countess, were never belied
through the long years of trial and vicissitude which followed, and
instances are recorded of her risking hopes of fame and fortune, nay,
her very life itself, to aid the prince in the struggle against destiny
which he had so bravely undertaken. She twice made the journey to
England alone, without protection, going round by way of Holland, to
serve him; and when, by the sale of her first novel in England, she
had realized a small sum of money, it was shared with him, who, she
declared to the latest hour of her life, had more right to it than
she herself, for he it was who had caused her to exercise the talent
which Heaven had bestowed, and the existence of which she would never
have known had it not been for the taste and cultivation which he had
imparted.
“Their double marriage was a double error, which has never been
satisfactorily accounted for, and which must remain a secret. In the
case of the lady it brought rank and affluence, but neither ease of
mind nor happiness, while in that of the prince, which _followed_ soon
after, the consequences were humiliation and disappointment.”
“Oh!” said I, “you must surely have something to tell me concerning the
marriage of the prince? That is one of the greatest events of his life,
and one which has puzzled his biographers more than his most ambiguous
proceedings.”
“The world has been unjust to Madame de Talleyrand,” replied C. “I
knew her for many years, and she was far from being the fool which it
has pleased the public to consider her. M. de Talleyrand himself, amid
all his good-humoured quotations of her _bêtise_, or absence of mind,
cannot help pausing to commend the great tact and admirable _esprit
de conduite_ which made her, during those years when he was in high
office under Napoleon’s government, an invaluable aid and ally by the
manner in which she practised that most difficult art, so highly prized
by the French, _l’art de tenir son salon_. This, to a man of M. de
Talleyrand’s tastes, might be of much more importance than the _bon
mots_ of Madame de Staël, or the stately dignity of Madame Recamier.
Look at yonder portrait by the side of the window, and you can judge
of the beauty which had power to fascinate a man so _difficile_ and
_blasé_ as M. de Talleyrand.”
C. drew aside the blue silk curtain which shaded the casement, in order
to throw a full light upon the picture of which he spoke, and I was
positively startled at the heavenly beauty of the countenance thus
disclosed. It was indeed lovely, and I felt at once that no further
explanation was necessary to account for the step which had excited so
much astonishment and so much condemnation.
“However, many reasons did exist more worthy both of M. de Talleyrand
himself and of the object of his choice; and in spite of all that
has gone abroad respecting his caprice, I have ever found that those
who had known her longest, loved her most. I have myself heard M. de
Talleyrand recount the story of their first meeting, which he did with
most exquisite relish, smacking strongly of the good old times of
Lauzun and Richelieu, and not a whit the less amusing for all that.
It was one of the most memorable evenings in the whole private life
of Monsieur de Talleyrand. He had been attending the debates of the
Manège, and, harassed and wearied with the vast farrago of nonsense
which he had heard poured forth for so many hours, was returning home
with the intention of going early to bed, when, in the middle of the
street, his arm was seized by one of his old associates, the Chevalier
de Fénélon, who, according to custom, was hurrying to the faro-table,
and who pressed M. de Talleyrand to join him, declaring that he had
spent the day in combinations and calculations to ensure winning, and
that he was convinced that if he could only put them to the proof that
very night, he was _en veine_ to break every faro bank in Paris. It
needed but little persuasion perhaps to induce M. de Talleyrand, in the
frame of mind in which he then was, to yield to the temptation, and he
followed the chevalier with no feeling save that of curiosity, never
intending to play himself that night, but to act merely as spectator of
the wondrous success of his companion. The house chosen by the latter
as theatre of his anticipated exploits was the _tripot_ in the Palais
Royal, known even then as the famous ‘_Cent Treize_.’
“Fénélon, whose reliance on his own resources was proverbial, seated
himself at the long roulette table with perfect ease and confidence,
while M. de Talleyrand, who knew the deplorable state of his friend’s
finances at the time, stood behind him, trembling for his fate,
and watching with anxiety every roll of the balls, every slide of
the shovel. One—two—three passes had been played, however, and the
chevalier, according to his own anticipation, won on, consulting
at each call from the croupier the slip of paper which he held in
his hand, and upon which were scrawled his calculations concerning
the chances of the game. This success did not at first attract any
extraordinary attention. Examples of luck in the outset were but too
common; but when hit after hit was made, and still the chance remained
the same, whispers began to float around the table that all was not
fair and as it should be. The chevalier heeded not the effect that his
extraordinary run of luck had produced, but continued in silence to
sweep the gold into a heap before him, regarding perhaps with an undue
share of that malicious enjoyment in which it was his wont to indulge,
the astonishment and discomfiture of his opponents.
“It was evident that this state of things could not last long; the
murmurs of the players, the manifest terror of the bankers, were
beginning to disturb the game, when presently one of the croupiers
came between the friends, and with pale and trembling lips whispered
in the ear of the winner a few words which made him start. A warm
conversation, still in the same mysterious whisper, was for a few
moments carried on between them; and finally, after various signs of
supplication on the part of the croupier, and of doubt and hesitation
on the part of the chevalier, it was announced to the assembled players
that M. de Fénélon would retire from the contest upon payment of the
sum still left in the bank, which could be subscribed among them, and
thus diminish the loss to each so as to be scarcely felt by any.
