CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST MOMENTS OF PRINCE TALLEYRAND.

It was scarcely six o’clock, on the morning of the 17th of May (1838),

when I bent my steps towards the old hotel in the Rue St. Florentin,

with a mind full of sad misgivings; for when, at a late hour on the

evening previous, I had quitted it, I had been but slightly encouraged

to hope that another day could possibly be granted to its proud and

gifted owner. The dull grey dawn was just struggling to rise above the

tall chestnuts of the Tuileries. All was still silent, and as I pulled

the heavy bell, its echo reverberated through the vast court-yard

with a sound almost unearthly. I did not pause at the porter’s lodge

to inquire news of the night, for the first object which met my eye

was the physician’s carriage, and I rushed at once to the foot of

the grand staircase, which I had so often ascended with feelings so

far different from those I now experienced. The two stone figures of

Silence, which stood on each side of the gigantic portal, humid and

dripping with the morning fog, struck a chill to my very soul. Those

huge lions, which had so often been compared to the insatiate lions of

Venice, now reminded me of those mute and motionless watchers carved by

the marble gates of an ancient sepulchre. It seemed as if every object

were already enveloped in that atmosphere of death, and that the old

mansion, at all times sad and dreary, was already pervaded with the

odour of the tomb.

What gave a colouring to this idea was the total silence which reigned

around, where in general, even at this early hour, all was hurry and

business. The antechamber was deserted, for the anxious domestics had

crowded one and all to the apartment nearest to that occupied by their

beloved master, in order to obtain the earliest information respecting

the progress of his malady. There perhaps never existed a person who,

with so little apparent effort, possessed in so great a degree the

power of conciliating the affections of his dependents as the Prince

de Talleyrand. Of those who were with him at that moment, all had,

with few exceptions, grown grey in his service; while of those who had

started in their career with him in his youth, none remained: he had

lived to see them all go down before him into the grave. The prince had

always been accustomed to treat his chief domestics as persons worthy

of confidence, and many a subject of the highest importance, which

had been nursed with the greatest secrecy through the bureaux of the

Foreign-office, has been discussed at full length, and with all liberty

of speech, before his valet-de-chambre. It was, indeed, his custom for

many years before his death to select the hour allotted to his toilet

for the transaction of the most important affairs, and the discussion

of the most weighty politics, and never, upon any occasion, was he

known to dismiss his valet from the chamber. Perhaps some apology may

be found for this apparent carelessness in the fact of his trust having

never been betrayed.

The most remarkable of the whole tribe was decidedly the venerable

Courtiade, one to whom, by reason of his long services and devoted

attachment, the prince allowed a greater latitude than to any other,

and whose homely remarks and shrewd observations upon passing events,

afforded him the greatest amusement. This man had entered the prince’s

service long before the breaking out of the first revolution, and died

“still in those voluntary bonds,” during the embassy to London. It

was said that the grief which he experienced in consequence of being

left in Paris, owing to his advanced age and growing infirmities,

contributed, in a great measure, to hasten his death.

His attachment was rather that of a member of the canine species than

of a human being. During the early years of his service he had partaken

of all the vicissitudes of the ever-changing fortunes of his master.

The prince would take a peculiar delight in recounting to strangers the

story of his flight to America, when, in obedience to a secret friendly

warning, he resolved to take his immediate departure. Courtiade was

with him at the moment that he received the letter which was the cause

of this decision, and the prince immediately confided to him the step

he was about to take, at the same time advising him, as he had a

wife and family to whom he would doubtless wish to bid adieu before

venturing on so long and perilous a journey, more especially since the

period of his return must be distant and uncertain, that he should let

him depart at once, and follow in the next packet which should sail.

“Non, non,” replied Courtiade, in the greatest agitation; “you shall

not leave the country alone and unattended—I will go with you; but only

leave me till to-morrow night!” “That cannot be, Courtiade,” returned

the prince; “the delay will endanger our position, without being

sufficiently long to be of service to yourself and your wife.” “Bah!

c’est bien de ma femme dont il s’agit!” exclaimed the valet, with the

tears rushing to his eyes; “it is that accursed washerwoman, who has

got all your fine shirts and your muslin cravats, and how, in heaven’s

name, will you be able to make an appearance, and in a foreign country

too, without them?”

I shall never forget my first interview with the prince, nor the

singular impression which this very Courtiade then produced upon me.

I was admitted, as was usual with all persons who came upon affairs

demanding attention and privacy, at the hour of the prince’s toilet. It

was a little while after the revolution of July, and just before his

embassy to London. I found the renowned diplomatist seated tranquilly

at his bureau, which mostly served him both for writing and dressing

table. It was, I believe, upon the very day that the prince was to take

his farewell audience of Louis Philippe, ere he set out for England,

and he was to appear upon this occasion in the usual court costume.

One valet was busily occupied, with a most serious countenance, in

powdering, with might and main, the thick masses of his long grey hair.

Another was kneeling low at his feet, endeavouring, although with

difficulty, from his constrained position beneath the table, to buckle

the latchets of his shoes. His secretary was seated at the bureau

beside him, occupied in opening, one after the other, a huge collection

of letters with astonishing rapidity, scanning the contents of each,

quietly throwing some into the waste-paper basket, and placing the

rest in a pile beneath for the inspection of the prince. I could not

but admire the _sang froid_ with which, while listening to my errand,

to him personally of the highest importance, he suffered himself to be

invested with the embroidered paraphernalia of his official uniform.

When the attire was completed, the door of the chamber opened, and in

stalked, with tottering steps, the aged, weather-beaten Courtiade,

laden with divers small boxes, of various forms and sizes. These were

filled with the ribands and insignia of the multifarious orders with

which the prince was decorated. It was curious to witness the total

indifference with which he suffered himself to be ornamented, as

contrasted with the eager solemnity of Courtiade, to whom the desire to

fill this office with becoming dignity (for it was the only duty which

in his latest years devolved upon him) had become the chief aim and

object of existence.

I have been led into this involuntary digression by the remembrance of

my own sensations as I traversed the now silent and deserted apartment,

and was carried back in memory to that first interview, inwardly

comparing the anticipations of that moment with those by which my soul

was on this occasion so depressed and saddened.

When I entered the chamber where reposed the veteran statesman, he

had fallen into a profound slumber, from which some amendment was

augured by the physicians, although it might partly be ascribed to the

fatigue induced by the over-excitement he had undergone a few hours

previously in the performance of the last act of the chequered drama

of his existence—his retractation; an act which, after having been

visited with praise and blame, with scorn or admiration, and each

in an exaggerated degree, must for ever remain a mystery. It must

have cost him much—those alone who were about him at the moment can

tell how much—for he well knew that the eyes of all parties would be

turned upon him, and that his motives would be discussed under various

considerations, according as the opinions or the interests of each

were concerned: for there were many from whom praise was to him more

bitter than blame, or even ridicule, from others; and he knew well

that none would view this step in its proper light, as a sacrifice

small in itself—important only because it was the last, the sacrifice

of every feeling, of every consideration, to the power to which he had

taught every sentiment to bend for so many years, until it was said

that all had been crushed by the mighty giant,—that love, revenge, even

ambition, that all-absorbing passion of the master mind, had been led

captive or perished in the struggle with his reason!

A report has gone abroad of his having been tormented and persecuted,

even on his death-bed, to execute this deed. This is, however, far

from the truth: it had for some time occupied his thoughts, and among

his papers have been found many proofs; amongst others, fragments of a

correspondence with the Pope upon the subject, which must necessarily

tend to confirm the assertion. But the fact is, he was influenced in

this measure, as in many other instances wherein he has drawn down the

blame of the sticklers for consistency, by the desire to spare pain

and trouble to his family: he knew that his relatives would suffer

much inconvenience by his resistance on his death-bed to the execution

of certain religious formalities, to which, in his own mind, he

attached not the slightest importance; and whatever may be stated by

his enemies with regard to the cold and calculating policy which had

guided all his actions, it cannot be denied that he had ever held in

view the elevation and aggrandizement of his family. In this aim he had

never been deterred, neither by dulness, nor incapacity, nor even by

ingratitude; and, as we have seen, he moreover made it his care beyond

the grave: his powerful and passionless soul rejected all the petty

sentiments which actuate men of ordinary character: he was governed by

his reason alone, and listened to nought beside.

The slumber, or rather lethargy, into which the Prince had fallen, had

continued for about an hour after my arrival, and it was curious to

observe, as time drew on, the uneasiness which was manifested, even,

alas! by those nearest and dearest, lest this repose, however salutary,

should endure beyond the hour fixed by the king for his visit. It

was with some difficulty that he was aroused from this oblivion, and

made to comprehend the importance of the event which was about to

occur. He was scarcely lifted from his reclining position and seated

on the edge of the bed, when, punctual as the hand upon the dial, his

majesty, followed by Madame Adelaide, entered the apartment. It was

a study both for the moralist and painter to observe the contrast

between these two individuals, as, seated thus side by side, beneath

the canopy of those old green curtains, they seemed grouped as for the

composition of some historical picture. It was startling to turn from

the broad, expansive forehead, the calm and stoic brow, and the long

and shaggy locks which overshadowed it, giving to the dying statesman

that lion-like expression of countenance which had so often formed the

theme of admiration to poets and to artists, and then to gaze upon

the pointed crown, well-arranged _toupée_, the whole outward bearing,

_tant soit peu bourgeois_, of the king, who, even at this early hour

of the morning, was attired, according to his custom, with the utmost

precision and primness. Despite the old faded dressing-gown of the one,

and the snuff-coloured coat, stiff neckcloth, and polished boots of the

other, the veriest barbarian could have told at a glance which was the

“last of the nobles,” and which the “First Citizen” of the empire. His

majesty was the first to break silence, as in etiquette bound to do.

