“What is that ruin?” said I, pointing to a pile of rubbish which lay close at hand.
“Ah, that is no ruin,” replied C., laughing, “it is just the contrary, for it is an unfinished building. The history of that ‘ruin’ would amuse you, more than all the history of the person whose work it was. The prince calls it the ‘Folie Princesse,’ and you shall have the story as we go home.”
CHAPTER VI.
MIRABEAU—THE PRINCESS T.—THE MAYOR OF VALENÇAY.
We alighted from the carriage, and sat down on one of the blocks of stone which lay scattered about in all directions, bearing witness to the gigantic intentions of the projector, and also to the signal failure of the enterprise. C. looked around with sadness.
“The sight of this place,” said he, “recalls to mind so much both of pain and pleasure, so many associations for ever lost to Valençay, that I cannot behold it without a certain feeling of melancholy, which I little thought it would ever have inspired. And yet, in spite of all the jesting and merry sarcasm, the bon-mots and epigrams to which the first discovery of the little monument gave rise, it might serve to illustrate my favourite argument, when answering those who attack, by sweeping generalities, the whole life of the prince, and which I frame thus: ‘No man can be so very worthless who has made such friendships as he has done, and won attachments so lasting and so true.’
“It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary qualifications of this great man, and forms a parallel to what is told of the fascinating influence of Napoleon. His powers of pleasing are so great, that he can with justice boast of never having failed to captivate, where he has been willing to do so, even when having to combat enmity and prejudice. Those who are accustomed to the bland and polished courtesy of his old age can readily imagine that in youth his influence must have been all-powerful. With this fascination of manner he must have also been possessed of the most aristocratic and handsome person, from the dignity of which, strange to say, the deformity of his foot never detracted. He was very fair, of most brilliant yet delicate complexion, with eyes of a soft dark blue, much covered by the lids, which contributed greatly to the air of quiet recueillement, misconstrued by many into an expression of cunning, which was habitual to him. His hair has always been considered one of his greatest attractions, being of the bright golden hue, so uncommon even in the north; and when he wore it loose over his shoulders, neither discoloured by powder nor disfigured by the torturing iron of the perruquier, it must have been most beautiful. Even to this very hour, you cannot fail to remark its rich luxuriance. It is not yet wholly white, but merely grey, and its original golden colour still shines bright amid the silver.
“I have seen several portraits of the prince, taken in his youth. There is one, a miniature, which, set in a bracelet, has met my eye every day for some years past, upon the arm of the fair Duchess de D., which never fails to arrest my attention, and to inspire me with the same interest, the same dreams and illusions of the past, as though, upon each occasion I behold it, it was for the first time. The likeness may be strongly traced even now. The features are moulded with a delicacy peculiar to the race of the Perigords, and the countenance is one which might certainly have been suspected of having greatly aided his varied talents and endowments, in the success for which he was so applauded and so envied. The costume in this picture is of about the year 1775, when Talleyrand was in the prime of youth, and when he had not long emerged from St. Sulpice; and yet the portrait is rather that of a young man of fashion of the time than of a youth vowed to a life of penance and austerity. The hair, of which he was always proud, hangs loose and unshorn over his embroidered coat; no sign of monkish scissors or of priestly tonsure is there. There does not exist a picture of the prince either as Abbé de Perigord or as Bishop of Autun. So completely did he ever separate himself from the state of life into which he had been thrust by the force of circumstances, that he never would consent to have a palpable record of his profession brought in after times as a memorial against him. There is a beautiful portrait of Talleyrand when Prince de Benevent and Vice Grand Elector, painted by Gerard, and one of the best performances of that artist, now at Rochecotte, wherein the physiognomist might have beau jeu, for the countenance in this picture bears the most lively and spirituel expression that could possibly be represented by art. The painting by Scheffer, which has been engraved in London, and published by Colnaghi, is the best in existence as to the likeness, which is most striking. The artist has represented, in a manner almost sublime, the peculiar mélange of melancholy and finesse which the countenance of the prince always wears when in meditation,—an expression which sometimes inspires me with a feeling of the deepest sadness; it is the cheerfulness of the mind contending against physical infirmity and pain.
“You will readily believe that, with all the advantages both of mind and person which he possessed—with ambition of that quiet kind, which knows no obstacle in the attainment of its ends, and yet can wait with calm and bide its time—which is slow to decide, yet quick to move when the hour is arrived for action—with the courtly manners which must have been hereditary, joined to the calm dignity which he had acquired in the Séminaire de St. Sulpice, his first appearance in the world wherein he was destined to live and move, was hailed with peculiar triumph and satisfaction. The fame of his skill in argument, his subtlety in wrangling, had got beyond the walls of the Séminaire, long before he himself had left it for the independence of the Sorbonne. The conférences which took place weekly in the old hall of the Séminaire had brought out his powers of persuasion, and his great quickness of imagination, which displayed itself admirably in pointed epigram and brilliant repartee.