“This singular proposition, unheard of in the annals of the
gaming-table, was received with the most profound indignation and
astonishment on the part of the losers, but Fénélon himself undertook
to prove that they could not lose, but must be the gainers, as his
_reine_ would most assuredly break the bank at the next roll of
the balls. After some few uncouth exclamations on the part of the
gentlemen, and a little pouting on the part of the ladies, the matter
was carried. Fénélon was ‘paid off’ by a subscription, and dismissed
with many a muttered curse from the honest and reputable assembly.
“Upon leaving the gaming-house, the chevalier’s joy became uproarious,
and he trod the silent streets, reeling with laughter at the whimsical
trick which Dame Fortune had condescended to play him. He chinked the
gold in his pockets until it rang again, and made his companion dread
lest the sound should be overheard by any of those nocturnal marauders
with whom the streets of Paris at that time abounded. He even threw
a handful of the coin down the grating of a cellar, for the sake of
wondering what the occupants of the miserable hole would think of such
good luck when they should awake the next morning. M. de Talleyrand,
who never could endure any kind of midnight brawling, was right glad
when they had reached the residence of his friend, and wished him good
night with hearty good-will, content to be rid of his uncouth laughter
and joyless gaiety.
“But Fénélon was not at all disposed to acquiesce in his friend’s
desire for rest and quiet. The excess of good fortune had wrought the
same effect as an excess of wine. He was as much excited as though he
had been drinking the whole night; and when it came to the parting
at his own door, he would not hear of M. de Talleyrand’s returning
without recruiting his strength for the remainder of his walk by a
libation in honour of the propitious fates. Had it been daylight, he
would have immediately laid out the whole of his winnings in some
wild and fanciful gala to his friends. M. de Talleyrand needed some
little pressing to enter. He was tired and sleepy; giddy, too, with
the noise and rattle of his companion, and longed to be at home and to
be at rest. However, there was no resistance possible, and before he
could even form an excuse for retiring, he found himself comfortably
seated in the _roué’s_ own private sanctum, whither few of his sex, and
certainly none of his calling, had ever penetrated before. Champagne
was now called for; the rouleaux were displayed in piles upon the
table; every taper in the girandoles was lighted; a roaring fire was
soon kindled on the hearth; the clock on the mantelpiece, which marked
two, was stopped by a jerk from the chevalier’s finger; and the cards
were brought from the drawer of a book-case in the corner of the
chimney.
“M. de Talleyrand was but little prepared for the excitement of cards;
the very sight of them was sickening, after the long hours spent
at the _tripot_, and he at once declined the game, expressing his
intention of withdrawing without further delay, as he had much business
to transact in the morning. But Fénélon laughed, as well he might, for
none ever escaped who had once fallen into his clutches, and he filled
the glasses with champagne, all the while sorting and dealing the cards
for piquet, as if his friend had not uttered a word; then looked at
his game, called out “seven for a point,” and tossed off a bumper,
while he waited for the answer. This _sang-froid_ was irresistible. M.
de Talleyrand, although grumbling at his own fatigue and the lateness
of the hour, took up the cards spread out before him, and was soon
interested in the chances of the game, which seemed at first to be as
much in favour of his adversary, as they had been already at the Rouge
et Noir table.
“‘What are our stakes?’ said Fénélon, presently; ‘it is for you to
propose, as the luck seems to be all mine to-night.’ ‘They must be
small, indeed,’ said M. de Talleyrand, drawing out his purse, which
contained but little, and throwing it carelessly on the table. ‘Done!’
cried the chevalier, turning its contents out upon the green-cloth.
‘Come, courage; double or quits until morning!’ This first trial
of skill was in a few moments decided in his favour, and he swept
the contents of the purse, as he had done the louis-d’ors of the
gaming-house, into his own heap, which seemed destined to grow
monstrous.
“M. de Talleyrand played on, and grew more resolute as his adversary
grew more ironical and insolent. He lost his watch; his chain and
seals; the ring which he had saved amid all his embarrassment and
poverty, during his uncertain wanderings in foreign climes; he
lost the very buckles off his shoes, and the knee-clasps from his
inexpressibles, and at last rose from the table, declaring that he
must now go home, as he had nothing more to lose. ‘Pardon me,’ laughed
the chevalier, ‘you have yet another stake against which I have no
objection to venture this heap of gold, without counting.’ M. de
Talleyrand still denied the possession of any article of value; but
the chevalier pointed to his breast-pin—a long gilt pin surmounted by
one of those scarlet berries with a black spot at the extremity, which
we call _grains rouges d’Amerique_. M. de Talleyrand objected that the
article was not worth a franc; scarcely, indeed, a few sous. It had
been the gift of a negress at Philadelphia, and it was by a singular
mistake that he had placed it in his bosom, instead of the one of great
value which he usually wore. He had changed his dress at twilight,
and, in passing his hand over the toilet-cushion, had drawn forth the
trumpery ornament which he now displayed, instead of the emerald he had
apparently mislaid when he had changed his cravat. The circumstance,
which had been considered a freak on his part, had even attracted the
attention of a neighbour at the club, who had pointed it out to him,
and who had been much amused by the surprise which the discovery had
occasioned.