It would be difficult to define the expression which passed across his

features as he contemplated what might be called the setting of his

guiding-star. Perhaps he could not himself have rendered an account of

the exact impression which the scene produced upon his mind.

“I am sorry, prince, to see you suffering so much,” said he, in a low,

tremulous voice, rendered almost inaudible by extreme emotion.

“Sire, you have come to witness the sufferings of a dying man, and

those who love him can have but one wish, that of seeing them shortly

at an end.”

This was uttered in that deep, strong voice so peculiar to himself, and

which age had not had the power to weaken, nor the approach of death

itself been able to subdue. The effect of the speech, short as it was,

was indescribable,—the pause by which it was preceded, and the tone

of reproach, calm and bitter, in which it was conveyed,—produced an

impression which will not be soon forgotten by those who were present.

The royal visit, like all royal visits of an unpleasant nature, was of

the shortest duration possible. It was evident that his majesty felt it

to be an irksome moment, and that he was at a loss what countenance to

assume; and, after uttering some expressions of consolation, he rose to

take his leave, but too visibly pleased that the self-imposed task was

at an end. Here the prince once more, with his usual tact, came to his

relief, by slightly rising and introducing to his notice those by whom

he was surrounded,—his physician, his secretary, his principal valet,

and his own private doctor; and then a reminiscence of the old courtier

seemed to come across him, for with his parting salutation he could not

forbear a compliment,—“Sire, our house has received this day an honour

worthy to be inscribed in our annals, and one which my successors will

remember with pride and gratitude.”

I must confess that I was grievously disappointed in the anticipations

which I had formed of this visit. I had looked upon it as the farewell

of the safely-landed voyager (landed, too, amid storm and tempest) to

the wise and careful pilot who had steered him skilfully through rock

and breaker, and now pushed off, alone, amid the darkness, to be seen

no more. But no: there was the hurry and impatience of one to whom

the scene was painful; and that it was painful who can doubt? There

was, too, that evident secret self-applause, in the performance of an

irksome duty; but not the slightest expression of any one sentiment

of friendship or attachment, such as I had imagined to have bound

these two men together. A friend of mine—a man of great sense and

discernment—to whom I made this observation, remarked, drily, “It is

plain that his majesty has no fear to see him die; but wait a little

while, and we shall see that he will have regret enough that he should

be dead!”

As a kind of relief to the gloomy side of the picture, might be

observed the anxious feminine flurry displayed throughout the interview

by Madame, who appeared to suffer much uneasiness lest the coldness of

her royal brother should be noticed, and who endeavoured, by a kindly

display of interest and busy politeness, to make amends for what might

appear wanting elsewhere.

I should not perhaps have deemed it necessary to record thus minutely

the particular details of this scene, had not it already been so much

dwelt upon in another light. Astonishment and admiration, frivolous

and exaggerated, have been expressed with regard to this remarkable

act of condescension on the part of Louis Philippe, as though royalty

were alone exempt from the debt of manly and honourable gratitude.

Why, there is not one of the sovereigns beneath whom Talleyrand had

lived, who would not have hurried to show respect to the death-bed of

this truly great statesman; and yet all had not been raised to the

throne by his means! Napoleon, the stern—the iron-hearted—even he

would not have hesitated, because he scorned not to avow that he had

owed as much of his political success to the timely counsels of his

minister for foreign affairs as to his own skill and foresight. Louis

Dixhuit—neither would he have deemed such a step beneath his dignity:

he, too, needed no reminding that he was deeply indebted to the Prince

de Talleyrand, not perhaps for zeal and activity, but for what,

according to time and circumstance, was to him of far more value—his

wise, discreet, and generous forbearance: while Charles X. would have

come, with pious resignation, to mourn the quenching of this last

beacon of the old French aristocracy, and would have rejoiced that by

his means it should have been extinguished amid becoming dignity and

honour.

It was shortly after the departure of the king that the first symptoms

of dissolution were observed by the physicians. The whole family, every

member of which had been apprised of this, immediately gathered around

the prince. The Duke de P—— was there among the number, and I could

not forbear a smile as I remembered the satirical observation made by

the prince himself, a short time before his illness, upon the occasion

of rather a ceremonious visit from this personage,—“Just leaves me in

disappointment,” said he, as he departed; “one would think, by his

melancholy visage and his lugubrious costume, that he was deputed

hither by some _entrepreneur des pompes funèbres_.”

Towards the middle of the day, the prince began to grow more restless

and feverish. I could not resist the temptation of seeking relief from

the stifled air of that close chamber, and passed through to the

drawing-room. I was verily astounded at the scene which there met my

eyes. Never shall I forget the impression produced by the transition

from that silent room—that bed of suffering—to the crowded apartment

where “troops of friends”—all the _élite_ of the society of Paris—were

assembled. There was a knot of busy politicians, with ribbons at their

button-holes—some with powdered heads, some with bald heads—gathered

around the blazing fire; their animated conversation, although, by the

good taste and feeling of him who directed it, conducted in a low tone,

filling the apartment with its unceasing murmur. I observed, too, some

of the diplomatist’s oldest friends, who had come hither from real and

sincere attachment, and who took no part in the eager debates of these

political champions.

Among others the Count de M——, he whom I had never seen but as the

prime wit of all joyous réunions—whose pungent joke and biting sarcasm

have become the terror of bores and twaddlers, for they cling for ever,

like burrs, to those against whom they are hurled:—the only man, in

short, with whom the prince himself dared not, upon all occasions,

to measure himself in the keen skirmish of intellect, now sat silent

and sorrowful, apart from the rest, apparently lost in thought, nor

heeding the various details of the scene which was enacting around him,

and which, had it been elsewhere, would not have failed to call forth

some of the sharp and bitter traits of satire for which he is so much

dreaded. In one corner was seated a _coterie_ of ladies discussing

topics entirely foreign to the time and place. Sometimes a low burst

of light laughter would issue from among them, in spite of the

reprimanding “Chut” which upon such occasions arose from the further

end of the room. On a sofa near the window lay extended, at full

length, the youthful and lovely Duchess de V——, with a bevy of young

beaux—all robber-like and “jeune France,” kneeling on the carpet beside

her, or sitting low at her feet on the cushions of the divan.

The scene was altogether one of other times. It seemed as though the

lapse of centuries might be forgotten, and that we were carried back at

a bound to the days of Louis Quatorze, and to the death-bed of Mazarin.

There was the same _insouciance_, the same weariness of expectation.

Some were gathered there from _convénance_, some from courtesy to

the rest of the family; many from curiosity, and some few from real

friendship; while none seemed to remember that a mighty spirit was

passing from the world, or that they were there assembled to behold a

great man die. Presently, however, the conversation ceased—the hum of

voices was at an end—there was a solemn pause, and every eye was turned

towards the slowly-opening door of the prince’s chamber. A domestic

entered with downcast looks and swollen eyes, and advancing towards Dr.

C——, who, like myself, had just then sought an instant’s relief in the

drawing-room, whispered a few words in his ear. He arose instantly and

entered the chamber. The natural precipitation with which this movement

was executed but too plainly revealed its cause. It was followed by the

whole assembly. In an instant every one was on the alert, and there was

a simultaneous rush to the door of the apartment. M. de Talleyrand was

at that moment seated on the side of the bed, supported in the arms of

his secretary. It was evident that Death had set his seal upon that

marble brow, yet was I struck with the still-existing vigour of the

countenance. It seemed as if all the life which had once sufficed to

furnish forth the whole being were now centred in the brain. From time

to time he raised his head, with a sudden movement shaking back the

long, grey locks which impeded his sight, and gazed around; and then,

satisfied with the result of his examination of that crowded room, a

triumphant smile would pass across his features, and his head would

again fall upon his bosom.

From the circumstances in which I have been placed, it has fallen to

my lot to be witness of more than one death-scene, but never in any

case did the sentiments displayed at that awful hour appear so utterly

consistent with the character borne by any individual during life,

as in the case of the Prince de Talleyrand. He saw death approach

neither with shrinking nor with fear, nor yet with any affectation

of scorn or of defiance, but rather with cool and steady courage, as

a well-matched, honourable foe with whom he had wrestled long and

bravely, and to whom, now that he was fairly vanquished, he deemed it

no shame to yield, nor blushed to lay down his arms and surrender.

If there be truth in the assertion that it is a satisfaction to die

amid the tears and lamentations of multitudes of friends and hosts of

relatives, then indeed must his last feeling towards the world he was

for ever quitting have been one of entire approbation and content,

for he expired amid regal pomp and reverence; and of all those whom

he, perhaps, would himself have called together, none were wanting.

The aged friend of his maturity, the fair young idol of his age, were

gathered on bended knee beside his bed, and if the words of comfort

whispered from the book by the murmuring priest failed to reach his

ear, it was because their sound was stifled by the louder wailings of

those whom in life he had loved so well.

