Reminiscences of Prince Talleyrand, Volume 1 (of 2)

by active 19th century M. Colmache

“There are people living even now who can remember the effect which some of his controversial arguments produced at the time, among the audiences who enjoyed the privilege of a seat upon the old oaken benches of the Séminaire, on the days reserved for these public discussions. They must have been chefs-d’œuvres, full of point and pith, and generally sent the listeners away laughing with him, and sympathising with his adversary. These discourses were always read in public from a manuscript cahier, and were preserved in the archives of the Séminaire, until the revolution dispersed the whole of the property of the establishment, and they were lost. It is a great pity they were not preserved, as they must have contained much of the vivacity and energy of his youth, which were sadly wanting in his subsequent speeches; for Talleyrand has never possessed the qualifications necessary to the success of an orator; his delivery was lengthened, and his voice too deep and hollow to produce an effect upon a large assembly. Had it not been for these natural defects, all the vigour and fire of a Mirabeau would have been reckoned as nought, compared with the steady wit and cool philosophy of which Talleyrand was master.

“The world of fashion, ever on the look-out for novelty, stretched forth its arms to hug to its bosom the young abbé on his first appearance within its charmed ring. The reverend title with which he was invested, so far from being a preventive to his enjoyment of all the pleasures of the corrupt society of the period, rather served as an additional pretext for claiming his full share. The youthful Abbé de Perigord was courted and flattered by all parties; his sayings were repeated, his sentiments quoted upon all occasions. The world would now most willingly have spoiled him, and avenged the neglect of his relations, and the wrongs and insults which had been heaped upon his childhood. But it was too late: he had already learned to despise that world to whose mean prejudices he had been made a sacrifice, and his heart and soul were already devoted to the cause of those whose struggles were beginning to make the old fabric of society quake and totter to its very foundations. It was while he was studying at the Sorbonne that the first shocks of the new era were beginning to be felt; but young Talleyrand, as yet, took no share in the struggle. His whole ambition for the moment was devoted to retrieving lost time in literature, and I have heard him say that the happiest days of his existence were spent alone, in the gloomy library of the Sorbonne, seated coiled up on the steps of the library ladder, while his cousin went abroad to pick up the news, and bring home reports of the progress of events. The practical knowledge of books which he acquired in this way was immense, and has served him all through life to season his conversation with quotation or parody.

“He was soon, however, torn from the enjoyment of this quiet mode of existence, by being named coadjutor to his uncle, the Archbishop of Rheims. From that time forward, books were laid aside, and he returned to them no more. The human heart became his only study, and one in which he soon became a perfect adept. The history of his life must prove, to every thinking mind, that at this very period his decision was thoroughly taken as to the line of conduct he would pursue, and the party in politics it was his intention to adopt, for he never gave himself up to the seductions of that world which sought him with such eagerness. He entered into its enjoyments, and profited by its indulgence; but there is no record of any strong friendship having been formed with any of its members. He allied himself at once to the new party, and among its leaders were his attachments chosen. Sièyes and Mirabeau were the beacon stars of his youth. The latter, in particular, was known to entertain the highest opinion of Talleyrand, and has left ample proof, in his letters and papers, that he considered him the only man capable of succeeding him as leader of the party he had so triumphantly created.

“You will scarcely credit the assurance, that not even to this very hour can the prince speak without emotion of the ‘giant Mirabeau.’ I verily believe that this affection has never been supplanted in his bosom. It was not long since he was compelled to break off suddenly, in the midst of an anecdote which he was telling, wherein were mentioned the circumstances of Mirabeau’s death. He became all at once silent, and no one dared request him to renew the thread of his story.”

“Did you ever hear him allude to those circumstances on any other occasion?”

“Once only,” replied C.; “we were alone together in his study in the Rue St. Florentin, one fine summer’s evening. I had been reading to him some pages of Thiers’s ‘History of the Revolution,’ and had just closed the book, for want of light, at the mention of Petion.