“M. de Talleyrand vainly urged the utter worthlessness of the trinket.
The chevalier was in high glee, and, insisting upon its following the
rest of the spoils, placed it beside the goodly heap of gold upon
the table, chuckling all the while with that irritating irony which
would long before have dashed into fury any temper less calm than that
of his companion. But M. de Talleyrand laughed with him, and, as he
disengaged the pin from the plaits of his neckcloth, merely related
how that, having saved the black cook at the house where he lodged, at
Philadelphia, from a severe punishment, she had given him this bauble
as a precious remembrance of her gratitude. It had been charmed by the
Obeah man, she had told him, and was considered a talisman against evil
fortune.
“‘It has not answered to-night, at all events,’ exclaimed the
chevalier. ‘The devil’s charm which _you_ carry is stronger than the
Obeah-man’s!’ replied M. de Talleyrand; and they began their game once
more. The cards were this time more favourable; but Fénélon lost the
hard-fought battle with good grace, and whistled merrily as he cut
the cards to his adversary. How shall I tell you what followed? It
seems so strange a tale, that you will hesitate to believe it, and
yet I give you my honour that it is true. The first game was won by
M. de Talleyrand—the first during the whole evening, and it was with
a nervous eagerness that he snatched up his trumpery pin, leaving the
gold which the chevalier had staked to be doubled in the next hand,
for again was Talleyrand the winner. The tide of fortune had turned.
He went on winning, without intermission, until near daylight, when
the whole of the gold which had been won at the gaming-house was
transferred from the pocket of the chevalier to that of his friend!
“M. de Talleyrand had several times requested leave to depart, but
Fénélon had obstinately refused to allow him to withdraw, so long as
there remained a single louis on the board or a single trinket in his
possession. It was five o’clock when the adversaries at length rose, M.
de Talleyrand, embarrassed with his success, the chevalier mortified
and crest-fallen, when the latter, with a sudden inspiration, thumping
his fist upon the table, exclaimed, ‘One more trial, and I have done!
I _must_ have that confounded breast-pin! By all the powers, the
Obeah-man was right; it is that which brings the luck!’
“‘But what have you to stake against a trinket of so much value?’
returned M. de Talleyrand, endeavouring to laugh away the impression
which, in spite of himself, the occurrences of the evening had made
upon his mind. ‘Look round the room,’ was the answer, ‘choose any
article you like; I feel sure that this time I shall win it; for it was
when you were at your wit’s end that fortune changed!’
“M. de Talleyrand looked round the room, but it was only for form’s
sake. He had already in his own mind chosen his booty. It was a small
silver urn, of antique form and most delicate workmanship. Its
weight and value did not seem very great, neither was it chiselled or
adorned in any manner, but its form was so graceful and elegant, its
proportions so exquisite, that it could not fail to attract the eye of
a connoisseur, and he named it with less compunction from a knowledge
of the smallness of its intrinsic value. The moment he mentioned it,
however, all the desperate gaiety of the chevalier seemed to have
received a sudden check. He started, and set down the glass he was
about to raise to his lips, and, looking full and steadily into the
face of his companion, while, however, his lips quivered slightly, and
his voice was much subdued, he answered, ‘You have fixed upon the only
thing from which I cannot—I dare not part. I could not risk the loss of
that little vase were all the riches in the universe staked against it.’
“M. de Talleyrand was much astonished to find that there was anything
in the world to which Fénélon attached importance, and rallied him upon
the discovery; but, surprising to say, this jest was not met by the
usual spirited rejoinder. His companion answered not, but calling for
more champagne, swallowed a tremendous bumper at a single draught.
“M. de Talleyrand, of course, could offer no objection to this
reasoning, and with a heavy purse and lightened heart he bade his
friend good night, and left the room. Scarcely, however, had he reached
the outer door of the apartment, when the valet-de-chambre, who had
been fast asleep in the ante-chamber, came running after him, with
a request from his master that he would return. The chevalier was
standing over the fire, leaning against the chimney, and clasping
the urn, which he had taken from the book-case where it had reposed,
close to his heart. In an instant, M. de Talleyrand could perceive
that the bottle which he had left upon the table was now emptied;
and, as Fénélon turned towards him, he was startled at beholding his
discomposed and agitated countenance. ‘I have changed my mind,’ said
he; ‘this may be to me what the pin is to you. I have resolved to try
its magic influence against that which has protected you. Speak not a
word—ask me no question—I shall deem the slightest remark as a summons
to meet you in the _Bois de Boulogne_, with witnesses and loaded
weapons!’
“M. de Talleyrand did as he was requested; he placed his _enjeu_ before
him; but he observed that Fénélon grasped the urn with trembling
fingers, until compelled to lose his hold in order to survey his game.