Scarcely, however, were those eyes, whose every glance had been watched

so long and with such deep interest, for ever closed, when a sudden

change came over the scene. One would have thought that a flight of

crows had suddenly taken wing, so great was the precipitation with

which each one hurried from the hotel, in the hope of being first to

spread the news among the particular set or coterie of which he or she

happened to be the oracle. Ere nightfall, that chamber, which all the

day had been crowded to excess, was abandoned to the servants of the

tomb; and when I entered in the evening, I found the very arm-chair,

from whence I had so often heard the prince launch the courtly jest or

stinging epigram, now occupied by a hired priest, whispering prayers

for the repose of his departed soul.

It was after the death of the prince that the awe and devotion with

which he had inspired his household became evident. Not one of the

domestics left his station upon any pretext whatever. The attendants

waited, each in his turn, and at the same stated hour, to which he had

been accustomed during his life. I myself saw the cook, punctual to the

hour in the morning at which he had for so many years been summoned to

receive his orders, now followed by his bevy of _marmitons_, with their

snow-white costumes and long carving-knives, walk with solemn step

to the foot of the bed, and, kneeling down with cotton cap in hand,

breathe a short prayer: each sprinkled the corpse with holy water, and

then the whole procession withdrew in the same silence with which they

had entered. I was deeply struck with the mixture of the sublime and

the ludicrous in this scene. It reminded me of many of the whimsical

creations to be met with in some of the old German legends.

Contrary to the usual French custom, which ordains that interment shall

ensue eight-and-forty hours after decease, the public funeral, upon the

occasion of the depositing of the body in the church of the Assumption,

did not take place until the following week, owing to the embalmment,

which was a work of time; while the transferring of the corpse to its

final resting-place at Valençay could not be accomplished until the

month of September, the vault, which was preparing even before the

Prince’s death, being yet unfinished.

Independently of the interest which I felt in the ceremony, as well

as the desire to render this last homage to one who had, upon every

occasion of my intercourse with him, been all kindness and urbanity to

me, I determined to repair to Valençay and witness the funerals—for at

one fell stroke had death swept from the earth all that remained of

that one generation. The Prince de Talleyrand—the wise, the witty, the

clever, and the cunning—was to go down to the grave with the guileless

and the simple-hearted Duke, his brother! Upon the same occasion,

too, the small tomb of the infant Yolande, wherein she had peacefully

slumbered for a space of two years, was routed, and the tiny coffin

was to accompany that of the Prince on its long and dreary journey.

The hearse which was to convey the bodies was the same which had been

constructed expressly for the removal of the corpse of the ex-Queen

of Holland from Switzerland, in appearance something resembling an

ammunition-waggon, with covered seats in front, wherein were stationed

two of the personal attendants of the Prince. The body was raised from

the vaults of the Assumption at midnight, and the little snow-white

coffin was placed upon the elaborately-wrought oaken chest which had

contained it.

I was told by a friend, who witnessed the scene, that nothing could

exceed the dramatic effect of the departure of the corpse-laden vehicle

from Paris. The disinterment of the child from the lonely cemetery

of Mont Parnasse—the lading of the ponderous coffin by the light of

torches—the peculiar rattle of the hearse through the silent streets at

that solemn hour, and beneath that calm moon, which makes “all that is

dark seem darker still.” One incident is worth recording. On starting

from the iron gates of the chapel, one of the postillions turned and

shouted the usual question, “_Vers quelle barrière?_” and was answered

by a voice proceeding from the hearse itself, “_Barrière d’Enfer_.”

We arrived at Valençay on the third day after our departure from

Paris, and it was at about ten o’clock on the same night that the

worn and dust-covered hearse was descried wending its way up the

long avenue of chestnut trees leading to the château. Every honour

which had been paid to the lord of the mansion during his life was

now rendered, with scrupulous exactness, to his lifeless corpse. No

ceremony, however trifling, was omitted. The wide gates were thrown

open to admit the sombre vehicle, which entered the court of honour

with the same ceremony that had denoted the approach of the stately

carriage which had been wont to drive at a somewhat ruder pace through

the regal portal. The whole of the numerous household, with the heir

of the domain in advance of the rest, were assembled on the perron.

The Prince’s nephew himself took his seat in front of the hearse,

to conduct it down into the town; the goodly array of servants and

huntsmen and foresters all following on foot, and bearing torches, to

the church, wherein the body was deposited for the night, previous to

the final ceremony, which was to take place on the morrow.

Early in the morning all was astir in the little burgh. Never before

had a sight so fraught with interest been witnessed by its inhabitants.

It seemed like a gala day through every street. Not a window but was

crowded with spectators, while the footway was choked with peasants

from all the neighbouring districts, in their gayest attire. The

National Guard of the town was all afoot from the earliest hour in

the morning; and altogether so cheerful was the whole aspect of the

place, that the traveller who had passed through on that day would

have imagined it to have been the anniversary of some great public

rejoicing. The corpse of the Duke had arrived in far different plight.

No pomp, no pageantry, was here—a solitary post-carriage, with a single

pair of horses—no train of mourners. The physician who had attended his

last illness alone accompanied the body from St. Germain.

There was food for reflection in the contrast! No needless expense had

been wasted upon idle ornament and funeral trappings, for, when the

coffin was uncovered, an exclamation of surprise burst from those

around. It was of plain elm, such as those used by people of middling

degree, and, when placed beside those of his more favoured relatives,

formed a melancholy contrast. But now one pall conceals the whole, the

rich velvet, and the plain, unvarnished planks. One long stream of

melody ascends to Heaven, one prayer for the repose of those who sleep

beneath that gorgeous catafalque—for him who died full of wealth and

honour, whose vast and powerful intellect had held dominion over men’s

minds even to the very last—and for him who closed his eyes in solitude

and neglect, and whose intellect had wavered even on the very verge

of madness. Both were transported to the chapel of the sisters of St.

André, founded by the Prince himself, and wherein he had already placed

the family vault. His body was the first to descend, amid the firing of

muskets, and the noisy demonstrations of respect of those without: then

that of the Duke, amid silence unbroken, save by the harsh creaking of

the coffin, as it slid down the iron grating: then, last and least,

although the oldest denizen of the tomb, the little Yolande, the fairy

coffin seeming, with its silver chasings and embossed velvet, of

snowy whiteness, rather a casket destined to ornament the boudoir of a

youthful beauty, than to become a receptacle of corruption and decay.

The vault was closed, and all was over. Each one had contributed the

last token of Catholic respect, and we all turned from the chapel

to take the road to the château, where entertainment for those who

attended the funeral had been liberally prepared by its new master. It

was then that we began to look around, and to feel some curiosity to

know who had shared with us in rendering this last homage to one who

was entitled to the gratitude of every individual of his nation. We

gazed right and left, but few were there, and these were _all_ those

who had _served him_ devotedly and faithfully—the grateful domestic,

the obscure and humble friend; but of the great ones of the earth whom

_he had served_—of those whom _he_ had raised to greatness and to

honour—there was not ONE!

EXTRACTS FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS, SPEECHES, AND POLITICAL WRITINGS OF

PRINCE TALLEYRAND.

PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S MAXIMS FOR SEASONING CONVERSATION.

Our welcome of a stranger depends upon the name he bears,—upon the

coat he wears: our farewell upon the spirit he has displayed in the

interview.

There is so great a charm in friendship, that there is even a kind of

pleasure in acknowledging oneself duped by the sentiment it inspires.

Unbounded modesty is nothing more than unavowed vanity: the too humble

obeisance is sometimes a disguised impertinence.

The reputation of a man is like his shadow—gigantic when it precedes

him, and pigmy in its proportions when it follows.

The “point of honour” can often be made to produce, by means of vanity,

as many good deeds as virtue.

More evil truths are discovered by the corruption of the heart than by

the penetration of the mind.

Beauty, devoid of grace, is a mere hook without the bait.

Schismatic wranglers are like a child’s top, noisy and agitated when

whipped, quiet and motionless when left alone.

He who cannot feel friendship is alike incapable of love. Let a woman

beware of the man who owns that he loves no one but herself.

The rich man despises those who flatter him too much, and hates those

who do not flatter him at all.

The spirit and enterprise of a courtier are all expended in the search

after place and preferment; nothing remains for the fulfilment of the

duties to which success compels him.

The Count de Coigny possesses wit and talent, but his conversation is

fatiguing, because his memory is equally exact in quoting the date of

the death of Alexander the Great and that of the Princess de Guéménée’s

poodle.

My passion for Madame de Talleyrand was soon extinguished, because she

was merely possessed of beauty. The influence of personal charms is

limited: curiosity forms the great ingredient of this kind of love; but

add the fascination of intellect to those attractions which habit and

possession diminish each day, you will find them multiplied tenfold;

and if, besides intellect and beauty, you discover in your mistress

caprice, singularity, and inequality of temper, close your eyes and

seek no further—you are in love for life.

The imagination of men is often the refuge of their prejudices.

To contradict and argue with a total stranger, is like knocking at a

gate to ascertain if there is any one within.

That sovereign has a little mind who seeks to go down to posterity

by means of great public buildings. It is to confide to masons and

bricklayers the task of writing History.

Love is a reality which is born in the fairy region of romance.

The love of glory can only create a hero; the contempt of it creates a

great man.

The mind of the Duc de Laval is like a dark lanthorn, only capable of

lighting his own path.

The errors of great men, and the good deeds of reprobates, should not

be reckoned in our estimates of their respective characters.

A court is an assemblage of noble and distinguished beggars.

Theologians resemble dogs, that gnaw large bones for the sake of a very

little meat.

The stream of vice will flow as naturally into palaces, as the common

sewer flows into the river, and the river flows onward to the sea.

