“M. de Talleyrand then departed, and did not return till the company broke up, when he found that they had both left the bench whereon they had been seated so long together, leaving, however, the ‘precious treasures,’ which they had received from each other with so much gratitude, behind them! M. de Talleyrand seized upon them with inexpressible delight, thinking that they would furnish matter for innocent persiflage, when the loss came to be remembered by either party. But the thing was complete—they were never sought and never asked for, and he has them now in his library, and loves to show them as he tells the story of their coming into his possession.
“It is in this manner,” said C., as he pulled out his watch, surprised at the lateness of the hour, “that M. de Talleyrand will sometimes entertain us with familiar histories of many whom the world has set upon pedestals of its own erecting, and from which he is fain to bring them down, although without scorn or malice, in order that we may see them more closely and know them better. You will now understand the reason why it must be so difficult to write a good ‘Life of Prince Talleyrand;’ there would be so little of himself, compared to what must be told of other people—the work would be so full of digressions, that it would become as bulky as a cyclopædia. Besides, a single person could not do the whole. It would require writers of different talent, of different character, of different nations—I was almost going to say of different ages—to do justice to the varied scenes wherein he himself displayed such variety of talents.”
“Then why do you not, my dear friend, seize upon the branch which you have at your own disposal, and give the world the Vie Anecdotique of the prince?” said I. “Supposing you were to begin and try your skill by relating to me by way of practice before you publish?”
“Well, well, the idea is not a bad one,” said C., laughing heartily; “it is certainly not the matériel that would be wanting, and when we have time and solitude it may amuse us both. One talent at least is secure, for you are undoubtedly a capital listener.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE COUNTESS DE LA MOTTE, OF NECKLACE NOTORIETY.
It will easily be believed that I did not lose sight of the promise which my friend had made with so much bonhomie, and the very first time I found myself alone with him, I did not forget to claim it. The opportunity occurred soon after the conversation I have just recorded. We were pacing together the long picture-gallery of the château; the rain was beating in torrents against the Gothic casements, and all hopes of going abroad had been abandoned. The prince had not left his chamber that morning. He was busily engaged, and had announced his intention of remaining invisible until dinner. He was occupied “à faire son Courier,” as he called it, upon which occasion I have known him sign and send off an entire bag full of letters, not one of which was despatched without having first been carefully perused and corrected by himself. The facility and precision with which he could always find the exact word which was needed, and which his secretaries would, perhaps, have been seeking for some time in vain, was matter of the greatest admiration to all who witnessed it; but he could neither write nor dictate with ease; the most trifling petit billet which, when completed, appeared the very model of graceful laiser-aller and badinage, often gave him as much trouble to indite as one of his most complicated despatches.
This, I think, may be attributable to the neglect of his early education. Subsequent study and careful reading may impart taste and erudition, but can rarely give facility. C. told me that he has known the prince remain for more than a week upon the composition of a letter of condolence or congratulation, if it chanced to be addressed to a brother wit, or one of whose criticism he might happen to stand in awe. In these cases, he would cause his secretary to write two or three letters, in different styles, upon the subject he had at heart, and would then compile from the number, one in his own writing, with his own piquant additions and improvements, which was soon bandied from hand to hand, and quoted in every salon as a chef-d’œuvre of wit and epigram. Those who were in the secret would smile at the unbounded praise bestowed by the journals upon the composition of his despatches (some of which are really masterpieces), and the wording of his protocols; for they well knew that they would scarcely have attracted a single moment’s notice had the truth been known.
“Does he give much time to the writing of his memoirs?” asked I of C., as he was pacing thoughtfully the polished oaken boards of the gallery, in which the double line of pictures, which garnish the walls on either side, is reflected as in a mirror, so that at each step we seemed to tread upon the semblance of some great king or warrior; for, with a tacit self-homage, the prince had furnished the gallery with the portraits of the sovereigns and great men of all countries, with whom he had come in contact.