A frightful oath—frightful from the compressed energy with which it was
uttered, flew from his white lips as he looked at his cards; and, with
the instinct of an experienced gamester, beheld his fate. By a really
extraordinary chance, it so happened that this time the cards held by
M. de Talleyrand were what he calls _fabuleuses_—_pique_, _repique_
and _capot_ were carried in the one hand, and the chevalier sat amazed
and stupified, not having been called upon to count a single point. He
rose from the table in desperation, and seized the urn, which M. de
Talleyrand remarked he had removed from the table with almost religious
care when the game began, and handed it to his friend, but at arm’s
length and with averted gaze. The prince had not courage to pursue the
torture, and he said, as he waved it back, ‘Do not press me to accept
the trinket, M. de Fénélon. Take it, I beseech you, as a gift from me;
’twill be but an earnest of the rest of all I have won of you, for you
are sure to have it back again. You know well that I always succeed
in keeping my winnings just long enough to make the loss of them more
severely felt.’
“‘No!’ returned the chevalier, fiercely; ‘what is lost is lost. It is
your right to keep the bauble, and I ask favour of no man. Away with
it, then! To demur in taking up your lawful gains is to give offence to
the loser.’
“‘Well, as you like,’ returned the prince; ‘but remember, I hold the
urn at your disposal should you alter your determination.’
“He took the vase, and placed it beneath his coat. The wistful gaze
of the chevalier smote him to the very heart; but, after the fierce
manner in which his attention had been received, he sought no second
rebuke, and was about to depart; when suddenly, to his great surprise
and alarm, the chevalier rushed forward and tore it from his grasp,
exclaiming, in a tone of the most bitter rage, ‘By the Lord, I am a
fool. I played for nought but the urn. ’Twas the urn alone I lost. You
cannot deny that’—and he cast a furious glance towards his astonished
guest; ‘you said not a word of the _contents_. They are mine by every
law; you _dare_ not say ’tis otherwise. I defy you to tell me that I
spoke of its _contents_.’
“M. de Talleyrand answered not; he was appalled at sight of this
sudden outburst of fury, and Fénélon having, with trembling fingers,
succeeded in tearing open the lid which covered the little vase, and
dashed it with a violent effort against the side of the chimney,
a slender column of dark-coloured ashes, almost impalpable, fell
through the small aperture into the fire, where it blazed with a
small sparkling blue flame for a single moment, then smouldered into
darkness, leaving behind a strong aromatic odour, which seemed to hang
heavily on the atmosphere of the room, causing a sensation of sickness
and a dimness of the sight. Even this died away before the chevalier
had ceased gazing at the spot where the substance had fallen; and M. de
Talleyrand, embarrassed and fearful of giving further offence in the
strange mood in which his companion was, once more slowly took up the
urn and sought the door. He could not avoid turning back to catch one
last glance of the Chevalier de Fénélon. He was leaning with his elbows
on the mantelpiece and his forehead buried in his hands. The bright
light from the tapers in the girandoles fell full upon his countenance
and _struck upon the tears_ which were rolling down his cheeks, causing
them to sparkle and to glisten as they fell.
“The prince closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs, full
of a solemn wonder at what he had beheld. He grasped the urn with a
nervous energy beneath his mantle, and with a trembling dread did he
pause beneath the first lamp which hung suspended above the causeway,
to examine it more closely, inspired by a far different interest from
that with which he had hitherto beheld it. He turned it again and again
to the light, but could discern no inscription whereby to gain a clue
to guess at its former destination; the same sickening odour of scented
oils and aromatic spices greeted him from the unclosed aperture, and
it was still heated almost to burning by the careless manner in which
the chevalier had held it to the fire, when shaking out its mysterious
contents.
“He was about to abandon the search, when, by accident having turned it
to replace it in his bosom, a few letters, traced beneath the pedestal,
met his eye; he lifted it to the light of the lantern, and read them
more distinctly. A few particles of the same dark dust which Fénélon
had shaken forth, dropped from the vase upon his hand, and he blew them
off with hasty impatience, nor heeded where they fell. The letters
traced upon the silver were in relief. To a stranger they would have
indicated nothing, but to M. de Talleyrand they were pregnant with a
deep and frightful meaning.
“_C. H.—March 17th._
“MERCY AND FORGIVENESS!—MISERERE!”
“In an instant, he remembered the story which had been afloat some
time before, and which he had treated as an old wife’s tale. The
beautiful young Countess H——; her husband’s jealousy—his violent death
by the hand of the chevalier—the wife’s despair and retirement to the
convent at Louvaine—her subsequent death and legacy to Fénélon, which
had caused such condemnation and astonishment. ‘Let my body be opened
after death,’ said she, in her will, ‘and let the heart which has beat
but for him be reduced to ashes, and let it be thus conveyed to him,
so that, when he dies, it may repose within his coffin, for it is his
own.’ She it was who had designed the vase—she who had chosen the
inscription.