It is sometimes quite enough for a man to feign ignorance of that

which he knows, to gain the reputation of knowing that of which he is

ignorant.

A long continuance of wise administration is the best and surest means

of arriving at despotism. Our present government gives us no alarm.

Both erudition and agriculture ought to be encouraged by government;

wit and manufactures will come of themselves.

The endeavour to convince a _bel esprit_ by the force of reason, is as

mad an undertaking as the attempt to silence an echo by raising the

voice.

Metaphysics always remind me of the caravanserais in the desert. They

stand solitary and unsupported, and are therefore always ready to

crumble into ruin.

A man should make his _début_ in the world as though he were about to

enter a hostile country; he must send out scouts, establish sentinels,

and ever be upon the watch himself.

Too much sensibility creates unhappiness; too much insensibility

creates crime.

What I have been taught, I have forgotten; what I know, I have guessed.

An elderly coxcomb may be compared to a butterfly deprived of wings—he

becomes a caterpillar once more.

Certain acts may be rendered legal; but can never be made legitimate.

Human life is like a game at chess; each piece holds its place upon the

chess-board—king, queen, bishop, and pawn. Death comes, the game is up,

and all are thrown, without distinction, pell-mell into the same bag.

The bold defiance of a woman is the certain sign of her shame—when she

has once ceased to blush, it is because she has too much to blush for.

Life, to a young man, is like a new acquaintance, of whom he grows

disgusted as he advances in years.

When certain absurd opinions become too generally adopted, they must

be replaced by less noxious errors—that is the best way of arriving at

Truth.

It is an attribute of true philosophy, never to force the progress of

Truth and Reason, but to wait till the dawn of Light; meanwhile, the

philosopher may wander into hidden paths, but he will never depart far

from the main track.

Prudence in a woman should be an instinct, not a virtue.

Churchmen and men of letters have peculiar difficulties in the

world,—the first are continually divided between scandal and hypocrisy,

the second between pride and baseness.

The thought of death throws upon life a lurid glow, resembling that of

a conflagration, lighting up that which it is about to devour.

In love we grow acquainted, because we are already attached—in

friendship we must know each other before we love.

A great capitalist is like a vast lake, upon whose bosom ships can

navigate, but which is useless to the country, because no stream issues

thence to fertilize the land.

With a great seigneur, there is more to be gained by flattering his

vices than by improving his estates.

Truth and virtue can do less good in the world than their false,

well-acted semblance can do evil.

A generous man will place the benefits he confers beneath his

feet,—those he receives, nearest his heart.

A narrow-minded man can never possess real and true generosity—he can

never go beyond mere benevolence.

General maxims applied to every-day life are like routine applied to

the arts, good only for mediocre intellects.

If you wish to appear agreeable in society, you must consent to be

taught many things which you know already.

We must learn to submit with grace to commit the follies which depend

upon character.

There are many vices which do not deprive us of friends,—there are many

virtues which prevent our having any.

In reading over the memoirs of the reign of Louis Quatorze, we find

many things in the worst manners of that day, which are wanting in the

very best society of our own.

I remember having, in my youth, been amused at the resolution of one

of my friends to give up the society of the demoiselles de l’opéra,

to which he was much addicted, in consequence of his having made the

discovery that there existed among these girls as much falsehood and

hypocrisy as amongst honest women.

Certain women can find buyers for their charms, who would find no one

to take them were they to be had for nothing.

I remember having often been told in my youth that the love of glory

was a virtue. Strange must be that virtue which requires the aid of

every vice.

There are two things to which we never grow accustomed,—the ravages of

time, and the injustice of our fellow men.

The written memoirs which a man leaves after him _pour servir à

l’histoire de sa vie_, and above all, _pour servir à l’histoire_ of his

vanity, always remind me of the story of that saint, who left by will a

hundred thousand crowns to the Church, to pay for his canonization.

To succeed in the world, it is much more necessary to possess the

penetration to discover who is a fool than to discover who is a clever

man.

PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S OPINION OF FOX.

(_A Fragment from the Prince’s Memoirs._)

January 15th, 1807.

I have just heard of the death of Mr. Fox. It is now fifteen years

since I was introduced to him by Mr. Ogilvie, the husband of his aunt,

the Duchess of Leinster. It was at his own house, in South-street, and,

I think, in June, 1791.

Shortly before his death, false reports led him to form an unjust

opinion of me; yet my regret for his loss is not the less deep and

sincere, and I feel a firm conviction that, had his life been spared,

he would have rendered me justice.

Mr. Fox united in his own character the apparently incompatible

qualities of the mildest of men, and the most vehement of orators. In

private life he was gentle, modest, kind-hearted, and remarkably simple

in his manners. His dislike of ostentation, and of any approach to

dogmatism, sometimes gave to his conversation an air of listlessness;

his superiority was manifested only by the information he diffused

around him, and by the generous feeling which always prompted him to

direct the greatest share of his attention to the most obscure members

of the company in which he happened to be. The simplicity of his

manners did not, in the least, detract from that urbanity, and perfect

politeness, which resulted more from the gentleness of his nature,

than from his familiar intercourse with the most polished society of

Europe. His conversation, when not restrained by the languor arising

from fatigue, or by his delicacy towards others, was truly charming.

It may, perhaps, be said, that never was the pleasantry of a man of

wit so perfectly natural, as that of Mr. Fox; it seemed more like the

outpouring, than the creation, of his fancy. He had lived on terms of

close intimacy with all those of his contemporaries most distinguished

for talent, learning, and political eminence. For the space of thirty

years, he maintained intercourse with almost every man in Europe whose

conversation and correspondence were of a nature to fortify, enrich,

or polish the intellectual faculties. His own literary attainments

were varied and profound. In classical erudition, which in England is

specially understood by the term learning, he was not inferior to some

of the most distinguished scholars of his day. Like all men of genius,

he was passionately fond of poetry; the study and cultivation of that

branch of literature, formed his favourite source of recreation, amidst

the fatigues and annoyances of public life. His own poetic effusions

were easy and agreeable, and deserving of a high place in that class of

writing which the French call _vers de société_. The character of his

mind was manifested in his predilection for the poetry of the two most

poetic nations (or at least most poetic languages) of eastern Europe,

viz., the ancient Greek and the modern Italian. Fox did not like

political discussions in conversation, and he never voluntarily took

part in them.

Any attempt to render justice to his oratorical talents would carry

me far beyond the limits of these brief remarks. He was always, and

everywhere, natural; and, in public, his manner and appearance were

stamped with much of the simplicity which characterized him in private

life. When he began to speak, an ordinary observer would have supposed

him to be labouring under embarrassment, and even a discriminating

listener would only have been struck by the just accuracy of his ideas,

and the lucid simplicity of his language; but, after speaking for

some time, he was transformed into another being. He forgot himself,

and everything around him. His thoughts were wholly absorbed in his

subject. His genius warmed as he advanced, and his sentences flashed

like rays of light; until at length, in an impetuous and irresistible

torrent of eloquence, he earned along with him the feelings and the

conviction of his hearers. Fox certainly possessed, beyond any public

speaker of modern times, that union of reasoning power, of simplicity,

and of vehemence, which characterizes the prince of orators. Next to

Demosthenes, he was the most Demosthenian of public speakers. “I knew

him,” observes Mr. Burke, in a pamphlet written after their unfortunate

difference, “when he was only nineteen years old. From that time he

continued rising, by slow degrees, until he has now become the most

brilliant and accomplished debater that ever lived.”

The tranquil dignity of mind, (never disturbed but by great causes)—the

total absence of vanity—the contempt of ostentation—the hatred of

intrigue—the candour, the honesty, and the perfect _bonhomie_, which

were the distinguishing qualities of Fox, would seem to render him

the faithful representative of the old national English character—a

character which it would be presumptuous to hope can be succeeded

by anything better, were it ever to change. The amiability of his

disposition inspired confidence—the ardour of his eloquence excited

enthusiasm—and the urbanity of his manners invited friendship. Mr.

Gibbon has truly observed, that in Fox the highest intellectual powers

of man were blended with the engaging gentleness and simplicity of

childhood. No human being, he adds, was ever more free from every

trace of malignity, vanity, or falsehood. The combination of so many

admirable qualities of public and private character, sufficiently

accounts for the fact that no English statesman, during so long a

period of adverse fortune, retained so many attached friends and

zealous adherents, as Charles Fox. The union of great ardour, in the

sentiments of the public man, with extreme gentleness in the manners of

the social being, would appear to have been an hereditary qualification

in Fox, whose father is said to have possessed the same power of

winning the attachment of all who knew him. Those who are acquainted

with another generation of his descendants, must feel that this

engaging quality is not extinct in the family.

Nothing, perhaps, can more forcibly portray the impression produced by

this peculiarity in the character of Fox, than a remark made by Burke.

In 1797, six years after all intimacy between Burke and Fox had ceased,

the former, speaking to an individual honoured by the friendship of the

latter, said, “Certainly, Fox is a man formed to be loved;” and these

words were uttered with a warmth and emphasis, which precluded all

doubt of their cordial sincerity.