“‘That man,’ said the prince, ‘was the greatest scoundrel this country ever produced. Mirabeau, whose greatest defect in political conduct was the extraordinary facility with which he gave himself entirely up to the first person possessed of the slightest show of talent, who could take off his own hands any part of the labour, had grown entiché with Petion. For it was extraordinary that Mirabeau, whose mental vigour could, Atlas-like, have borne the world, was yet possessed of so much physical indolence that he was seldom known to carry out his own gigantic designs. Upon how many occasions, when his burning eloquence, his energy, had roused the angry lion, has he been known to laugh in pity, to see the meute whom his own fiery zeal had urged into hot pursuit, rush madly by, while he himself lay down to rest until some newer game was started. From the moment that such men as Petion, Brissot, and Condorcet, began to surround Mirabeau, and were admitted into his privacy, with Cabanis, whom he had chosen as his medical attendant, I augured ill for the future fate of my friend. Already were Mirabeau’s views and principles grown too tame, too reasonable, for these infuriated demagogues, and they had several times received with ill temper his biting sarcasms at what he called their exaltation republicaine. I remember the effect produced upon one occasion at a private meeting of his friends, and the gloom and murmurs of rage with which the concluding words of a speech he had risen to make were received. ‘Even supposing, my friends, that royalty were now to be abolished, it is not a republic that must be established—we are not yet ripe for this—it must be a commonwealth.’ From that moment, such is my firm belief, his ruin was decided; but whether he really did meet his death by unfair means, or whether it was the consequence, as was proclaimed at the time, of excitement and fever of the blood, brought on by over-exertion and anxiety, none can tell to this hour. The circumstances of his death will certainly justify, both to his friends and to posterity, every suspicion of poison; while, on the other hand, there were no symptoms which could not be accounted for by the complaint under which it had from the first been proclaimed that he was sinking.’

“The prince paused for a moment, and I feared that he was about to fall into a reverie, as is sometimes the case when he has called up any touching souvenir of his early days; but presently he resumed:

“‘It was just such an evening as this, warm, glowing, early spring, when the fiery spirit of Mirabeau was passing away. The whole thing had been so sudden, so unlooked-for, that we could scarcely believe him in danger, before we learned that he was gone. It was the 2nd of April, and but two days before, he had come to fetch me, full of life and spirit, to dine in the Palais Royal with a party of friends, to talk over the proposition of a law of succession, which he had had for some time under consideration, and which it was his intention to present to the National Assembly. We walked together from my lodgings to the restaurateur Robert’s, where dinner had been ordered. I thought, in the conversation concerning his projet de loi, that Mirabeau was somewhat more depressed than usual, and that his words came less freely and less flowing from his tongue. He certainly did complain of oppression and pain in his head, and, although the evening was far from sultry, he walked without his hat. I was particularly struck with the lassitude and weariness which he seemed to experience when we had arrived at our destination, and which could not be accounted for by our short slow walk from the Rue St. Honoré. He flung himself listlessly upon one of the benches beside the fountain in the middle of the garden of the Palais Royal, and said, sadly, that he was well pleased that our friends had not yet arrived at the rendezvous, for he was desirous of having a few moments’ private conversation with me, not, for once, about public affairs, but concerning his own. “Is it not strange,” said he, “that I, who am about to present to the Assembly a law, and to pronounce a speech, the result of long study, upon wills, should never during my whole life, have given one single thought to the making of my own? Do you not think that it’s growing high time to think of every possibility, with such strange proceedings going on around us—eh, my friend?”

“‘I was surprised at this sudden revolution in Mirabeau, for, of all men on earth, he had ever been one of the most thoughtless as to the future, caring little indeed even for the present, living au jour le jour, heeding not if the morrow never came; and I could only attribute his unwonted accablement to over-exertion and fatigue. He had spoken much in the Assembly, and had, I well knew, passed many nights of late in the framing and preparation of other acts and decrees, to be brought forward before the close of the session.