“The memory of this event had passed away, and the salons of Paris
had been occupied with other subjects of more stirring import; but
the whole story burst at once, with all its attendant circumstances
of horror, upon the stricken memory of the prince. The dark stream
of ashes and the aromatic odour—the coincidence of the initials and
the date—and then the tears which had been wrung even from those eyes
burning and bloodshot with riot and debauchery—it was evident that the
story which had been told, and which he had doubted when every one else
believed, was too true. He replaced the vase within the folds of his
mantle with a feeling of disgust and hatred towards the cold-blooded
_roué_ whose rage for gaming and excitement had led him to commit this
sacrilegious deed. He inwardly resolved that no temptation should
induce him ever again to associate with the reckless libertine—a
promise, however, which he was not very long called upon to keep; for,
soon after this adventure, the chevalier was found one morning dead
in his bed, having swallowed a strong dose of corrosive acid: fit
termination to his wild, unprincipled career.”
“And what became of the silver urn?” said I.
“M. de Talleyrand, with true delicacy of feeling, sent it the very next
day to the Marquise de Cossé, an old convent friend of the unfortunate
victim, and she, I believe, took the proper means of restoring it to
the family.”
“And the mysterious pin? Have you ever seen it?”
“I have,” replied C., laughing aloud; “at least, when I asked the
prince concerning its fate, I was shewn a long brassy-looking object,
from which all gilding had long ago vanished, and was told that the
magical berry had been lost in his various peregrinations. ‘Perhaps,’
observed he, ‘it was stolen by some one who knew its value.’ But
as the remark was accompanied by the peculiar dropping of the lip
and deadening of the eye with which he usually ventures upon a
_mystification_, I knew well what to think, and questioned him no more.”
My friend paused after he had concluded this strange story, and,
beginning to fear lest he had been led away from the original purport
of the tale, I reminded him that he had not yet explained to me the
particulars of that first interview with Madame Grandt, which had had
such a powerful effect on the destinies of the after-life of the prince.
“It was indeed a fitful night,” said C.; “one of those wherein the
superstitious might easily believe that the devil is allowed to walk
abroad and mingle his curse with the vain projects of aspiring man. It
had begun for M. de Talleyrand with a scene of purgatory—it ended with
a vision of heaven.
“He hastened home full of the stormy emotions of the interview with
Fénélon, and the strange and almost terrific discovery he had made
beneath the lantern in the Rue de Montpensier. He was harassed and
fatigued; and, eager to gain the quiet and solitude of his own chamber,
was hurrying to repose, when, judge of his annoyance—his servant
informed him that a lady was waiting to receive him in his study,
whose business was of so much importance, that having called late in
the evening with the hope of finding him at home, she had preferred
awaiting his return, even although it should not take place until dawn,
so great was her fear of losing the interview she had come so far to
obtain.
“It was thus with more vexation than curiosity that M. de Talleyrand
entered, therefore, the study—where the stranger, according to the
account of the servant, had already been awaiting him for _five_
long mortal hours!—without any of the _prestige_ which had usually
accompanied his introduction to a stranger of the softer sex, perhaps
even _his_ calm temper a little ruffled at the unseasonable hour and
the unexpected _corvée_.
“The shaded lamp upon the chimney-piece threw but a dim light around
the room, and some few moments elapsed before he could even perceive
the lady, who was seated in the large arm-chair by the fire, her
figure enveloped in the mantle worn at the time, wide but not long,
reaching only to the knees, and displaying the gauze and gold tissue
of the ball-dress worn beneath. It was evident that the fair stranger,
exhausted with fatigue and watching, had fallen into a sleep so sound,
that not even the entrance of M. de Talleyrand, nor his approach,
nor his convenient fit of coughing, had power to rouse her. A letter
addressed to himself lay upon the table, and he opened it, hoping that
the noise which he made in moving to and fro would awaken her. It was
a letter from Montrond, introducing to his acquaintance the bearer,
Madame Grandt, who wished to confer with him upon urgent business, and
to seek his advice in an affair concerning which none but himself could
give information.
“The name of Madame Grandt immediately awakened all the dormant
curiosity of M. de Talleyrand, and he now turned towards the fair
stranger with a feeling of interest far different from that which he
had experienced on his entrance. He had heard much of her extraordinary
beauty, and had long desired the opportunity of judging whether the
reputation were well earned. The whole scene was unique of its kind,
and never before had M. de Talleyrand felt so much embarrassment as
when the servant, after having in vain endeavoured by every innocent
artifice to awaken the lady, left the room with an ill-suppressed
titter at the novelty of the situation in which his master was placed.
The noise of the door, however, which the cunning varlet took care to
close with as loud a report as possible, succeeded at last in awaking
the fair stranger, who started to her feet, surprised and terrified to
find herself thus discovered in slumber by a stranger, whom, however,
she instantly knew to be M. de Talleyrand, from the description which
she had already received of his appearance. The impression he produced
upon her mind, startled and alarmed as she was at the moment, was one
of awe and veneration, while the effect which she created in his was
that of admiration so intense that he has called it instantaneous
devotion.