The few lines I have here hastily traced, have been written under

feelings too sorrowful and serious to admit of any intention to

exaggerate; and the affection which I cherished for Mr. Fox will

not suffer me to profane his memory by any allusion to the factious

contentions of the day. The political conduct of Fox belongs to

history. The measures he supported, and those he opposed, may divide

the opinions of posterity, as they have those of the present age; but

Charles Fox will, assuredly, command the unanimous respect of future

generations, by his pure sentiments as a statesman—by his zeal for the

civil and religious rights of all mankind—by his advocacy of liberal

government, the free exercise of human faculties, and the progressive

civilization of the human race—by the ardent love he cherished for his

country, whose welfare and happiness can never be disconnected from his

glory—and by his profound veneration for that free constitution, which,

it will be acknowledged, he understood better than any politician of

his time, both in its legal and in its philosophical character.

PRIVATE LETTER FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND TO MARSHAL SEBASTIANI, ON THE

POLICY OF SUFFERING BELGIUM TO BE CREATED AN INDEPENDENT MONARCHY.

London, January 3rd, 1831.

MY DEAR GENERAL,—I have read over several times, with the utmost

attention, your letter of the 30th ult., and I wish to explain to you

confidentially my views relative to its contents. It is evident that,

at the present time, France is divided between two parties, whose

opinions have their echoes in the council of the king. One of these

parties urges us to war, and employs every means, direct and indirect,

to bring about that end. The views of this party are directed solely

to the attainment of power, and therefore it is necessary to be on

one’s guard against the suggestions and speeches which they put forth.

The other party, which is so ably headed by yourself, maintains that

peace alone can consolidate the new state of things in France, and,

consequently, it may be presumed that all its efforts tend to the

preservation of peace. It has been truly observed, that a kingdom may

rise up amidst the turmoil of war, but that it can only be firmly

established in time of peace.

The new line of policy which you suggest in reference to the affairs of

Belgium is at variance with all my ideas on the subject, and it would,

I am sure, be equally opposed to the views of the English ministers and

the members of the conference. Of this fact I have had opportunities

of convincing myself in the course of several conversations I have

casually entered into for the purpose of sounding opinions on the

subject.

We might succeed, but not without difficulty, in obtaining the

sovereignty of Belgium for Prince Leopold, on his marriage with a

French princess; and I cannot comprehend how the speeches of certain

members of the party decidedly favourable to war, should have

determined you to renounce the only arrangement by which peace can now

be secured.

It must be evident to you, as it is to me, that Prince Leopold is very

far from being what is called English. He is attached to England only

by the 50,000_l._ per annum, of which he cannot be deprived, and which

gives him the advantage of presenting a civil list, ready settled, to

the country he may be called to rule.

Like all great political events, the Belgian revolution appears to me

to pass through different phases. The establishment of a monarchical

government in Belgium seems a step calculated to relieve that country

from the embarrassments in which she is enthralled—viz., the division

of the debt between Belgium and Holland; the debt contracted by Belgium

to Russia; together with many other matters connected with Belgian

independence.

When all these questions shall be adjusted, and Europe shall have

approved the adjustment, we may, after the lapse of a few years,

entertain with some hope of success, the project of uniting Belgium

to France. The very adjustment of the points above referred to, would

favour the chance of success, because it would remove difficulties

which every one is capable of appreciating. But I am convinced that war

would be the inevitable consequence of the proposition now made for

annexing Belgium to France.

The present spirit of the members of the conference, and of the English

Cabinet, is extremely favourable to us; but, my dear General, I affirm,

in the full confidence of being correct, that if we were suspected

of entertaining other intentions than those which I have deemed it

expedient to express, our position with reference to all the Courts

of Europe, including that of England, would be changed much to our

disadvantage.

I entreat you, therefore, to reflect maturely before you enter upon

so perilous a course. War may compromise so many questions, that it

appears to me of all things most to be feared and avoided. The wisdom

of the king, who well knows how to resist party clamour, and your

prudence, my dear General, must avert this misfortune, and control the

turbulent spirits who would drive us to extremities, unmindful that the

glory of France now depends on peace. It is easy to commence war,—the

difficulty is how to maintain and to terminate it. In short, I am

averse to the project of the acquisition of Belgium. The aggrandizement

of France by that acquisition would doubtless be flattering to French

vanity, but it would in many respects be injurious to French industry.

The case is different with respect to the Rhine and Saxony. But,

General, your position enables you to judge more accurately than I can,

the various questions adverted to in this letter.

FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND TO MARSHAL SEBASTIANI, ON THE SAME SUBJECT AS

THE PRECEDING.

The importance of the crisis at which we have arrived cannot fail

frequently to claim your attention. At the present juncture we may,

by prompt and honest decision, preserve peace, or by prolonged

hesitation we may enable intriguers (too numerous a class both here and

in Belgium) to compromise the destinies of Europe, and of the dynasty

which the voice of the nation has raised to the throne of France. I

await with the utmost anxiety and impatience the reply of the French

Cabinet to the various questions proposed by the four Powers; the

delay of that reply probably causes indecision in the opinions of

the plenipotentiaries assembled here. For Heaven’s sake let not the

Belgians, who are so stupid as not to perceive all that has been done

for them, and the Dutch, who are stimulated by bitter hatred, draw us

into this deplorable contest! Let us not suffer an affair, trivial

in itself, to disturb the equilibrium of the world, and to unbridle

the fiercest passions. All will be ended, all consummated on the day

when France, conjointly with the four other Powers, shall declare that

Belgium is to retain her _old boundaries, her independence, and her

neutrality_. On that day the Dutch will be paralysed, the Germanic

Confederation will halt, the Belgians will be subdued, the conference

will choose Prince Leopold for king, and peace will be secured. If

France be so blind as to censure your administration for having saved

her in spite of herself—if she be unjust to those who have preserved

her—then, sir, you will cease to be minister, and I shall cease to

be ambassador. We shall forfeit our posts for having defended and

maintained a great principle, for which future ages will honour us.

In short, we may be sacrificed, but let it be in the cause of peace,

in the cause of civilization and of good order, and in defence of a

sovereign whom we love, and whose throne will fall in the general

destruction now impending. There is but little time for averting the

terrible disaster which my old experience foresees, and of which your

quick and accurate discernment must have enabled you to warn the

council. But, sir, let your decisions be formed singly with yourself.

The powers of the clearest head, and soundest judgment, cannot be

freely exercised except when withdrawn from the turbulence of one

party, the timidity of another, and unbiassed by the ignorance of

outward affairs which is so marked a trait in the French character.

The intelligence of the French people, shrewd as it is, scarcely ever

extends beyond the frontiers of their own country, and therefore they

labour under the singular mistake of supposing that England cannot

go to war with us. They do not perceive that the vast concession made

by the recent Reform Bill has conferred on the English ministry a

temporary popularity, of which they will freely avail themselves to

obtain the means of opposing us; and that this means will be much more

readily accorded to the present administration than it would have been

to that of the Duke of Wellington. Our July revolution is tarnished

by circumstances which have greatly obscured its lustre; and it has

been justly observed that anarchy and disorder are not very formidable

ramparts to be opposed to an enemy. However, there appears to be no

disposition to attack us, more especially since the questions of right

and law have been entrusted to you. But whenever we give reason to

warrant suspicions of our good faith, or of our capability to repress

turbulent movements, then, rest assured, that England will, though

reluctantly, oppose us with an immensity and a facility of power at

which France will be astounded.

On the other hand all that is required of us is to be firm at home

and moderate abroad. There is no intention to take anything from

us; on the contrary, many concessions on the part of neighbouring

powers have been assented to. But it is wished to preserve general

peace and security, and not to grant to nations, whose independence

has been recognised in spite of old treaties, the right of conquest

over countries which have never belonged to them, and which are the

guaranteed property of others. For our own sake, sir, as well as for

the general good, it were to be wished that every individual composing

the French cabinet could comprehend the principle of _non-intervention_

in the way in which it was understood by M. de Rigny at Navarino.

LETTER FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND TO COUNT SEBASTIANI, ON THE AFFAIRS OF

BELGIUM.

London, January 25th, 1831.

MONSIEUR LE COMTE,—Count Flahaut arrived here the day before yesterday,

and delivered to me the letter which you entrusted to his charge. I

thank you for having chosen him as the bearer of it.

The raising of the siege of Antwerp, and the irritation of the King of

Holland, prove that the conference was sufficiently rigorous towards

both parties to obtain the wished-for result.

My conversation with M. de Flahaut has furnished me with some valuable

information respecting the ideas and intentions of the king’s

government relative to the affairs which I am directed to manage

here, and also respecting the state of public opinion in France.

I, however, regret that Count Flahaut had left France before my

despatch of the 21st reached you. The intelligence it contained of the

resolution adopted by the conference must necessarily influence the

views of the king and his council, as well as the line of policy to

be pursued towards Belgium. I congratulate myself on the declaration

of neutrality, which has been received with great satisfaction by the

statesmen of this country. All, to whatsoever party they belong, regard

it as a measure of wise policy, honourable to modern civilization,

and calculated to ensure the maintenance of peace by the facility it

affords for conciliating, if not all claims, at least all essential

interests. I must add, however, that whilst acceding to the measure,

they regard it as wholly tending to the advantage of France.

I am aware that, in the juncture at which affairs have arrived in

Belgium, and amidst the embarrassment which this state of things

entails on France and Europe, the public mind has been agitated by

schemes of the most opposite character. The avowed neutrality has now

rendered most of these plans utterly impracticable, and has enabled me

to revive, with advantage, the question of the Prince of Naples, to

which, at first, so much opposition was manifested. I even think that

we shall completely succeed in rendering the city of Antwerp a free

port, or rather in making it one of the Hanse Towns; and I am not quite

certain but that we may arrive at this result without Antwerp ceasing

to belong, as a free port, to Belgium. From the day on which the

protocol was signed, such is the line of policy I have pursued, and I

shall continue to follow it up, unless I receive contrary instructions

from you.