“Madame Grandt was at that time in the full zenith of her beauty, and
of the kind of loveliness most rare and most admired in France. I have
heard that she was of English origin. This is not true. Her maiden name
was Dayot, and she was born at l’Orient; but her connexion with India,
where a great part of her family resided, and the peculiar character of
her beauty, would seem to have been the groundwork of the supposition.
She was tall, and, at that time, slight in person, with that singular
ease and languor in her carriage which have been considered the
peculiar attributes of the creole ladies. Her features were of that
soft and delicate mould but seldom seen in Europe; her eyes, large
and languishing, were of the deepest black, while her hair played in
curls of brightest gold upon a forehead of dazzling whiteness, pure
and calm as that of an infant. Throughout her whole person was spread
a singularly childlike grace, which at once interested the beholder
infinitely more than the sublime beauty which distinguished her great
rivals for the admiration of the worshippers of fashion at that day,
Madame Tallien and Madame Beauharnais.
“M. de Talleyrand, who, with remarkable independence of spirit, talks
of the princess without the slightest prejudice, observed to me, while
describing this scene, that when she first threw aside her hood and
disclosed to view that lovely countenance, all blushing with shame and
with surprise, the effect was such that even he, man of the world,
_blasé_ and _désillusioné_ as he already was, felt himself completely
deprived, for the moment, of his usual self-possession, and stood
before her almost as abashed as she herself. It was some time, indeed,
before he recovered sufficient self-command to give utterance to
the phrases of politeness usual on such occasions, and to offer his
services in whatever manner would facilitate the business concerning
which she had sought him at this hour.
“If he had reason to be astonished, first of all, at the singular time
of night she had chosen for the execution of her errand, then more
astonished still at sight of her wondrous beauty, most of all did he
own himself astonished when he came to listen to her description of
the purport of her unseasonable visit. With the _naïf_ credulity which
suited so well with the childlike beauty I have already remarked,
she proceeded to relate to him, with much trembling and with tears,
all the alarm she had experienced upon hearing the report which had
been afloat at the assembly at Madame Hamelin’s, (where she had been
spending the evening,) concerning Buonaparte’s intended invasion of
England, and his promise of delivering up the Bank to pillage as a
reward to his successful soldiery. So great, indeed, had been her
terror at this news, that she had involuntarily let slip a secret
which she had hitherto most religiously kept: ‘that, in fact, she had
long ago lodged the greater part of her fortune, and the whole of her
plate and jewels, in this very Bank of England, which Buonaparte had so
generously promised to abandon to the pillage of his victorious troops
as the reward of their valour.’ This announcement had been received at
the assembly with shouts of laughter; and again did she burst forth in
bitter weeping when complaining of the cruelty displayed towards her by
such untimely levity.
“So great was the power of her tears, that M. de Talleyrand began to
press more than ever to be informed in what manner he could be of
service in this matter. She then intimated to him that at sight of her
grief two or three of her tried and valued friends, foremost of whom
stood M. de Montrond, had recommended to her to hurry immediately to M.
de Talleyrand, for that he alone had power to save her property; that,
from his situation, he could even make himself responsible for its
safe delivery into her hands; and for this purpose M. de Montrond had
immediately penned the letter which she had brought, begging her to fly
with it immediately to his house, and not on any account to leave it
until she had obtained the guarantee.
“Although, of course, highly diverted at the mystification, and
somewhat embarrassed at the situation in which he found himself, yet
M. de Talleyrand was too gallant to disclose to the fair lady that she
had been the dupe of her own fears and of Montrond’s insatiable love
of practical fun; and in order to quiet her nerves, he instantly drew
up in due form a security, signed and sealed, for the safe delivery of
her plate and jewels into the hands of any person she might choose to
appoint to receive them, as soon as ever Buonaparte’s triumphal army
had entered the City of London. The fair applicant, highly delighted at
the success of her petition, left the house, reading again and again
with confidence the writing he had given her, and perfectly insensible
to all his gallantry and admiration amid the joy inspired by his kind
proceeding.
“Such is the history of the first interview of M. de Talleyrand with
Madame Grandt. I know it to be true, for I had it from the lips of the
prince himself, who enters with the keenest relish into the ridicule
of the whole scene, sparing himself as little as the princess. The
mystification was completely successful. Madame Grandt was fooled to
the top of her bent by the perpetrators, but the affair had a far
different sequel from that which had been anticipated, for M. de
Talleyrand became most passionately attached to the fair solicitor, and
to the surprise of all Paris, he who had resisted the refined beauty
of Madame Tallien, the elegance of Madame Recamier, and the wit and
fascination of Madame de Staël, fell an easy victim to the more plain
and unsophisticated graces of Madame Grandt. It is certain that not one
of the ladies who had laid siege to his heart had managed to obtain so
strong a hold upon his affections or to keep them so long; and I can
only account for this by the _naïveté_ which gave so strong a tinge of
originality to all she said or did, so unlike the slavery to forms and
etiquette which must ever influence professed ‘women of the world,’
such as those by whom he was surrounded.
“So much has been said about her ignorance and stupidity, that
they have passed into a proverb, while, in reality, she was neither
ignorant nor stupid; but there was certainly an _inexperience_ in the
social traditions of the world into which she was ushered through the
influence of M. de Talleyrand, which gave rise to much amusement among
the wits who frequented her society. It would be difficult to account
for the strength of the attachment with which, from the very first, she
inspired the prince. It certainly was the longest and the strongest
that he ever experienced. Various have been the conjectures respecting
the causes of his marriage, but the story which was told me by one
who was a confidant of the prince at the time, is, I think, the best
calculated to unravel the mystery which still hangs over it.
“Madame Grandt was, as I have told you, unrivalled in the tact and
_convenance_ with which she received company, dispensing politeness
to each and all alike, contenting every one, and displaying so much
cleverness in her management of the fiery spirits who frequented her
_salon_, that it was impossible for those who knew her then to deem
her either ignorant or foolish. It was this peculiar talent which had
induced M. de Talleyrand, who was quick both to perceive any peculiar
excellence and also to turn it to account, to hold his receptions at
her house instead of at his _ministère_. He had already done so for
some time without having been subjected to remarks; for the system
was, alas! too common at the period to excite the slightest degree
either of condemnation or surprise. Fouché, ever on the watch to
injure Talleyrand, had taken care to apprise the First Consul of this
arrangement. The information, which had excited no interest at the
moment, was not wholly lost, however; and a short time afterwards,
having been foiled in some of his projects by the policy of England,
he sent for Talleyrand, and, puzzled to find a subject which he could
use as a pretext for venting his spleen upon his minister, remembered
the tale borne by the enemy Fouché. ‘It is no wonder that we are
abused and vilified by England,’ said he, showing a paper in which
appeared a scurrilous article upon the First Consul—‘when we expose
ourselves to such attacks as these, and even our public ministers
give public example of disorder and ill-conduct.’ The minister looked
his inquiry concerning the meaning of this outburst. ‘Yes,’ continued
Buonaparte, waxing warm, as was his wont, with his own words, like an
ill-disciplined schoolboy—‘yes, it has reached me that you hold your
receptions at Madame Grandt’s, and thus the envoys and ambassadors from
foreign courts are compelled to wait upon your mistress. This must not
continue.’ ‘Neither shall it,’ returned the prince, colouring slightly;
‘they shall henceforth be spared; they shall wait no longer on Madame
Grandt, but on Madame de Talleyrand; no longer on my mistress, but my
wife.’
“The marriage took place before the following week’s reception, and
it is said that Buonaparte was so vexed and irritated at his own
littleness, that he even condescended to _lie_ in order to cover it.
‘What can have caused Talleyrand’s abrupt and extraordinary marriage?’
said Barras, one day, soon after the event. ‘My _promise_ to ask from
the Pope “absolution” and the cardinal’s hat as a reward for his
services,’ returned the First Consul, quickly, and immediately changed
the conversation.
“Whatever may have been the conduct of Madame Grandt, however
reprehensible her facility of morals before her marriage, it cannot be
denied that, from the very hour in which this event took place, it
became irreproachable. M. de Talleyrand himself loves to render her
every justice on that score. She was too proud of the name she bore
ever to disgrace it by any action which she would have deemed unworthy.
Like _parvenus_ in general, she grew rather intoxicated when arrived at
the summit of honour, for, as Princesse de Benevent, her _morgue_ and
insolence at the court of Napoleon became proverbial, and many amusing
anecdotes are told of her absurd pretensions to royal privileges, her
pages and her maids of honour, her chamberlain and mistress of the
robes.
“I myself once witnessed a curious instance of that total forgetfulness
of the ‘_jadis_,’ which seems to be the peculiar failing of persons
who have risen from obscurity to rank and fortune. I was one day
descending the _perron_ of the hotel in the Rue St. Florentine, when a
hackney coach entered the court-yard and drove up to the vestibule. I
was greatly surprised to behold alighting from it, fine as court robes
and towering plumes could make her, the Princesse de Benevent herself.
I of course hastened down the steps to offer her my arm on alighting.
‘My carriage struck against the lamp-post at the entrance of the
Tuileries,’ said she, in answer to my inquiring look, ‘and the wheel
came off. I was forced to return home in this absurd looking vehicle.’
Then turning to the wondering lacqueys, she added, in a tone of disgust
and scorn which no language can describe, as she pointed to the
coachman, ‘_Qu’on paie ce malheureux!_’ The mixture of the sublime and
ridiculous in the tone and gesture by which the words were accompanied,
was absolutely irresistible.