This plan has the advantage of showing how utterly useless would be any

concession made to England on the continent. I will even acknowledge

that it was with the view of banishing any idea of that nature that I

adopted the system I am now pursuing. I should have deeply regretted

to see the king’s name and yours attached to a clause which, in my

opinion, would render our government liable to the charge of being

indifferent to the judgment of posterity.

History bears evidence to the difficulties entailed by the prolonged

occupation of Calais by the English, and it records the favours

lavished on the Guises, when they relieved France from that disgrace.

These lessons ought not to be thrown away upon us. The same mistakes

may be followed by the same results, and may obliterate the stamp

of independence which is attached to all the acts of the king’s

government. I am certain that his majesty is too high-minded to dwell

long on the idea of a plan which, without having any direct effect on

our own country, would cause us to be reproached for the manner in

which we have exercised our continental power.

No one will go so far as to deny that the annexation of Belgium to

France would be an advantage, though an aggrandizement of territory

on the bank of the Rhine would be more in accordance with my notions

of French policy. I admit that the annexation of Belgium would render

popular, for a time, the government that might bring it about,

notwithstanding its injurious effects on French industry. But you may

rely on it, Count, that that popularity would be exceedingly transient,

if purchased at the price that is proposed to be paid for it. There is

no reputation, however solid, that would not be shaken by a measure of

such a nature. Does not every one blame the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle,

for having brought the Russians into Europe? What a heavy judgment

would fall on those who should bring the English back on the continent!

It is best not to throw ourselves into contact with those whom we

cannot reach on their own ground.

I am convinced, Monsieur le Comte, if you were plenipotentiary here,

you would never affix your name to an act which not even the most

protracted and most disastrous war would justify.

NOTE OF M. COLMACHE.—The Minister for Foreign Affairs (Count

Sebastiani) made no reply to the above severe, but just comments

on the unworthy proposition which Count Flahaut had undertaken to

communicate to the French embassy.

OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRIAL OF PEERS BY THE CHAMBER OF PEERS, AND THE

REASONS ON WHICH TALLEYRAND GROUNDED HIS VOTE IN THE AFFAIR OF

LIEUTENANTS-GENERAL GUILLEMINOT AND BORDESOULLE.

Our political laws have existed only during the space of a few years.

We have witnessed their creation and their birth. As yet they are

scarcely anything more than theories. Time alone will convert them into

practical laws. In other words, we possess laws, but we do not yet

possess jurisprudence.

Amidst all the uncertainties necessarily arising out of such a state of

things, it has appeared to me that my duty, as a Peer of France, was

to seek, in reflection, for that light and knowledge which experience

cannot afford. The following chain of ideas has aided me in the

accomplishment of this duty.

The first question I put to myself was, What is the Court of Peers?

The answer is, An extraordinary tribunal, instituted by the Charter,

for judging certain affairs which that Charter has withdrawn from the

ordinary tribunals, either on account of the serious nature of the

crimes, or by reason of the rank of the individuals accused. Such, it

appears to me, are the meaning and the spirit of Articles 33 and 34 of

our fundamental law.

Is this a wise institution? Is it beneficial to the country? I

would answer in the affirmative. But these points are not for me to

determine. The Charter has decreed, and that is sufficient.

Now, in what does this extraordinary tribunal resemble the ordinary

tribunals? Can it be tied down to the same forms of procedure? I find

that the law—the faithful guardian of the interests of society, whilst

it declares that crime must not escape punishment, is, nevertheless,

more watchful in protecting the innocent than in punishing the guilty.

It has therefore wisely established hierarchical degrees in the

judiciary organization. It separates the accusation from the judgment,

and even after judgment the condemned is empowered to appeal for its

annulment, if, in the long course of proceedings, a single one of the

prescribed tutelary forms shall have been violated or disavowed.

But in the Court of Peers there are no hierarchic degrees; there is

not, and cannot be, a chamber of accusation distinct from the court of

judgment, where the accusers are themselves the judges. When the Court

of Peers has pronounced, the condemned party has no appeal, either on

the score of form or fact. The mercy of the king alone can save him.

The justice of the Court of Peers is one and indivisible; its action is

prompt and irreformable, and against its decisions there is no appeal.

It must not be supposed that public feeling rises in alarm against a

tribunal which, by its inflexible rapidity, promptly terminates the

most important affairs. On the contrary, innocence will always appeal

for its protection, and guilt itself will seek refuge in the august

sanctuary. The reason is, that the guarantee afforded by the tardy

forms of the ordinary courts, is abundantly atoned for by the vast

number of the judges in the Court of Peers—by the importance attached

to their elevated position—and by the sort of religious awe which takes

possession of them, when, at distant intervals, the law calls them from

the peaceful habits of their lives, and arms them with the sword of

justice.

Thus it is shown that ordinary justice is hierarchical and successive,

whilst, that of the Peers is indivisible and instantaneous. Ordinary

justice, by reason of its hierarchical character, is susceptible of

change both in its nature and in its forms; the justice of the Peers,

inasmuch as it is indivisible, is incapable of change.

But this is not the only difference existing between ordinary justice

and that which the Charter has confided to our administration. The

course of ordinary justice commences in secrecy and ends in publicity.

Over the proceedings of the Court of Peers publicity presides, from

their commencement to their close.

When ordinary justice conceives suspicions against a private

individual, it silently takes measures for repressing the crime or the

offence. Even in cases in which it is deemed necessary to deprive the

accused of his liberty, the accusation may remain a secret between the

magistrate and the accused. Should the suspicion prove unfounded, and

the accused be restored to liberty by the Chamber of Accusation, (the

first degree in the judicial hierarchy,) that liberation sufficiently

repairs the injury sustained by personal honour in the sphere of

society to which the accused belongs. But, gentlemen, is it so when

the Peers are called upon to render justice in the case of any one of

those accused persons whom the law consigns to their judgment? Is not

a discussion in the Chamber of Peers an important event in itself?

Does not the matter to which it refers immediately become the subject

of general conversation? and, if the names compromised should include

those of men whose services to the State have long rendered them

objects of public esteem, or even of national pride, what a sensation

is excited! what conjectures are afloat! what a fine field is opened

for calumny, for the outpourings of envy, hatred, and every vile

passion! And, in the face of all this, are we to acquit clandestinely

and without publicity, our colleagues, so injuriously compromised;

and, by a silent absolution, to deprive them of the atonement they are

entitled to expect from your courageous and just impartiality?

A serious affair has been submitted to our deliberation by the

crown. Our duty is to judge it as a Court of Peers. In this chamber

accusations have been uttered, more or less grave. We cannot forget

that the names of several noble Peers have, from base motives, been

compromised in this affair. It is our duty to render them full and

complete justice. By what means shall we do so?

In my endeavours to solve this question, I had almost arrived at the

conclusion, that the proper course would be to arraign the accused

before the court, to hear the sentence pronounced on them. But further

consideration soon convinced me that we had entered on a mistaken and

perilous course, and that our first duty is to end the scandalous

controversy, in which virtue and honour have been exposed to the vilest

attacks. What, in reality, is the question at issue? Great errors have

been committed. French treasure has been improvidently wasted. But

improvidence cannot be made amenable to the law. On looking over the

list of the accused, I perceive only the names of men more or less

obscure, suspected of acts more or less mean and contemptible—acts

for the commission of which war ever has and ever will afford ample

opportunity.

Three hundred millions have been expended in the Spanish war. Of

that enormous sum scarcely the sixth part has been absorbed by the

victorious army; and yet, inconceivable as it may appear, that army has

been made to bear the whole responsibility.

However painful the recollection, it is nevertheless necessary to bear

in mind the dismay which prevailed throughout Paris when, shortly after

the departure of the Prince Generalissimo, the _Moniteur_ officially

announced the existence of a military conspiracy. The nucleus of that

conspiracy was alleged to be in the Staff of His Royal Highness. But

the descendant of Henry IV. was not intimidated; he showed that he

could trust to the honour of French officers, and victory was the

reward of his confidence. Thus were the intrigues of the past defeated;

and in like manner will be thwarted the intrigues of the present. All

has been intrigue throughout this affair. It has already occupied too

much of our attention; and it were to be wished that we should never

hear more of it either in the Chamber of Peers or in any other court. I

can vote only for the full and complete acquittal of all the accused,

and I recommend that the verdict be accompanied by the declaration that

our colleagues have forfeited none of our esteem.

ANOTHER FRAGMENT FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND’S MEMOIRS.

The king insisted that the favourable opinion entertained of the

services I had rendered him, required that he should instal me in one

of the high offices of the crown. The post of grand ecuyer could not

be said to be either vacant or filled, as M. de L—— had not tendered

his resignation. The king, who still had a leaning to old usages,

thought he could not dispose of the post, though the conduct of M.

de L——, since the Restoration, had not been congenial with French

feeling, but altogether in unison with Austrian ideas. The office of

grand chamberlain seemed to be suited to me, though I had filled it

under Bonaparte, who deprived me of it to mark his dissatisfaction

at the attentions I showed the Spanish princes at Valençay, and at

the manner in which I had expressed myself concerning the war against

Spain. I lost my post of grand chamberlain, with a salary of 100,000

francs, because I had rendered some assistance, and offered some

little solace, to the princes of Spain, during their sojourn at

Valençay; and subsequently, the Restoration took from me the post

of vice-chamberlain, with a salary of 333,000 francs. Yet I never

expressed the least disquietude respecting my fortune, or any desire to

seek the means of enlarging my income.

The king restored me to the post of grand chamberlain, with the

emolument of 100,000 francs. This post, owing to the pretensions of the

gentlemen of the bedchamber, had become a mere sinecure. It conferred

rank, dignity, and emolument, without requiring the performance of any

duties. The gentlemen of the bedchamber had returned to their places,

with all their old pretensions; vanity prompted them to encroach on

the highest and most honourable services, whilst courtly meanness made

them ready to perform the most annoying and undignified duties. In

the circumstances in which I was placed, I felt that my proper course

of conduct was to avoid all expression of disapprobation towards the

ministers who had succeeded me, and to take no part in the numerous

reproaches vented on their administration. My old-fashioned notions of

decorum suggested to me the delicacy due from the ministers who had

gone out of office, to the ministers who had come in; and I determined

to confine myself completely within the sphere of my post of grand

chamberlain. Accordingly, I presented myself to the king once a week:

the rest of my time I spent among my old books, and in narrating the

events I have witnessed in my life-time, or in which I have taken

part. I never spoke in the Chamber of Peers, because I wished to avoid

alike the expression of censure or approval. I rarely voted; and, in

short, I endeavoured, as much as possible, to maintain the character of

indifference;—a most essential qualification in a grand chamberlain. I

imagined that, in observing this line of conduct towards my successors,

I should secure, on their part, respect, or, at all events, their

silence in reference to the administration of my colleagues and

myself. I was, consequently, not a little astonished, when I found,

in the journals under the control of their censorship, that all the

mean adulation lavished on the existing ministers, was accompanied

by comparisons prejudicial to the ministers who had preceded them.

Certain comments on the treaty I had refused to sign, and to which

they had affixed their signature, appeared to me at once exceedingly

unfair and maladroit; for future generations will not fail to compare

the truly French feeling of the men who quitted office because they

would not sign, and the pliant principles of the men who signed, in

order to keep office. The fact is, that the interests of France were

completely disregarded in this matter. The Allies took advantage of

the inexperience of the Duke de Richelieu’s administration; and that

circumstance cost France the loss of some portion of her territory, at

the same time entailing so many other sacrifices, that I have sometimes

reproached myself for my resignation at that particular juncture.

Certainly, had I been in office, France would not have been subject

to the humiliations she has suffered, and which no power should have

presumed to inflict on her. It is for me alone to reproach myself. In

the estimation of others, I stand in that position in which it was

more noble to have resigned office, because I would not sign, than to

have signed for the sake of keeping my place. After all, there is some

grace in knowing when to resign. The position in which I stood ought

not to have exposed me to the insults of journalists. Silence would

have been more becoming; but it is difficult for people of mean spirit

to restrain themselves by silence. At first I considered these attacks

unworthy of notice, and it was only by their daily renewal that I was

enabled to perceive they were the result of a settled plan. It was

only when they were perseveringly forced on my attention, that I found

it necessary to adopt means to repress them. Public credulity readily

imbibes erroneous impressions. I tried the effect of absence. I went

into the country, and remained there for some time; but all in vain!

Unpopularity rendered my successors dissatisfied with themselves. It

is the nature of man to blame others, and not himself, for his own

errors; accordingly, I was still the individual against whom censure

was directed. But for my influence, it was alleged, certain things

would have been done, and certain measures would have succeeded—a more

decided course would have been taken, &c. &c. Little-minded people

always assign their failures to causes in which they themselves have

no part. I now thought it time to show less forbearance, and I openly

avowed, to my friends and others, whom I casually saw, that I did

not approve the line of policy adopted by the ministers, nor indeed

of any of the means resorted to for establishing the government of

the Restoration. The ministerial interference with the elections, (an

example which has been followed in latter times, with such disastrous

results,) afforded me an opportunity of declaring my sentiments.

The first person to whom I spoke on this subject was Baron Pasquier,

with whom I dined one day at the English Ambassador’s. We were each

waiting for his carriage, and consequently our conversation was but

short. Nevertheless, it would appear that enough passed to afford

grounds for misrepresentation, and the king was pleased to think that

the best mode of supporting his ministry, was to show his disapproval

of me. In a letter, written by the first gentleman of the bedchamber,

his majesty forbade my appearing at court, without the royal

permission. Thus, in the same _fauteuil_ in which I had twice installed

him, did Louis XVIII. sign, without any previous explanation, and on

the report of a man whom he scarcely knew, an order prohibiting me from

going to the Tuileries.

Whilst I was suffering under this species of disgrace, I had many

visitors. The marshals, and other persons to whom I had never rendered

any service, came to see me more frequently than those on whom I had

conferred obligations. These latter were prudent; they feared lest

they might themselves incur courtly disfavour. I have remarked the

proneness to this kind of ingratitude at the present day. The false

position in which every one has been placed since the Restoration has

doubtless helped to create it. That sort of police which society itself

exercises, for repressing the wrongs of society, having ceased to

exist, the evil passions of human nature show themselves more openly.

The emigration has largely contributed to bring about this state of

things.

My disgrace did not tend to raise the king in public estimation, either

abroad or at home; and his majesty was therefore desirous of bringing

the matter to an end. The same Gentleman of the Chamber who wrote

the letter forbidding my appearance at court, now wrote to acquaint

me that the king would receive me again with pleasure. I went, and,

to spare the king embarrassment, I did not attempt to enter into any

explanation. I was aware that he would not acknowledge he had been in

the wrong, and yet that acknowledgment was the only great and gracious

thing he could have uttered.

I felt that what passed between the king and myself entitled me to

censure or disapprove measures which appeared to me injurious to

France; and I began occasionally to deliver my opinion in the Chamber

of Peers on the questions discussed in that assembly. I endeavoured

to show that the government would gain strength by taking an honest

and constitutional course, and disavowing all falsehood and evasion;

that sincerity in the management of public affairs would simplify

everything, and consolidate at once the position of the king and of

the country. The French people are too shrewd to be imposed on for

any length of time, and when once they find themselves deceived they

are ever afterwards distrustful. In the interval between the sessions

I made two excursions into the provinces. The aspect of nature has a

wonderful effect on the mind, especially when one has just escaped from

the strife and agitation of public affairs. Matters which fret and

weary us in the active business of life, dwindle into insignificance

in the retirement of the country. On the summit of a mountain we feel

alike beyond the reach of towering ambition and grovelling malice.

There all the annoying phantoms of life vanish.

At the beginning of winter I returned to Paris. My associations were

limited to persons whose opinions coincided with my own, and I took

part in no public business except the discussions on the liberty of the

press, which were maintained during two or three years successively.

I observed the course of events in all parts of Europe, and watched

the contest that was maintained between despotism and constitutional

government. The first decided outbreaks of this contest were manifested

at Naples and at Venice. Speedily the revolution in Spain spread

agitation throughout France, and brought to light the work in which the

Jesuits had been secretly engaged since the Restoration. The ministry,

which was composed of emigrants, or of persons whose minds were tainted

with the prejudice and bigotry which the emigration had brought

back to France, conferred all government appointments on persons of

their own way of thinking, or on those who, from interested motives,

affected to coincide in their views. Then followed congress upon

congress, intrigue upon intrigue; and the Emperor Alexander showed

his feebleness of character by seeking refuge in that Holy Alliance

which too plainly demonstrated that sovereigns had interests apart from

those of their subjects. I often think of what must be the result of

the existing conflict between intelligence and despotism. I reflect on

the great change that will be wrought by new compacts between subjects

and sovereigns. It is only by this means that social order can be

established. We are told that this or that particular country requires

more stringent measures of government than others; but all nations

have rights, which vary according to the greater or less degree of

civilization they may have reached. The recognition of these rights is

at once the security of thrones and the guarantee of public freedom.

These rights may and can be enforced without popular convulsions; but,

in proportion as the rights of mankind are disavowed or withheld, the

more violent will be the struggles to recover them, and in the end

these struggles will prove triumphant. This is my opinion, and it will

remain unaltered to the latest day of my life.

LETTER TO HIS MAJESTY KING WILLIAM IV., FROM PRINCE TALLEYRAND, ON

HIS BEING APPOINTED AMBASSADOR FROM FRANCE.

“SIRE,—His Majesty the King of the French has been pleased to make me

the interpreter of the sentiments he cherishes for your Majesty.

“I have joyfully accepted a mission which gives so noble a direction to

the last steps of my long public career.

“Sire, amidst all the vicissitudes through which I have passed during

my long life—amidst all the changes of good and ill fortune I have

undergone during the last forty years, no circumstance has afforded

me such perfect gratification as the appointment which brings me back

to this happy country. But how great is the change between the period

when I was formerly here and the present time! The jealousies and

prejudices which so long divided France and England have given place to

enlightened sentiments of esteem and affection. Unity of feeling rivets

the bonds of amity between the two countries. England, like France,

repudiates the principle of intervention in the internal affairs of

neighbouring states; and the ambassador of a sovereign unanimously

chosen by a great nation, feels himself at home in a land of freedom,

as the missionary to a descendant of the illustrious house of Brunswick.

“I feel that I may with confidence implore your Majesty’s kind

consideration of the subjects which I am commanded to submit to your

attention, and I beg, Sire, to offer the homage of my profound respect.”