“To a mild and conciliating nature like that of the prince, and above
all with his keen sense of the ludicrous, such a disposition must have
been peculiarly irritating, added to which, Madame’s jealousy of every
member of his family to whom he showed affection grew too irksome to
be endured, and for their mutual comfort it became advisable to have
separate establishments. But even amid the bitterness and soreness
of feeling to which such an arrangement cannot fail to give rise in
every family where it unhappily takes place, did the prince, with true
generosity and liberality of sentiment, endeavour to render justice
to her undeviating devotion to his interests, by making a settlement
even too magnificent in proportion to his income, more, in fact, than
it could comfortably bear. I frequently saw her after her separation
from the prince. So far from having retained either rancour or ill-will
against him, there was something touching in the eager interest with
which she listened to the slightest details concerning him. She spared
not questioning, and seemed never weary of listening to my report of
his health and well-being. Everything in her apartment bore witness to
her constant remembrance of the days of her happiness and grandeur;
the rug before the fire, the embroidered cushion upon which her feet
were rested, the lawn handkerchief in her hand, the clock upon the
mantelpiece, all bore the impress of the arms of the Talleyrands, and
‘_Ré que Diou_’ shone forth conspicuously on each; while even the
little cage wherein reposed a couple of snow-white dormice displayed in
its mimic dome and tower a complete model of the château of Valençay.
“She told me, with a frankness I little expected, that she should
never cease to regret the life she led here; she could not even speak
of the place without tears, and questioned me, with great minuteness,
concerning every individual throughout the province; her memory never
failing her in the slightest particular with regard to the genealogy
of the different families whose estates lie in the neighbourhood of
the château. Her heart seemed to yearn towards the prince, and her
expressions of admiration concerning his great talents and wonderful
powers of mind were affecting in their truthful simplicity. In spite of
the want of elevation of soul, which neither nature nor education had
imparted, I still think that the prince entertained a real regard for
her, and of many a courteous message from him have I myself been the
bearer, whenever it became known at the hôtel Talleyrand that she was
labouring under the slightest indisposition. Towards the latter years
of her life, however, her pre-occupation concerning all that passed in
his household became one of the greatest sources of petty annoyance
to which the prince was subjected. For some time before her death, it
amounted, indeed, to positive mania. She insisted upon regulating her
establishment entirely upon the model of that of the Rue St. Florentin,
ruling the minutest details of her domestic economy in imitation of
that observed in the prince’s household. She even subjected her own
diet and hours of taking her repasts to the same system of imitation,
and upon one occasion nearly fell a victim to her over-strict
observance of the prince’s rule of never taking more than one meal in
the day.
“As to the innumerable _naïvetés_ and _coqs-à-l’âne_ which have gone
forth to the world as hers, you must not believe one half of them. I
think that many of them were invented under the erroneous impression
that the surest way of annoying M. de Talleyrand would be to ridicule
his wife. It is certain that many of the blunders which are laid to her
charge bear the unmistakeable stamp of the firm of Montrond and Co. I
once attacked the prince upon the subject, and was much amused at the
_bonhomie_ with which he laughed at the bare remembrance of all the
_bêtises_ which so many wits had employed themselves in inventing for
the poor princess. I asked him if the story, which has gone the round
of every newspaper in Europe, about Baron Denon and Robinson Crusoe,
were really true. ‘It did not actually happen,’ replied he, smiling;
‘the circumstance did not really occur as it has been represented, _for
I was there to prevent it_. However, it was _guessed at_, and that was
enough; the blunder was ascribed to her without compunction.’
“‘I certainly remember a _naïveté_ which she once uttered in the
midst of a circle of savans and literati at Neuilly, which would
be considered quite as good and become just as popular were it as
generally known. Lemercier had volunteered after dinner to read us one
of his unplayed and unplayable pieces. The company had gathered round
him in a circle; his _cahier_ lay already unfolded on his knees, and,
clearing his voice, he began in a high, shrill tone, which made us all
start from our incipient slumber, ‘_La Scène est à Lyons_.’ ‘There now,
M. de Talleyrand,’ exclaimed the princess, jumping from her chair, and
advancing towards me with a gesture of triumph, ‘now I knew that you
were wrong; you would have it that it was the _Saône_!’ To describe the
embarrassment and consternation of the company would be impossible. I
myself was perplexed for an instant, but soon remembered the difference
of opinion to which she had alluded. As our carriage was crossing
the bridge at Lyons, a little time before, she had asked me the name
of the river which flowed beneath. I had told her it was ‘Saône;’ to
which she had replied, with a truly philosophical reflection—‘Ah, how
strange this difference of pronunciation; we call it the _Seine_
in Paris!’ I had been much amused at the time, but had not thought
it worth while to correct the self-confident error, and thus had
arisen this extraordinary confusion in the troubled brain of the poor
princess. Of course we all laughed heartily at her unexpected sally;
but we were grateful, nevertheless, for it saved us the reading of the
dreaded drama, as no one that evening could be expected to _retrouver
son sérieux_ sufficiently to listen with becoming attention to all the
terrible events which Lemercier had to unfold.’
“You see the prince had succeeded in accepting his misfortune _en
homme d’esprit_, and the keenest shafts of ridicule must have fallen
pointless against one who joined with such hearty good-will in the
mirth which was thus raised, without at all agreeing with those who
deemed that it was excited at his own expense.”