OPINION OF PRINCE TALLEYRAND ON THE PLAN OF LAW RELATIVE TO JOURNALS

AND PERIODICAL PUBLICATIONS.

_Delivered in the Chamber of Peers, in the sitting of Tuesday,

July 24, 1821._

“GENTLEMEN,—In presenting myself before this assembly, I experience

the embarrassment of feeling the utter inutility of the observations

I am about to make, but to which, nevertheless, I consider it my duty

to give utterance. By a deplorable fatality, the causes of which it is

not my purpose at present to inquire into, the questions in appearance

submitted to our consideration, are already resolved—irrevocably

resolved. We discuss, as though our discussions were affairs of some

import; whilst, in reality, we are but the instruments of imperious

necessity. Laws and budgets are laid before us, and they who would

naturally be our opponents in discussing them, are not here; their

absence operates as a sort of command upon us. The Chamber of Peers, by

the position in which it is placed, will soon degenerate into a Court

of Registration, a mere semblance of the constitutional hierarchy.

Hence, it follows, that those who absolutely desire to see in France

a real Chamber of Peers—that those who regard it as essential to the

monarchy—seeing it annihilated for the present, look forward to the

future. In their inability to remedy the present evil, they indulge in

prophetic warnings, which it is easy to turn into ridicule; or they

offer advice which levity despises and weakness rejects.

“I apply, gentlemen, these considerations to the law now submitted to

your attention. Is it the work of the Ministry? No; for, on the one

hand, it is more limited in its duration than the primitive law, a

circumstance of which I am certainly not disposed to complain; and,

on the other hand, its restrictions extend to literature, science, and

the arts, (heretofore exempt from the coercion of the censorship:)

and at these restrictions I am assuredly not disposed to rejoice. Is

it certain that these various modifications meet the concurrence of

the majority of this Chamber? Possibly they do not; and yet, what

can we do? Are we free to amend, in our turn, the amendments of the

all-powerful Chamber of Deputies? No, gentlemen; and I say so, not with

the view of reflecting blame on the Chamber of Deputies, (which has

merely exercised its constitutional privileges in a very constitutional

manner,) but to complain that the Chamber of Peers is stripped of all

its privileges by tardy presentations, which leave it neither time to

deliberate nor power to resist.

“Convinced as I am that the fate of the present law is determined

beforehand; that a discussion, however warm, will not influence its

rejection, or even tend to modify its effects; I present myself here,

less for the purpose of opposing it, than to prevent its reappearance,

when it shall have lived through its legal period of existence. I speak

for the interest of the future session, and not for the interest of

the present one. I do not hope, gentlemen, to convince you now; my

object is to pave the way for a more free and more profound discussion

at a future time.

“The liberty of the press, applied to politics, is, as has already been

stated, neither more nor less than the liberty of the journals.

“We are all desirous to enjoy the blessings of representative

government; it is the government which the king has granted to us.

“Representative government cannot exist without the liberty of

the press, which is one of its essential instruments; indeed, its

principal instrument. Every government has its own machinery; and it

must always be borne in mind that institutions which are salutary to

one government, may be injurious to another. It has been proved to

demonstration by several members of this Chamber, who, during the

present and preceding sessions, have spoken on the subject now under

consideration, that, without the liberty of the press, there can be

no representative government. I will not, therefore, weary you by

repeating that which you must all have heard or read, and which must

frequently have been the subject of your own meditations.

“But there are two points of view in which it appears to me that the

question has not been adequately considered, and which I will reduce to

the two following propositions—

“I. The liberty of the press is a necessity of the age.

“II. A government endangers its stability when it obstinately refuses

to grant that which the age proclaims to be necessary.

“The human mind is never completely stationary. The discovery of

yesterday is but the medium for arriving at a new discovery to-morrow.

Nevertheless it is true that human intelligence would seem to advance

by crises; there are periods when that intelligence is urged forward

by the desire of creating and producing; and there are times when,

satisfied with its acquisitions, it appears to repose within itself,

and to be occupied in arranging and setting in order the riches it

possesses, rather than in earning new wealth. The seventeenth century

was one of these fortunate epochs. The human mind, amazed at the vast

treasures of which it had become possessed through the invention of

printing, seemed to stop short in its onward movement, as if eager

to rest in the enjoyment of its magnificent heritage. Revelling in

the luxuries of literature, science, and the arts, it set its glory

on the production of master-pieces. The great men of the age of

Louis XIV. vied one with another in embellishing a state of society,

beyond which they could see nothing or wish for nothing, and which

seemed destined to endure as long as the glory of the great king who

engrossed all their respect and enthusiasm. But the fertile mine of

antiquity being exhausted, the activity of the human mind was turned,

as it were by force, into another channel, and it found novelty in

those speculative studies which embrace the whole future, and whose

limits are indefinable. Such were the circumstances which ushered

in the commencement of the eighteenth century, destined to prove so

dissimilar to the century that had preceded it. The poetic lessons of

Telemachus were succeeded by the theories of the Esprit des Lois; and

the Port-Royal was superseded by the Encyclopedia.

“I beg you to observe, gentlemen, that I am neither concurring nor

approving, but merely narrating.

“On looking back to the disasters which befel France during the

Revolution, we should guard against being wholly unjust to those

master spirits whose writings gave the first impulse to that great

event. We must not forget that if those writers did not always steer

clear of error, yet that we owe to them the revelation of many great

truths. We must bear in mind that those men are in no way responsible

for the inconsiderate precipitancy with which France, almost

unanimously, rushed into the career which they had merely traced out

in perspective. Views which had been only theoretically developed

were suddenly carried into practical effect; and the result has shown

the awful consequences which ensue when man, prompted by insane

self-confidence, ventures to go beyond the necessities of the age—the

gulf of misfortune then yawns before him. But in merely working such

changes as are dictated by the wants of the age, we are certain not to

diverge very far from the right course.

“Now, gentlemen, let us see what were the real necessities of the

age in the year 1789. The changes which were suggested by the mature

reflection of enlightened men may be fairly regarded as necessities.

The Constituent Assembly was merely the interpreter of those

necessities when it proclaimed the liberty of religious worship,

equality in the eye of the law, the free right of jurisdiction, (every

one being amenable to his natural judges,) and the liberty of the press.

“But the Constituent Assembly was not in accordance with the spirit

of the age when it instituted a single Chamber; when it destroyed the

royal sanction; when it tortured consciences, &c. Yet, notwithstanding

the errors of that Assembly, (errors of which I have named only a few,

and which were followed by great calamities,) it will enjoy, in the

judgment of posterity, the glory of having established the bases of

our new public law. The august author of the charter—the monarch who

is worthy of France, as France is worthy of him—has consecrated in

his noble work the only great principles furnished by the Constituent

Assembly.

“Let us take it for granted that laws which are wished for—which

are proclaimed to be good and salutary by the most enlightened men

of a country, and which have been so proclaimed during a series of

years—are necessities of the age. One of these laws, gentlemen, is the

liberty of the press. I appeal to all those among you who are most

especially my contemporaries—was not the liberty of the press an

object ardently desired by all those excellent men whom we have admired

in our youth—the Malesherbes, the d’Estignys, and the Trudaines?—who,

to say the least, were not inferior to any of the statesmen who have

flourished since their time. The place which the men I have just named

occupy in our recollections, sufficiently proves that the liberty of

the press consolidates legitimate renown, and if it ruins usurped

reputations, where is the evil?

“If I have said enough to prove that the liberty of the press is, in

France, the necessary result of the present state of society, it now

only remains for me to establish my second proposition—viz., that a

government endangers its stability when it obstinately refuses to grant

that which the age proclaims to be a necessity.

“In the most tranquil and happy conditions of society there is always a

certain number of men who aspire to gain, by the help of disorder, the

wealth which they possess not, and the importance which they ought not

to possess. Is it wise to place in the hands of these enemies of social

order, weapons of discontent, without which their perversity would ever

remain powerless? Why give them the privilege of continually claiming

the fulfilment of a promise? They will but abuse that privilege, and

in this instance they are not, as in some others, seeking merely a

chimerical good.

“Society, in its progressive advance, is destined to feel new

necessities. I readily admit that governments ought not rashly

to acknowledge them or to convert them into laws. But when these

necessities have once been acknowledged, to take back what has been

granted, or (which amounts to the same thing) to withhold that which

has been granted, or to suspend it unceasingly, is a dangerous course,

of which I earnestly hope those who have put it in practice may not

have reason to repent. A government should never compromise its own

good faith. In the present age, it is not easy to carry on deception

for any lengthened period of time. There is a power whose wisdom is

superior to that of Voltaire, whose intelligence is greater than that

of Bonaparte—a power, in short, superior to the directors or to any of

the ministers, past, present, or to come—that power is the great mass

of mankind. To engage, or at least to persist, in a conflict on any

question on which the majority of the world conceive their interests to

be at stake, is an error, and all political errors are dangerous.

“When the freedom of the press exists, when people know that their

interests will be defended, they trust that time will render them

justice, however tardily that justice may come. They rely on hope,

and with reason, for even hope cannot be long deceived. But when the

liberty of the press is restricted, when no complaint is permitted to

be heard, discontent forces a government either into too much weakness

or too much severity.

“But these reflections are carrying me too far, and I must conclude.

For the interest of the King and of France, I demand a repressive law,

and I vote against the censorship.”

OPINION OF THE BISHOP OF AUTUN ON THE SUBJECT OF ECCLESIASTICAL

PROPERTY, DELIVERED IN THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY IN THE YEAR 1789.